Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
When Kane walked off, I murmured, “Thanks for speaking up for me, Racer.”
He turned toward me, something warm flickering in his green eyes. “Call me Jude.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He gave me a half smile. “That’s my name. Jude Iverson.”
Most bikers I knew guarded their real names like state secrets, only letting family or people they’d known forever call them anything besides their road name. That he offered his so easily threw me even more than the pull I felt toward him. “Okay, Jude.”
It tasted strange on my tongue, more personal than I expected. And way too distracting.
I turned back to the car before I did something stupid. Like say it again. Or worse—doodle Mrs. Emily Iverson on my tablet as though I was thirteen again.
5
RACER
The next evening, the Florida heat was a living thing—clinging to my skin while it wrapped me in a layer of grit, smoke, and engine oil. The track tonight was in the middle of nowhere, tucked behind a run-down warehouse and lined with barrel fires that flickered like the crowd’s crackling energy. Asphalt crunched beneath my boots as I paced the length of the pit, waiting for my turn on the line.
This was my second race. Another qualifier. But this time, I wasn’t just here to win—I was here to watch.
While Edge handled entry logistics, I used the prep hour to scope the scene. Some of the teams we were suspicious of were parked nearby. Haulers pulled open, crews bustling around engines, wiping sweat from their brows. Though they would appear casual to most, I could feel the tension surrounding them like a thick cloud.
Some had real strain on their faces, while others looked too calm, which put me on edge. People were usually either nervous because they had no fucking clue what was happening, or because they did.
I made my way through the pits slowly, stopping here and there to chat with a few of the team owners. Names Kane had flagged as ones we could maybe trust—guys who’d already lost drivers to suspicious wrecks. One of them, a grizzled man named Andy with a faded T-shirt that sported his team’s logo and a voice like gravel, shook his head when I asked what he thought of the crashes.
“Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, flicking the ash off his cigarette. “My boy, Fender, he’s not the kind of driver to fuck up a corner like that. I watched that race three times. No fucking way did he lose control. Something else happened.”
I nodded slowly. “You tell anyone else?”
He eyed me, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Not worth it. No proof to take to Kane. And if someone is fuckin’ with this circuit, I don’t want a target on my back.”
“Too late,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Eyes are already on all of us. Better to face the fucker head-on than wait to get picked off.”
He looked at me like maybe I was suicidal but didn’t argue. My gut impression was that we could trust Andy, but I’d confer with Kane about it after I had a full list.
By the time my turn rolled around, my body was restless, and I was ready to feel the engine under me again. The Chevelle was even crisper tonight than it had been at the last race. She’d been cleaned up, adjusted, and fine-tuned by one of Kane’s top crew chiefs, and I could feel the responsiveness in every inch of her frame. She was fast, angry, and begging to be let loose. We made a perfect fucking team.
The starter gave the signal.
I slammed the accelerator and took off like I’d been shot out of hell.
This course was narrower than the last one, with more sharp corners and tighter pack racing, but I made a show of it. Let the others think they had a chance before I cut between them like a blade, my engine screaming, and tires kicking up clouds of rubber smoke as I drifted into the corners with just enough recklessness to make the crowd lose their shit. On the final lap, I downshifted and spun into the last turn sideways, just for the fuck of it, before hammering the gas and crossing the finish line two full seconds ahead of the next driver.
When I rolled back into the pit and climbed out with a crooked grin on my face, the roar of the crowd still echoed in my ears. But louder than that was the silence that followed me when I walked past some of the losers.
Two of them in particular looked like they’d seen a ghost. Pale, tight-jawed—fucking terrified. They whispered to their crew in low, frantic tones that set off alarm bells.
Edge appeared at my side out of nowhere.
“Those two were the favorites.” He didn’t even try to hide the satisfaction in his voice. “You just cost a shitload of people a lot of fucking money.”