Page 3 of Racer

I was elbow deep in my machine for another twenty minutes before I was ready to start her up. I slid out from under the frame and stood, wiping my hands on a rag before bringing her to life. The roar of my baby’s engine purred through the garage like a satisfied growl. The chrome gleamed in the rays of morning sunlight coming through the high windows. She was streaked with just enough grit to remind me she’d been run hard and put away even harder.

I gave the throttle another little twist and listened to her purr.

“That’s it, girl,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my arm. “You’re ready to eat pavement and spit out flames.”

My phone buzzed on the workbench. I didn’t even glance at the screen. There weren’t many people who would bother calling me this early unless it was club shit.

“Yeah?” I answered.

“My office. Now,” Fox grunted, then hung up.

I immediately shut off my bike, then tossed the rag into a laundry bin before walking to the sink. My black tee stuck to my back from the heat, and my jeans were smeared with grime. But I didn’t even consider going to my room to shower and change first.

When the president summoned, you fucking went. Especially when the man in question was Kye “Fox” Pearson—part CEO, part mercenary, full-time hard-ass. Didn’t matter if you were bleeding out or balls deep in your old lady. Fox didn’t call unless it mattered.

I washed my hands quickly, swiped the grease off my face, then grabbed my cut off the hook by the door, slung it over my shoulders, and headed inside. I walked by Ice as I crossed through the kitchen, who raised a brow as I passed.

“Heard Fox needed to see you. Someone finally caught your internet search history?” he asked, grinning.

His old lady, Marnie, giggled from the chair beside him, making the one-year-old little girl on her lap babble happily.

“Only thing I google is torque specs and how to steal your wife,” I shot back, flipping him off over my shoulder.

A loud growl and shout of female laughter trailed me.

I pushed the door open without knocking—Fox never expected us to—and stepped into the room.

Fox’s office was like him—clean, controlled, and intimidating. The place was spotless, built like a fucking exec’s war room with a massive desk, chairs clean enough to perform surgery on, and a big round conference table where we hashed out plans that weren’t always legal.

On the far wall was a bar and a lounge area with a couple of chairs and battered sofas. There was also a side door that led to Maverick’s office, which was a similar setup, but the decor made the differences in personality between the president and the VP very clear. Still, the two were best friends and worked seamlessly as a team to lead the Iron Rogues. There wasn’t a single patch who didn’t respect the hell out of them and trust them with our lives.

Fox stood near the desk, arms crossed over his chest, that signature scowl carved into his face as though he’d been born with it there. Salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw, tattoos curling down his arms, and a fucking stare—sharp brown eyes, strategic and calculating—that could cut through a man’s soul and sort the guilty from the stupid.

Maverick stood near the door to his adjoining office, sipping black coffee and radiating quiet menace. Although to most, he would appear casual and relaxed, with a typical smirk on his lips as he shoved his dark auburn hair away from his face.

Storm sat on one of the old couches, arms crossed, tattoos coiling down his biceps. His legs were spread, elbows on his knees, and concerned, dark eyes trained on Kane.

I hadn’t noticed the visitor at first. He leaned against the edge of the conference table, dressed similarly to the rest of us. A plain tee, jeans, and a leather cut, except his vest told the world he was the president of the Redline Kings Motorcycle Club. His sharp gaze and lethal edge belied the easy smile he threw my way.

Kane had been a close ally to the Iron Rogues ever since Storm had been a prospect. He’d helped us on numerous occasions, and we’d done the same for him. He’d earned my respect and trust over and over. Though he wasn’t patched into our club, he was family.

“Thought maybe you finally choked on a carburetor,” Maverick said dryly, arching a brow.

“Fuck you, I was elbow deep in my girl,” I muttered. “And she’s got better curves than any of you assholes.”

A smirk stretched across Kane’s face, and he drawled, “Was startin’ to think you’d wrecked that pretty bike of yours.”

I snorted. “If I wreck, it’s intentional. Just more dramatic that way.”

Kane chuckled, sharp and dry. “Good. I need dramatic.”

Fox rolled his eyes. “Sit your ass down, Racer.”

I dropped onto the chair across from him, sprawled out, and put one boot up on the edge of the table just to annoy him. He shot me a look, and I grinned.

“Take your fucking boot off my desk, Racer,” Fox said, voice cool as frost, “or I’ll cut it off at the ankle and nail the damn thing to the wall as a warning.”

I chuckled but slid my foot down. Not because I thought he was serious—mostly. With Fox, you could never be completely sure.

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