Page 6 of Knot So Lucky
"Damn right there's a process," pipes up Jenna from across the garage. She's elbow-deep in another car's engine bay, her dark curls escaping from under her cap. She’s one of the few “legit” females here, being a Beta that doesn’t get in Alphas’ way since they can belittle her all they want. "You want us to sign off on a death trap, hire someone else."
"I'll take my time and deliver a car that won't kill anyone, thanks," Marco adds, not looking up from his tablet. "Revolutionary concept, I know."
The other members of the pit crew murmur their agreement, a united front of technical competence against management pressure. It's one of the things I actually like about this job—the crew doesn't tolerate bullshit, even from the higher-ups.
Pemberton's jaw works like he's chewing on something bitter.
"The competition?—"
"Is so far out that we could rebuild this thing from scratch and still make it," I interrupt, straightening up with my diagnostic scanner in hand. "Only competitions happening right now are the virtual leagues, and let's be honest…your driver clearly sucks at those."
The garage erupts in barely suppressed laughter.
Even Marco snorts, covering it with a cough that fools absolutely no one.
Pemberton's face progresses from red to purple.
"You can't?—"
"What? Tell the truth?" I tilt my head, the picture of innocence despite the oil smudge I can feel on my cheek. "I'm just a simple tech, sir. I only deal in facts and data. And the data says your golden boy placed eighteenth in last week's sim race. Behind a fourteen-year-old from Brisbane and someone whose username is literally 'NotEvenTrying.'"
"Fucking savage," Jenna whispers gleefully.
"Maybe he should focus less on his practice schedule and more on his actual driving," someone else suggests.
The mood in the garage has shifted from tense to something looser, easier.
This is what I love about pit crews—we're all slightly feral, running on caffeine and spite, united by our shared suffering under demanding drivers and clueless management.
I'm opening my mouth to make another comment when the garage door slams open hard enough to rattle the tool cabinets.
"Where's my fucking car?"
And there he is.
Dante Moretti.The driver.Six feet of entitled Alpha wrapped in a designer racing suit, his dark hair artfully tousled like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial. He stalks into the garage like he owns it—which, technically, his family's money sort of does—and the temperature shifts again.
This time it's not awkwardness.
It's aggression.
Every Omega instinct I've learned to suppress over the years screams at me to make myself smaller, to submit, to show throat. My suppressants keep the biological imperative at bay, but they can't do anything about the learned wariness that comes from years of navigating a world hostile to Omegas.
"Car needs to be ready for my practice session in twenty minutes," Dante demands, not even looking at me.
His eyes scan the garage like he's doing a headcount of peasants.
"Champions don't make themselves. I need seat time."
I roll out from beside the car, wiping my hands on a rag that's probably dirtier than my hands.
"Car needs time and a test drive to ensure it's safe," I say, keeping my voice level and my face bored. "Unless you want to be Louis Chen 2.0?"
That gets his attention.
His head snaps toward me, and I finally get the full force of his glare.
He's conventionally attractive in that boring, symmetrical way that wealthy families breed for. Strong jaw, perfect teeth, eyes the color of expensive whiskey. But there's a cruelty in the set of his mouth that no amount of good genetics can hide.
