Whisky Throttle (Throttle Series, #1)

one

Calla

No goddamn way.

I pull my helmet on, wincing at the way it pulls my knotted hair. Billions of stars skitter across the night sky, the silhouettes of the mountains and tall pine trees creating a border around it as I tilt my head back and fasten the straps of my helmet. The sweetness of summer air, pine trees, and damp earth from the nearby gulley fill my nostrils, causing adrenaline to pump through my veins. It's something that always happens before I'm about to combat the hectares and hectares of trails my family owns. Do I ever get sick of it? No. Do I crave it? Yes.

This time, though, I'm not about to combat the trails and conquer the black diamond one up to Blue Grouse Mountain or Terrace Mountain. No, I'm about to take Trail Four down into the gully, throttle my way up the other side, and shut down an annoying group of young, drunk men who don't seem to understand the concept of curfew. I can hear the bass of their music pumping across the valley and vibrating off of the trees. Tomorrow, I'm going to apologize to the other campers that are camping at both the Aspen Trailhead and the Burke Trailhead. Tonight, at a quarter-to-midnight, I'm going to shut these immature assholes down. I didn't want to threaten to kick them out of the campsite. 

Swaddled in a large flannel jacket and my helmet, and a pair of warm gloves, I climb onto my family's campground quad and rev up the engine, allowing the machine to warm up a little before I embark on my journey across the gulley. At a measured speed, with my headlights on, I head down the main road, observing my surroundings for any animals or potential rule breakers. The campsite is quiet, and when I break through the dense population of trees, I take a left and turn onto Trail Four, beginning my descent into the gulley.

I head down the small incline, winding back and forth, bending with the curve of each corner, until I come to another thicket of trees, pine and birch mixed in with some evergreens. Aside from the small portion of light my headlights give off, I'm surrounded by nothing but darkness and faint shadows. But the darkness doesn't bother me—I know these trails better than I know the back of my hand. Every curve, every bump, every root that sticks out from the bank—I know when to expect it and how to handle it. I may sound cocky as sin, but it's the truth. I've grown up riding ATVs and memorizing each trail on the map to my family's campsite and trail system. Ever since I was a kid, I have tainted my blood with gasoline, oil, campfire smoke, and starry night skies.

As soon as I round the final corner, the one just before the bridge over the swollen creek, the air temperature drops. Down here, at the base of the gulley, there's always a temperature drop. Aside from the top of Terrace Mountain, it's the coolest place to come during the hot summer days. The pine, birch, and evergreen trees provide a thick canopy above, preventing the sun from drying out the dampened dirt and mossy roots. The water from the creek is also ice-cold, especially during this time of year, when runoff is at its peak. Bald Creek is small but mighty, rushing so fast that I can hear it over the engine of my quad, feel the vibration as the water pummels against the bottom of the sturdy bridge. Although it's dark enough that I can hardly see, save for the space ahead of me, my other senses are on high alert. The smell of the forest is intoxicating; rich with damp moss, wet tree trunks, dirt, and the sweet combination of chocolate lilies and Saskatoon berries. There's also a pinch of exhaust from the quad, and gasoline on my gloves. The harmony of these scents is ineffable. I can also taste the sweet dampness of the air; hear every noise my tires and engine make, and every creak as the trees sway with the wind.