Page 44 of Trip

Gator nodded grimly. “And that makes this more dangerous. Whoever’s behind this, they’re playing the long game. They’ve got patience, and they’ve got resources. We need to figure out what they know and what their endgame is before my cousin becomes collateral damage.”

“Which is why I think we need to shift the narrative,” King stated.

“How?” I asked.

King looked at me and smiled. “We pack up and take this shit home with us.”

Shaking my head, I said, “We can’t do that. The second I mention it, C.C. will lose her shit. She already suspects that I’m here to take her spot. We move the operation back to Rosewood, and that will confirm her fears.”

“Do you want back in the game?” King plainly asked.

“I’d be lying if I said no, Prez,” I admitted. “But I don’t have the drive for it anymore. I like my life as it is now. Do I miss the adrenaline rush, the competitive nature, the cars? Hell yes, I do. But not enough to sit behind the wheel again.”

King’s gaze hardened as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the worn surface of the table. “Then maybe it’s time to make some noise. Shake things up enough that whoever’s pulling the strings starts making mistakes.”

Gator snorted, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You want to draw them out by waving a red flag? Bold move, but risky as hell.”

I crossed my arms, my mind racing. “Risky doesn’t even cover it. If we don’t calculate every step, we’re putting everyone in the crosshairs—including C.C.”

King shrugged, unbothered by the weight of his suggestion. “The way I see it, we’re already in the line of fire. Might as well take control of the narrative instead of sitting here playing defense.”

Gator shifted uneasily, his fingers drumming on his knee. “You’re talking chess moves, but we’re dealing with someone who’s been playing this game longer than we have. If they’re after revenge, they’ll be ruthless. We can’t underestimate them.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And what happens when their patience runs out? If we go in guns blazing, we need to know their weak spots first.”

King’s voice softened, almost conspiratorial. “That’s where you come in. You’ve got the instincts, the history. You know how to read people and situations better than most. Take stock of your doubts—what would make C.C. crack under pressure, and what’s keeping her standing? That’s where we start.”

Gator’s gaze met mine, steady and firm. “We don’t have to put her at risk. If we play smart, keep her safe, we can still guide the outcome.”

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, before I nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But if we’re going down this road, we’re doing it my way. No surprises.”

King grinned, his confidence radiating. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter Seventeen

C.C.

The garage was silent as the early morning light crept in. The dim light of the overhead fixtures cast long shadows along the walls. Trip grabbed the toolbox, tossing it onto the workbench with a resounding clatter. “You start with the intake valves; I’ll handle the cylinders,” he said, his voice steady, almost mechanical.

He really hadn’t said much about anything since he picked me up this morning. I knew something was bothering him and until he was ready to talk about it, I wasn’t going to pry. Besides, I had my own problems to think about. Like how I was going to broach the subject of me testing the car on the track without him chewing my ass off.

Like any driver, I was very particular who I allowed to sit in my seat. While I somewhat trusted Trip, I wasn’t ready to completely hand over the keys quite yet.

As we worked, my mind replayed every lap I’d ever driven, every rev of the engine vibrated through my bones. But this time, it wasn’t adrenaline that fueled me.

It was dread.

Each bolt I unscrewed felt like unraveling a mystery etched into metal—a mystery that connected fragments of my past to the uncertain path ahead.

The hours slipped by in a haze of oil-stained fingers and muted curses as we worked side by side. The rhythmic clink of tools and the occasional scrape of metal against metal filledthe garage, an unspoken language of determination between us. Piece by painstaking piece, the engine began to come apart, its secrets slowly laid bare under the harsh fluorescent glow.

“Do you remember the first time you raced?” I broke the silence, my voice low but laced with a wistful curiosity.

Trip paused, the wrench in his hand hovering over a stubborn bolt.

“Yeah,” he said, a small, almost bitter laugh escaping him. “Back then, I thought the only thing that mattered was how fast I could push the car. Didn’t think about the mechanics, the sacrifices, the risks. Just the speed.”

I smiled faintly, my hands deftly working on the cylinders. “For me, it wasn’t the speed. It was the control. The way the car responded like it was alive, like we understood each other. Out there on the track, the world made sense.”

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