Page 10 of Racer

“I need you at your best, Racer. Winning is how we get this guy,” he snapped.

“You want me to win, I’m gonna do it my way.” He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand and added, “The wall of awards and millions in victory cash sitting in my bank are gonna disagree with whatever shit you’re about to spew. You came to me, Kane. You can’t ask for my help and then put fucking shackles on me. Now, stop helicoptering and let me get shit done.”

Kane tossed his head back and laughed heartily.

“Backing off.” He held his hands up like he was surrendering. “But if you get hurt, don’t expect me to stand between you and Fox.”

The next night,the first underground qualifier roared to life. The course was narrow, gritty, and fast. Just the way I liked it. Oil-streaked pavement, barrels used as fake barriers, crowds pressing in behind chain-link fences and half-assed barricades. Smoke, screams, engine revs—it was beautiful fucking chaos.

I lined up against five other cars, each one idling low. My ride for the night was a midnight-black ’72 Chevelle SS that Kane had tuned himself. The bitch purred like a dream and roared like a monster. She had torque, bite, and zero forgiveness. She was fucking perfect.

The race itself was over in less than eight minutes, but I made every second count. From the moment the signal dropped, I hit the gas and slid through the first turn sideways just to make an impression. I played a little dirty—cut off a tailing Nissan at the apex, kicked up grit from the shoulder, and fishtailed right before the final straight just to show I could. Then I floored it, crossing the line a full four seconds ahead of the pack.

The crowd went fucking nuts. Cameras were on me. Whispers flew. And my name started echoing through the pits again.

It was exactly what we wanted.

Keep ’em talking. Let the bastard behind the sabotage watch me and think I was just another cocky asshole with a death wish. That was the bait.

I climbed out of the car, rolled my shoulders, and tugged my gloves off as I headed back toward the garage pit—my adrenaline still singing, the heat of the engine clinging to my skin.

Then I saw her.

And I swear the fucking world tilted.

She stood near one of the workbenches, half turned toward a guy rattling off specs. But I didn’t hear a single word. My eyes were glued to her.

She wore a pair of navy-blue mechanic coveralls rolled up to the elbows, the zipper down just far enough to hint at the curves hiding beneath. Her blond hair was yanked into a haphazard bun on the back of her head, long strands falling loose, like they were teasing me. Making my hands itch to yank out that rubber band and see just how much of her hair I could wrap around my fist. Grease was smudged on the curve of her cheekbone, and her mouth was plush and soft-looking, with the kind of lips a man dreamed of dragging his teeth across.

Her sun-kissed skin was golden from hours at the track, and those legs—fuck me—were long enough to make me want to sin. Even under the loose fabric, I could tell she had a body meant to be touched. Worshipped.

My cock was already hard enough to punch through my jeans, and I turned for a second to adjust myself, but I was so swollen, it didn’t help much.

I didn’t know her name. Didn’t know her story. But I?—

Mine.

Holy shit. The thought had come out of nowhere. Raw. Fierce. Possessive.

Mine.

My feet seemed glued to the ground, and I just stood there watching her, cataloging every detail like she was the last beautiful thing I’d ever see.

I wanted her on her knees. On her back. On top of me. Wrapped around my fuckin’ waist while I wrecked her body and carved my name into her soul.

Then she turned and caught me staring. Her blue eyes—fuck, they were unreal—locked onto mine. They widened for a half second before they narrowed and went cold.

She was not impressed. I bit back a grin.

Instead of blushing or looking away, she crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, leveling me with a look that said I wasn’t shit.

I fucking loved it.

My cocky grin curved wide as I swaggered toward her. “Didn’t know angels moonlighted as grease monkeys.”

She gave me a slow once-over, unmoved. “Didn’t know assholes came with fan clubs.”

Barking a laugh, I stopped a few feet from her. “That how you talk to all the drivers? Or just the pretty ones?”

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