Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
That was who I was before the Kings and who I still was under the cut.
Controlled chaos, always on the edge of losing control, but I never gave in because I knew what happened when I did.
And Alanna Bishop…she was the last person on earth who should ever find out what that looked like.
8
DRIFT
The following night, my world was filled with noise, smoke, and speed.
Break Point Run, the Redline Holdings track just outside of Crossbend, was alive with rows of bikes lined up under floodlights. The crowd shuffled to their seats in the grandstands, and engines snarled like caged animals waiting to be turned loose.
I leaned against my bike near the start line, the steel frame humming faintly under my hand from the idling vibration. The heat coming off the engines rolled across the pit, mixing with the humid night air. Nitro crouched beside his Harley, checking chain tension, his knuckles streaked with grease and road dust. Axle stood a few feet away, his helmet hooked on two fingers, that cocky half smile saying he was already running odds in his head.
“Your rookie’s late,” Nitro muttered, tightening a bolt. “If he misses the start again, I’m letting Axle ride him into the guardrail this time.”
Axle smirked, brushing a speck of grime from his glove. “Wouldn’t be the first rider you scraped off the pavement, brother.”
“Won’t be the last,” Nitro shot back, straightening to his full height and wiping his hands on a rag. “Kid’s too cocky. Thinks the line will move and make room for him.”
“Lines don’t move,” I grumbled. “They punish you for crossing ’em and for forgetting who owns the asphalt.”
That earned a chuckle from Axle. “You’d know, Drift.”
I didn’t bite. My head wasn’t in it tonight. The track noise faded in and out, a hum behind the thing I couldn’t shake loose—the image of Alanna outside that café.
Her flinch and step back. It hadn’t been nerves. It had been instinct.
The way her body went stiff when that prick Ethan’s hand brushed her arm.
And the look in her eyes when she saw me instead.
I ground my teeth, my gaze locked on the start line as another bike revved beside me. The scent of high-octane fuel burned through the air, but all I could smell was vanilla and a hint of floral, mixed with the sea.
“Drift.” Nitro’s voice cut through the roar. “You ridin’ or spectating while you're brooding and in my way?”
“Spectating.” My tone came out flat.
He raised a brow, mouth twitching. “You sure? You’re wound tighter than Axle’s clutch cable.”
Axle barked a laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” Nitro murmured. “Looks like he needs to blow somethin’ up. Or fuck something—and I have a feeling it’s a very specific someone—before he explodes.”
“Fuck off,” I muttered, the corner of my mouth lifting anyway.
Axle snorted. “He’s fine. Probably needs a clean run to get it out of his system.”
“Or a target,” Nitro added.
“Keep talkin’ and you’ll do,” I grunted.
They laughed, the sound brotherly—violence and affection in equal parts.
Nitro grinned, satisfied he’d gotten a reaction. “Whatever’s eatin’ you, handle it before it eats the rest of us.”
“Working on it.”
When the starter stepped out—in a neon vest with the flag raised—the row of bikes growled in unison. Tires smoked, exhaust burned the air, and the whole track shook as the flag dropped. Nitro shot forward, Axle right behind him, the blur of chrome and black disappearing into the curve.
But quiet always found its way back.
Later, when the engines had cooled and the winners had taken their cash, I sat astride my bike at the edge of the lot. The moon was high, casting a silver glow on the asphalt. Nitro and Axle were still giving each other shit near the finish line, their laughter rough and easy. I didn’t join them. My thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Back in that café parking lot.
To her voice. The tightness around her eyes. The way she’d leaned into me like I was the only solid thing in her world.
My jaw ached from clenching it.
Something about that kid was off. Too polished and practiced. Too sure of himself. Guys like him didn’t smile like that unless they were hiding something ugly underneath.
I started the engine, the low rumble settling in my chest like a heartbeat.
By the time I rolled through the clubhouse gates, the night had turned heavy and still. The lot was lined with bikes, chrome catching the security lights while the air carried faint smoke from the burn barrel near the side fence.
I parked by the back door, killed the engine, and swung off my hog.
Inside, the clubhouse was a low hum. A few brothers were at the bar in the common room, voices low over the sound of a race replaying on the TV. I passed them without a word, heading straight for my office.
The door shut behind me with a click, and I dropped into the chair, opened my laptop, and flexed my fingers. If Ethan wanted to play the harmless-college-boy act, fine. I’d strip that shit down to the bolts and see what rattled underneath.