Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 209(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 209(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
“Shit,” Nitro muttered.
I touched the spot again and winced at the fresh sting. The blood on my fingertips looked too dark under the harsh lights. My heart hammered against my ribs, loud in the sudden hush inside my own head.
I highly doubted they had skilled doctors at underground races, but I could really use one right now. Even if the injury wasn’t that bad, it needed to be looked at right away if I had any hope of it not leaving a scar I wouldn’t be able to hide from my parents.
2
CAGE
Brake Point Run had that energy I’d always associated with race nights, with an electrified hum beneath my boots. It was a constant noise that felt more natural to me than silence.
Located just outside of Crossbend, Florida, the track was a smaller operation than some of Kane Beckett’s more prominent speedways, but it had a grit and intimacy that suited the underground racing circuit well. Our motorcycle club president’s empire included both pro and underground tracks, and Brake Point Run was often where the more unpolished talent came to prove themselves.
Tonight was one of those nights. The track was alive with the roar of powerful engines, crews shouting orders, and spectators cheering from the grandstands lining the oval track. The pit lane was chaotic, a swirl of mechanics hustling between cars and bikes, adjusting tire pressures and refueling under the glare of floodlights. The paddock area buzzed with anxious energy as teams prepared for the next heat, and the timing and scoring system flashed updates overhead.
I stood with a couple of my club brothers, my arms folded across my chest, and my boots planted firmly on the asphalt near our pit. As the Redline Kings MC’s doctor, I sometimes ran medical support at Kane’s events, ensuring drivers made it through their crashes with the same number of limbs they started with. Patching up wounds, resetting bones, and stabilizing concussions wasn’t glamorous work, but it was necessary.
Racing might be our world, but it was also dangerous as fuck, especially at these underground events. Guys pushed their machines beyond limits to prove themselves, and my job was picking up the pieces.
Crossbend, a small beach town just outside Tallahassee, was practically owned by Kane Beckett and the Redline Kings. Its streets were threaded with our influence and our people. This was our turf, and Brake Point Run was no exception.
I lifted my gaze, watching the cars coming around the far turn, their engines screaming as they fought for position. My brothers at my side shifted, calling out encouragement and insults alike, the easy camaraderie settling me further into the moment. Until my focus snagged on sudden motion at the edge of the track.
Debris launched into the air, an eruption of splintered metal and chunks of asphalt spiraling toward the sidelines in a deadly blur. My body reacted before my brain fully registered what was happening, my feet already pounding across the pavement, covering the distance with long strides. Shouts rippled behind me, panic flaring at the edges, but my vision narrowed, cutting through the crowd. White-hot adrenaline hit my veins, and the hum of engines faded out until the world narrowed down to the person who’d been hit. Instinct cleared my path, my presence enough to make people move out of my fucking way.
Reaching the barrier, I spotted her immediately. Her body was hunched over and shaking, one hand pressed to her head where blood slipped between her fingers. Then her legs buckled, and she went down. I surged forward, shoving aside someone reaching toward her, claiming her space with a growl that came from somewhere primal deep inside me. My knees hit the gravel hard as I dropped beside her, feeling the rough grind of dirt through denim, my breath already steadying as my focus sharpened.
I didn’t have to announce myself or demand attention, since authority was something I wore as naturally as my club’s cut. Anyone who’d thought to interfere backed off immediately, sensing the danger radiating off me as clearly as a storm rolling in from the sea. I was in my element, my instincts clicking into place with practiced ease.
My hand found the curve of her jaw, my fingers rough against her soft skin as I tilted her face up toward the harsh glare of the overhead floodlights. My heart fucking froze in place for one critical beat as her features registered. Then my gaze snagged on her eyes—dark green and deep enough to drown in, but a little cloudy from shock and confusion. For a second, I forgot to breathe, my pulse slamming against my ribs like a piston firing hard and fast.
She was stunning.
A little taller than average, she had a curvy figure beneath her clothes, feminine and undeniably alluring. Her dark-blond hair cascaded around her shoulders in loose, unruly waves, framing a face that made every thought in my head grind to a halt. It wasn’t carefully sculpted or perfectly contoured. Her features held a natural symmetry—a straight, delicate nose and lips just full enough to make my blood heat instantly. Her skin carried the faintest glow, sun-kissed from hours probably spent snatching time outside rather than lounging deliberately beneath the sun’s glare.