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 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 bad enough 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 to be 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.
I edged ahead. Not much. Inches. But it built, slow and brutal, until her headlights slid back, until the finish line loomed and my tires screamed over it first.
The crowd erupted. Noise like a detonation rolled over the strip.
I eased off and braked hard, my car fishtailing slightly before it steadied. Jana’s car rolled to a stop beside mine, engine ticking under the hood.
When I climbed out, helmet under my arm, she was already out of hers. Her cheeks were flushed, jaw tight, hands shaking faintly from the comedown. But her shoulders were square, chin high.
I walked over, boots heavy on asphalt. She caught me at the edge of her car, her eyes blazing.
“Don’t,” she bit out. “Don’t you dare pity me.”
I arched a brow. “Who said anything about pity?”
Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling fast. For a second, the mask cracked, and I saw it—the fear. Not of me, but of what losing to me meant. Her shot at Kane’s team.
I reached out, caught her elbow, steadying her as she climbed from the cockpit. She tensed like she wanted to shake me off, then let me help. Her pride battled her exhaustion, and I could feel it in the tremor of her muscles.
“You held your own,” I told her, low and rough. “Better than most I’ve raced against.”
Her laugh was brittle. “And still lost.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, crooked smile tugging. “But losing to me isn’t exactly shameful.”
Her glare returned, but softer this time, tempered with something that looked too close to hope.
The announcer’s voice cut through the roar, declaring me the winner. My name rolled out over the floodlights and smoke. I lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then let it drop. The crowd didn’t matter. She did.
She drew herself up, shoulders straight, and clapped, loud enough for those nearest to hear. Grace. Professionalism. Even when I knew she was gutted inside.
I felt something like pride twist sharply in my chest.
When the engines cooled and the crowd thinned, Kane and Savannah waited by the edge of the strip. Kane stood easy, arms folded, green eyes sharp as always. Savannah leaned against him, braid sliding over her shoulder, smiling like she already knew what was about to happen.