Page 11 of Blood & Throttle
Bounties can be collected mid-race. If someone wants you dead badly enough, they put a price on your head. And out here? Everyone wants an extra payday.
Winning? It’s not about crossing the finish line first.
It’s about making sure no one else does.
And tonight?
She’s the only one they don’t want making it out alive.
The moment the light drops, they’ll swarm her, tear her apart, rip her off that half-dead Yamaha, and smear her across the asphalt.
That’s how it works. That's what The Gauntlet is made for. For the rich to place their bets, pay to play god, and jerk themselves off while their fucked up fantasies play out.
Which is why I should walk the fuck away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I take one last drag of my cigarette, toss it to the ground, and turn toward the betting pool.
The bookies are finalizing the odds, and the pit is loud with the sounds of men throwing cash around like they fucking own the world.
I should be walking away from this shitshow. Instead, I do the stupidest fucking thing I’ve done in years.
I roll up to the betting table, toss a stack of bills down like I don’t give a fuck, and say it clear enough for the whole pit to hear.
“Put a million on her to survive.”
Silence.
Like the whole fucking track just forgot how to breathe.
Vick—the greasy little shit running the bets—actually chokes on his cigar. He slaps a hand against his chest, hacking up smoke, eyes bugging out of his skull like I just said I’m gonna start wearing a suit and paying my taxes.
"The fuck did you just say?" he wheezes, voice raw from the fumes.
I exhale slowly, dragging my knuckles over my jaw. "You heard me."
Someone laughs. A short, sharp bark of disbelief.
"You bet on her to survive?" another voice echoes, some rookie racer who won’t live long enough for me to bother learning his name.
"Not just survive," Vick mutters, eyes narrowing as he keys it into the system. "You bet on her to fucking win."
Now the whole damn pit is looking at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
And I get it. I really do.
Because for her to win? I have to lose.
I just bet against myself.
"Jesus Christ, Riot," Vick breathes, shaking his head. "You feeling okay? You hit your head or some shit?"
I lean on the counter, letting the tension stretch, letting them all sit with the fact that I just threw a fucking wrench intoThe Gauntlet’sgolden plan.
Slowly, I pull out another cigarette, tapping it against the counter once before sliding it between my lips. The flame from my lighter flickers as I shield it with my hand, the sharp scent of burning tobacco cutting through the thick, oil-stained air.
I take a slow drag, exhaling smoke through my nose, bored, unbothered, daring someone to say a fucking word.
