Whisky Throttle (Throttle Series, #1)

twenty-two

Maddox

A whisky throttle happens when a rider loses control, panics, and then loses even more control. At the worst of times, it results in serious injuries. At the best of times, it results in hilarious moments.

I think I'm experiencing one now, unsure of what the outcome will be.

"Do you think Penticton is far enough?" I ask Vance.

"Yes," he replies. He squeezes some hair gel into his hand and runs it through my hair. I don't know what the hell my cousin is doing, but he hid all my hats from me this morning. When he forced me to sit down at the picnic table, he told me I need to look presentable. "Stop frowning, Maddox. You're going on a date that doesn't include leech-infested lakes and sweaty motocross gear. Hats are not acceptable for Downtown Penticton or a date."

"Calla likes my hats," I mumble.

"Calla can shove her opinion up her ass," Vance snorts. "Trust me, cousin, she's going to like this. It'll match your facial hair."

Self-consciously, I run a hand over my jaw. The stubble is a little longer than my usual five o'clock shadow. I didn't have time to shave during my last trip home. "You're starting to creep me out, Vance."

He snorts again. "By no means was I implying that you look good. I'm the better-looking cousin. Now stop moving—I'm almost done."

I follow Vance's request and drop my hand to the picnic table. I run a finger across the smooth surface and trace the pattern of the wood. It's quiet in the campsite at this hour, the sun rising higher in the sky and bringing heat with it. I glance at the sky. Clouds are nonexistent today, signalling that we're in for another heatwave.

"Okay," Vance says, stepping back. "We're finished."

"Just in time, too," I reply. Calla is heading over here. This is only the second time I've seen her in clothes other than her motocross gear. Today, she's wearing a white T-shirt with high-rise blue-and-white striped shorts. Her belt matches her shorts and is tied in a perfect bow. There's a purse slung over her shoulder.

"Close your goddamn mouth," Vance murmurs. "You're on the verge of drooling."

Rolling my eyes, I stand and stretch my legs out. As I do, I observe Calla. I don't know what the hell my cousin did to my hair, but I'm hoping he didn't throw me under the bus. She adjusts the strap of her purse, angling it so it doesn't mess with her wavy blonde hair. When she looks up, her eyes meet mine, and she smiles at me. It's one of my favourite smiles; the left corner of her mouth is always a little higher, causing her dimple to show. I think it's cute she has one dimple. I take her smile as a good sign.

After I punched Travis, I had a couple of rough days. It was difficult to change my pattern of thought. For many years, I've been in defence instead of offense. Habits are hard to break, but I think I'm understanding how the process works. I've concluded that punching Travis wasn't wrong. Yes, there were better alternatives, such as a civil conversation, but my intentions weren't sour. I punched him because I was protecting Calla. I was protecting my girlfriend. But even though I've faced the truth, that doesn't mean I don't still feel guilty for what I did. I guess that's what happens when your moral compass is pointing in the right direction.