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)
The runner-up ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the hood, then tore off his gloves and threw them down hard enough to scatter the gravel. Sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the cocky prick with more tattoos than brains stalked toward the timing table, face twisted with rage. He scowled at Kane, too stupid to realize our prez was the last man on earth you wanted to piss off.
“That’s bullshit,” Rodgers spat, voice carrying over the idling engines and murmuring crowd. “The clock’s rigged. No way some nobody walks in here and hits those times clean.”
Kane’s gaze cut toward him, eyes sharp as razors. Rodgers didn’t notice. Edge smiled wider, flicking his blade once more before snapping it shut. I just shook my head.
“Clock isn’t rigged,” I said flatly. “Your skills are.”
“Then it’s the track!” he spat.
Edge didn’t blink. He just tilted his head, slow and lethal. “You callin’ us cheats, boy?”
The kid froze, finally realizing he’d been loud enough to catch all of our attention. His throat bobbed as his gaze darted from me to Kane to Edge. He knew the rules—talk shit about the race once, and you were questioning my work. Do it twice, and you were questioning Kane’s authority. Which usually meant quality time with Edge. And no one wanted to be on the opposite side of his knife. His reputation for being a bit psychotic was well earned.
Kane didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “That mouth just told me everything I needed to know.” He let the words hang, lethal in their calmness. “You’ll never race for me. Walk away while you still have the option.”
Rodgers went pale. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then saw the way Edge was grinning at him, like he’d love nothing more than to gut a man just for practice. Rodgers grabbed his gloves, muttered something unintelligible, and stormed off toward the lot.
“Good riddance.” Edge flipped his knife again. “Guy’s temper was sloppier than his line through turn three.”
“And that was a fucking mess,” I muttered, my gaze straying to the rookie. Because the one that mattered hadn’t taken off his helmet yet.
Kane tilted his head toward the rookie’s car, still idling near the end of the track. “So. The real question. Who the fuck is our ghost?”
I didn’t have an answer. The driver was still sitting calmly in the car while the rest of the crowd buzzed. No gloating. No fist-pumping. Just stillness. Like they’d expected to win.
Cocky? Maybe. But it didn’t feel like arrogance. More like certainty.
We moved toward the pit together, boots crunching gravel, the smell of scorched rubber heavy in the air. My other recruits avoided my gaze. They knew better. Losing to some stranger was one thing. But losing in front of me was gonna sting for a while.
The rookie finally killed the engine. The machine shuddered once before falling quiet, headlights bleeding into the humid night. They finally swung the car door open, unhurried, and climbed out, boots crunching on gravel, moving with the smooth precision of someone who knew their body as well as their machine. Gloves stripped. Helmet unclipped.
The lid came off, and the air shifted.
Fuck me sideways.
The driver wasn’t some cocky kid.
It was a woman.
She shook her head, long red hair tumbling out like fire let loose, tangling with sweat until it looked like embers lit from the inside. The lock clung to her neck, streaks darker where it was wet, but the rest flared bright—sunset and gasoline, wild and untamed.
Freckles scattered across pale skin, dusting across the bridge of her nose and high cheekbones. Lips full and pink, kiss-swollen from the pressure of the helmet, curved into a smirk that said she knew exactly what she’d just done.
A thin sheen of sweat slicked her throat, sliding down into the low collar of her fire-retardant suit, where it disappeared into shadows I wanted to strip bare.
Her eyes. Fuck.
Green eyes. Not soft. Not sweet. Green like broken glass catching light—dangerous, intense, alive. She looked straight at me with the unflinching focus of someone who’d already sized us up and wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
Her body was lean, all muscle and precision. Five-eight, maybe. Athletic frame, toned and balanced from hours behind the wheel, but still curved in the places that mattered—hips made for gripping and tits that strained subtly against the suit. She moved like every step was calculated, deliberate, yet with a looseness that screamed confidence.
My jaw locked.
And then, to my shock, heat slammed into me—violent, instant, and fucking primal.
My libido had been practically dormant for years. Buried under work, racing, and the endless rhythm of engines and explosions. Women blurred into background noise, none of them worth the chase. But one look at her, and my cock stirred like I’d been starving it.