Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
I’d come to Crossbend to prove myself. Not to fall for a man in a leather cut.
But every time Torin got too close, I wondered if he was the one thing I couldn’t outrun.
6
NITRO
The Pit was quieter than usual, the hum of fans mixing with the tinny buzz of an old radio Gauge had left on low near a workbench in another bay. The evening heat pressed down heavy, thick with oil and exhaust, the kind of Florida night when even shadows sweated. I was leaning over a carb rebuild for a classic bike I wanted to race in a few months. Grease streaked across my wrist, and a socket wrench was clenched between two fingers when Jax’s shadow fell across the bay door.
I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. Jax always carried a different kind of noise with him. Kinda like he had keyboards in his head and circuits in his veins. He wasn’t loud, but when he was wound tight, the air around him got prickly, like static before a strike.
He leaned against the post, glasses sliding down his nose and three days of stubble shadowing his jaw. I glanced up and noted that he wasn’t looking at the bike. Instead, he was staring at me.
“Spit it out,” I muttered, setting the socket down with more force than was necessary. “Been pacing my bay for ten minutes, Jax. What’s eating you?”
His jaw flexed, and for a second, I thought he might stall. That wasn’t like him. Jax didn’t hesitate unless it was bad. Then he pushed his glasses up, crossed his arms, and spoke low. “Dug deeper into our rookie’s background.”
My spine went rigid even though I kept my eyes on the car. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he echoed, voice flat. “She’s clean under the alias. No priors. No paper trail worth noting. But when I ran her real name through my nets, I got red flags.”
I straightened, wiping my hands on a rag that already looked like hell. “What kind?”
“The Broken Skulls.” His eyes sharpened, watching like he expected me to explode. “Father’s patched in. Has been since before she was born. And she’s got a half brother. Prospect turned full member three years back.”
Heat surged in my gut, quick and violent. The Skulls were dirty bastards with no code or honor, the kind of club that’d sell kids poison and call it business. We’d tangled with them before—bloody, ugly, and never finished.
Jax didn’t flinch at my expression, though his hand twitched like he wanted a keyboard in front of him. “Far as I can tell, she hasn’t had contact in a while. Her phone’s clean. Same with her bank account. Nothing ties her directly to them now. But the lack of communication could be deliberate. You know how this looks, Nitro.”
I did. Fuck. I knew exactly how it looked. A woman walked onto Kane’s track with a fake name, no history until a few years back, and bloodlines that ran straight to one of the dirtiest MCs in the state. To anyone else, she was an obvious plant. A problem. A knife tucked under a pretty dress, waiting to gut us. Shit!
Jax’s voice dropped another notch. “I’m bringing this to you first, but if you don’t tell Kane, I will. This isn’t the kind of thing that gets shelved.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the roots until it hurt. Jana, with her freckled nose and fire-bright hair. The way she met my stare like she wanted to burn in it. Broken Skulls? What the fuck?
The bile in my throat tasted like betrayal, but my gut wouldn’t line up with it. She wasn’t hiding them. No, she was hiding from them. I could feel it in the way she flinched when someone loomed too close. How her laugh always carried steel under it, like she’d had to teach herself joy after someone tried to break it.
I dropped the rag, pushed past Jax, and muttered, “I’ll take care of it.”
He caught my arm. His grip was tight, firmer than most people gave him credit for. “Take care of it by telling Kane, Nitro. Don’t make me your enemy on this.”
My eyes cut to his, sharp enough to draw blood. “I’ll tell him.”
I meant it. And I didn’t waste another second before hopping on my Harley and heading toward the clubhouse.
I headed straight for Kane's office when I arrived, rapping twice on the frame and pushing the door open before he bothered to tell me to come in. The office was Kane’s to the bone—functional yet edged with quiet power. Big enough to hold large club meetings, with a conference table, a couple of couches—which looked reupholstered, again, probably his old lady’s doing—and a small bar. There were maps pinned on the wall, light filtered through the blinds of his window, and a new shelf lined with trophies that Savannah had probably arranged because Kane didn’t give two fucks about decor—or his trophies.