Page 14 of Racer

Crap.

“You might’ve just saved someone’s life,” I said quietly.

Racer met my gaze for the first time in a way that felt real instead of flirtatious. “That’s the idea.”

I sat back on my heels, blowing out a breath. “Guess Kane brought in the right guy after all.”

His mouth quirked into a half smile, but he didn’t say anything.

And just like that, Racer wasn’t the enemy anymore.

Kane headed back toward us, a grim set to his jaw that told me whatever conversation he’d just had hadn’t gone how he wanted. His expression only grew stonier when I pointed out what we found on the Chevelle.

I straightened. “Kane, listen?—”

“She should be in on this,” Racer cut in before I could finish.

I blinked, surprised he beat me to it.

He didn’t look away from Kane. “She knows these cars. She’s sharp. And if someone’s slipping past her, it means they’re damn good. You want this asshole caught? You need her eyes on the rides.”

Kane exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing his decision. Then he gave a curt nod. “Fine. But you help me keep an eye on Emily. Nothing better fucking happen to her. Understood?”

“It won’t,” Racer growled. “I won’t let anyone hurt her.”

Kane pointed at him. “You better not, or it’ll be your ass. No matter what Fox will want as payback.”

After growing up with an overprotective brother and another overprotective almost-brother, I knew better than to waste my breath saying I could take care of myself. Neither of them would listen.

When Kane walked off, I murmured, “Thanks for speaking up for me, Racer.”

He turned toward me, something warm flickering in his green eyes. “Call me Jude.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He gave me a half smile. “That’s my name. Jude Iverson.”

Most bikers I knew guarded their real names like state secrets, only letting family or people they’d known forever call them anything besides their road name. That he offered his so easily threw me even more than the pull I felt toward him. “Okay, Jude.”

It tasted strange on my tongue, more personal than I expected. And way too distracting.

I turned back to the car before I did something stupid. Like say it again. Or worse—doodle Mrs. Emily Iverson on my tablet as though I was thirteen again.

5

RACER

The next evening, the Florida heat was a living thing—clinging to my skin while it wrapped me in a layer of grit, smoke, and engine oil. The track tonight was in the middle of nowhere, tucked behind a run-down warehouse and lined with barrel fires that flickered like the crowd’s crackling energy. Asphalt crunched beneath my boots as I paced the length of the pit, waiting for my turn on the line.

This was my second race. Another qualifier. But this time, I wasn’t just here to win—I was here to watch.

While Edge handled entry logistics, I used the prep hour to scope the scene. Some of the teams we were suspicious of were parked nearby. Haulers pulled open, crews bustling around engines, wiping sweat from their brows. Though they would appear casual to most, I could feel the tension surrounding them like a thick cloud.

Some had real strain on their faces, while others looked too calm, which put me on edge. People were usually either nervous because they had no fucking clue what was happening, or because they did.

I made my way through the pits slowly, stopping here and there to chat with a few of the team owners. Names Kane had flagged as ones we could maybe trust—guys who’d already lost drivers to suspicious wrecks. One of them, a grizzled man named Andy with a faded T-shirt that sported his team’s logo and a voice like gravel, shook his head when I asked what he thought of the crashes.

“Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, flicking the ash off his cigarette. “My boy, Fender, he’s not the kind of driver to fuck up a corner like that. I watched that race three times. No fucking way did he lose control. Something else happened.”

---