Page 35 of Racer

12

RACER

The heat rolled heavily through the open bays of Kane’s garage, but it didn’t hit me as hard as it had when I first arrived. I was surrounded by motorcycles and cars, tools that felt like extensions of my arms, and the sharp scents of motor oil, scorched rubber, and a lingering bite of race fuel.

Other than when I was buried inside my woman, this was where I found the most peace.

I crouched in front of my new Charger—a ’69 Daytona. The only thing sexier than this girl was Emily.

Two weeks ago, I’d heard a whisper about it being up for grabs. I didn’t even have to think about it. Just wired the cash.

Now she sat in front of me, a 426 Hemi under the hood, and hell stitched into every inch of her. Her matte-black frame looked like burned charcoal. She had redline pinstriping tracing the body curves, thin as a knife’s edge. Black chrome tailpipes, matte graphite wheels, and the interior was blood-red leather with black diamond stitching.

The pointed nose cone, that wicked rear wing, and the low-slung body—she was sin on wheels. Built to own the fucking road and leave everyone choking on its exhaust. It was the kind ofmachine that didn’t just roll in— she announced herself. Deadly, distinctive, and intimidating the hell out of everyone watching.

I couldn’t wait to get her out on the road again, but I was also planning to test the sturdiness of the frame by having my woman bouncing on my cock in the back seat.

Head out of the gutter and into the game, man.

Thankfully, I was kneeling in front of the Charger where the growing bulge in my pants wouldn’t be obvious. Discreetly, I adjusted myself before turning my attention back to the task at hand.

Emily dropped to her heels beside me, her fingers tracing along the fuel lines as she spoke under her breath, more to herself than to me. “Pressure’s clean. No inconsistencies.”

Her blond hair was yanked up into a messy knot as usual, but she had a pencil tucked through the locks, making it look as though she’d just walked out of a sexy librarian fantasy. Even the cute smear of grease across her cheek made my brain short-circuit. She belonged here—this garage was basically her kingdom—and it drove home how fucking perfect she was for me.

She wore low-slung jeans and one of my racing shirts, knotted at her side to keep it from swallowing her whole. I should’ve been thinking about sabotage. The race ahead. The plan. But all I could focus on was how the cotton had thinned out across her chest and my name looked right at home stretched over her tits.

Focus, asshole.

Outside the shop, the growl of engines echoed, and I got to my feet as five familiar motorcycles rolled in.

Fox swung off his bike first, composed and casual in his sleeveless tee and cut, the tattooed script along his forearm flexing as he tossed his helmet into Reaper’s hands. “Nice weather. Almost makes me miss Old Bridge.”

Reaper snorted, handing the helmet right back. “Miss it when your balls stop sweating.”

Midnight just muttered, “You fuckers bitch more than pregnant old ladies,” before heading toward the main bay with that cold-eyed calm that meant he was already thinking about bullets and body bags.

Maverick shook his head. “I’d love to see him say shit like that in front of our women.”

A rare grin cut across Fox’s face. “Dahlia would shove her piercing gun right between his legs.”

“At least when he finds a woman, he’d have some pretty jewelry to distract her from the lack of size,” Deviant quipped as he dismounted.

Midnight’s only response was to raise his hand and flip them off as he continued walking away.

Deviant and Reaper followed, already arguing about code structure for sensor input.

“I’m telling you, if you’d just run the baseline through my tracker before the sweep, it wouldn’t have flagged the?—”

“It flagged because your system’s dumb as shit,” Deviant grunted, adjusting his tablet. “Unlike mine, which actually knows what it’s doing.”

“You two gonna make out or solve the problem?” I called.

“Depends on how fast you fix that shitbox,” Reaper deadpanned without looking up. “Heard she’s only pretty from a distance.”

“Don’t be mad ’cause she’s prettier than you,” I shot back, smirking. “She’ll smoke every one of your Frankenstein projects.”

Kane’s tech guy, Jax, was waiting for Deviant when he entered the garage and immediately peeled off to an empty office, setting up enough tech to probably ping satellites andhack the Vatican. Kane stood with Fox, Maverick, Edge, and Midnight, quiet murmurs already brewing between them.

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