Page 37 of Blood & Throttle
I hiss through my teeth, arms barely halfway through the sleeves before the fabric strains against my ribs, pressing into the bruised skin. The pain lances through me, sharp and immediate, but I don’t let it show.
I just grit my teeth and try again.
And that’s when I feel him move.
Before I can fight it, Riot’s there, pulling the shirt out of my hands with an unimpressed look. I scowl, ready to snap at him, but then he’s turning, yanking something off a hanger hooked onto a rusted nail near the door.
One of his shirts.
Black, soft, and slightly oversized.
He holds it out, his tone flat. “Put this on.”
I narrow my eyes, glaring up at him. “I don’t need your—”
“Put it the fuck on, Sin.”
It’s not a suggestion.
Not a request.
I grind my teeth, snatching it from his hand before shoving it over my head. It’s warmer than I expect, the scent of smoke, leather, and something distinctly Riot wrapping around me like a second skin.
It pisses me off how comfortable it is.
How much better it feels than that stiff, too-tight piece of shit from the bin.
I tug at the hem, ignoring the way he watches me as I adjust the fabric over my frame.
“Happy?” I mutter.
His smirk is slow, dark. “Getting there.”
I flip him off, grabbing my boots, and shoving my feet into them before heading for the door.
He follows, and so does Taz, the three of us stepping out into the pit like some fucked-up little pack.
The garage is a cavernous space of rust, oil, and gasoline, the air thick with the scent of burning rubber and metal grinding against metal. Overhead, a row of dim, flickering fluorescents cast long, uneven shadows against the concrete floor, illuminating rows of parked bikes, each one bearing the scars of The Gauntlet.
Riot’s bike is front and center, propped up on a stand, its frame sleek and dark, a beast waiting to be let loose again.
But it’s not the bike that gets my attention.
It’s the crew working on it.
I expect hostility. The same kind of shit I got in the pit, the same glares, the barely restrained violence lurking behind every glance.
Instead, the second we step inside, I get something worse.
Curiosity.
"Well, well," a deep voice rumbles. "This the one fucking up all the bets?"
A guy with broad shoulders, dark skin, and a thick beard straightens from where he was working on the bike. Grease stains his knuckles, a wrench dangling from his grip. His sharp brown eyes study me like I’m some kind of puzzle.
"Bishop," Riot says.
Bishop tilts his head, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Heard you made quite the entrance, sweetheart."
