Page 33 of Nitro
I wrapped her tight, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. I didn’t say shit at first, just held her while the weight of years poured out of her in ragged breaths.
When her sobs quieted, I bent low, voice rough against her hair. “He’s gone. He can’t touch you. Not now, not ever again. You’ve got me. You’ve got the Kings. That’s family. The only kind that matters.”
She shivered, then clutched my shirt in her fists like she was holding on for dear life. I pressed my lips to her temple, tasting salt and heat, and held her until her breathing steadied.
Around us, the night roared back to life—engines, cheers, smoke curling into the sky. But in my arms, she was silent, steady, and mine.
And I swore to myself, as sure as any oath I’d ever taken in that clubhouse, that no one—not a Skull, not her past, not even blood—would ever make her doubt that again.
15
NITRO
The night was slick with heat, the kind that clung like oil no matter how many times you wiped your palms. The abandoned airstrip Kane had chosen stretched long and straight into the darkness, floodlights rigged on poles at each end, throwing harsh white light across the cracked asphalt. Beyond us, the swamp crouched silent, cicadas buzzing like faulty wiring, while generators thrummed low and steady in the background.
This wasn’t just another midnight run. It had weight. The kind you felt in the chest before you even fired an engine. Kane had picked tonight to launch Redline Precision—his new pro racing team that would run clean in the daylight, even while the Redline Kings owned the underground at night. Using an illegal street race to roll out something meant for sponsorships and televised circuits. Typical Kane. A middle finger to anyone who thought they understood him.
Crews lined the edges of the strip, shadows under the glare of the lights. Engines revved, rubber squealed, curses traded back and forth. The whole scene had that raw, cutthroat edge thatmade underground racing different from anything with rules. A thousand bad decisions wrapped in chrome and fire.
And in the middle of it—her.
Jana was tightening her gloves by her car, the low-slung beast she’d tuned to a razor edge. She’d braided her red hair back tonight, fire locked down tight, but strands still caught the light like sparks every time she moved. Her tank top was dark with sweat down the spine, jeans hugging her long legs, and freckles sharp on her flushed cheeks. She looked as though she was born for the spotlight, whether she wanted it or not.
She didn’t know the last test was coming. Kane hadn’t told her. Neither had I.
My boots hit asphalt heavy as I crossed to the starting line, helmet dangling from one hand. Her head snapped up when she caught sight of me striding toward her slot. Confusion flickered across her face, followed by shock, then a flare of temper so hot I could almost feel it singe my skin from ten feet out.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she muttered, her voice carrying across the night under the floodlights.
I stopped beside my car, dropped the helmet onto the hood with a hollow thud, and leaned on my knuckles. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Didn’t expect me at the line?”
Her jaw worked, teeth sinking into her lower lip before she snapped, “They told me the field was set. I prepped for every other driver. Not you.”
“That’s the point,” I smirked, the crooked one that pissed her off as much as it made her thighs clench. “You want the big leagues? You face the best. That’s me.”
“You’re a cocky bastard,” she fired back, tugging her gloves tighter.
“And you love it.”
Her glare could’ve peeled paint. But I saw the way her pulse jumped in her throat, quick and sharp. She wanted the win badenough to chew steel for it. Which was why this hurt already—I knew how it would end. As amazing as Jana was, I was the better driver. Kane and I knew she couldn’t win against me. I’d tried to talk him into bringing down our friend, Racer—a champion who hadn’t lost a race in over a decade—from the Iron Rogue’s MC in Tennessee. Let him beat Jana instead of me. But Kane refused. Losing wasn’t the full test.
Engines snarled down the line, other racers climbing into their machines. The crowd pressed closer to the barriers, chants rising, the metallic stink of adrenaline thick in the air. The starter strode out, flashlight in hand.
I pulled my helmet on, slid into my seat, and rolled my neck until it cracked. The cockpit was hot, cramped, and reeked of fuel and sweat and old leather. My fingers curled around the wheel like they’d been born there. Beside me, Jana’s car idled, engine purring angrily, her silhouette lit harshly by the floodlights.
I let my visor drop, hiding the grin. This was going to tear her up inside. But she’d learn what Kane already knew—losing wasn’t the end. It was part of the game.
The starter raised the light. My heartbeat synced with the rising whine of engines. Jana’s gaze cut to me for a fraction of a second—green fire through her visor. I gave her a little nod. She responded by revving loud enough to shake the ground.
The light dropped.
I launched.
The strip blurred into a tunnel of sound and speed, tires screaming against asphalt. Jana shot forward beside me, her shifts flawless, and her lines tight as hell. She was fast—no, she was vicious. Her car ate pavement like it was starving.
For a stretch, we were nose to nose, headlights fighting for ground. Sweat slid down my spine, wheel trembling in my grip, the roar of my machine in my bones. Jana was good. Too good tobe this new. Every move she made was instinct sharpened into steel.
But I was Nitro. And speed had been my religion before I even knew what faith was.
