Chapter Five
Thorne
BEST SONG EVER - ONE DIRECTION
The sponsor’s place sits right on the water like someone looked at a perfectly decent beach house and thought, nah, that’s far too subtle, then proceeded to build an absolute bloody palace instead.
It’s tucked along one of those quieter stretches past Davis Islands where the shoreline stops pretending to be normal and turns into a competition of who can spend the most money.
Massive houses stacked along the bay like architectural ego trips, all sharp white stone and glass walls so big you could probably see your reflection from the bloody moon.
And as if that wasn’t drawing enough attention, every goddamn balcony glows with soft gold lighting, so the whole place is polished and dramatic.
Like, mate, that’s a proper ‘tell me you’re compensating without actually saying it’ situation, innit.
The deck stretches halfway toward the sand, wide wooden planks running straight out from the house like it was specifically designed for people to stand around holding overpriced drinks while pretending they’re fascinating.
Palm trees sway lazily in the humid Florida air, leaves rustling like they’ve seen this nonsense before and aren’t remotely impressed.
Their shadows slide across the long driveway as cars keep rolling in, headlights cutting through the darkness while engines hum, doors slam and more guests pile out looking like they’ve dressed specifically for the chance to be seen standing next to someone famous.
Music spills through the open glass doors of the house, bass thumping hard enough that you can feel it vibrating through the pavement under your feet. Whoever’s on the playlist right now has somehow landed on late-90s pop.
Honestly no complaints here. Probably the only fuckin’ reason I’m even still here.
I lean back against my bike near the edge of the drive, arms folded across my chest while I watch the whole circus unfold in front of me.
People drift across the lawn in little groups of laughter, perfume and wildly misplaced confidence, like they’ve all collectively decided they’re much more interesting than they actually are.
Half of them look like they wandered in here because someone whispered the words professional racers and they figured they could compliment their way into our inner circle and score some sponsors by being seen with one of us.
It’s sad really, especially considering most of these blokes probably couldn’t tell the difference between a superbike and a lawn mower if you fuckin’ asked them.
The bikes are lined up beside us like a proper display anyway. Chrome catching the warm spill of light from the house. Black and green paint gleaming like polished glass under the driveway lamps. The engines are still warm from the ride over, ticking softly as they cool cool down.
Shit, they look better than half the guests here.
Probably ride better too.
Honestly, if one of these posh little wankers actually tried to throw a leg over one of these machines, I’d give him about five seconds before he panicked and launched himself straight into the ocean.
Which, if I’m being honest, might be the most entertaining thing to happen at this entire party.
Beside me, Wolfe’s sitting sideways on his bike, one boot planted on the pavement while the other rests on the peg, a beer hanging loose in his hand like he’s got nowhere better to be but also zero real interest in this place.
His hair’s doing that messy wave thing again, falling into his eyes every time he tilts his head. He pushes it back absently with his fingers while he watches the crowd.
The sleeveless white tee he’s wearing doesn’t exactly hide the fact that the bloke’s built solid.
His arms are bare, muscle shifting easily under skin inked with dark tribal patterns that run from his shoulders down along his forearms and across his chest. The lines move when he lifts the bottle for another drink, the ink catching the warm spill of light coming from the house behind us.
There’s a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone that flashes faintly whenever he moves.
It’s a good look.
Annoyingly good.
Not that I’m sitting here analysing my teammate like some kind of creep. I’m just noticing things.
Normal things.
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting across the handlebars while he scans the lawn like he’s waiting for something less fucking boring to happen.
So far, it hasn’t, and if anyone asked what I’m looking at, the answer would be simple.
The crowd. Definitely the fuckin’ crowd.
“This party’s dead,” I mutter, glancing toward the house where someone’s currently attempting to dance on a coffee table like they’re auditioning for embarrassment of the year.
Wolfe takes a slow drink before answering, completely unbothered.
“Give it time.”
“It’s been an hour.”
“Still early.”
“Still dreadful.”
He exhales through his nose, that quiet half-snort he does when he’s somewhere between amused and mildly annoyed. I know the sound well enough by now. It’s the start of an eye roll he can’t quite be bothered finishing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and glance down at the screen.
Sayshen: Andre’s got us stuck at the track. Talon’s about five seconds from committing a felony. We’ll be late.
I snort.
Course he does.
Andre’s got a proper talent for finding something “urgent” the second anyone tries to have a life outside the garage.
I type back with one hand.
Me: Don’t rush, mate. Party’s rubbish anyway. Sponsor can’t moan as long as a Demon’s here. We’ve got two.
Wolfe glances sideways at me.
“Sayshen?”
“Yeah,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “Andre’s got them doing some last-minute nonsense at the track.”
Wolfe huffs under his breath.
“Course he does.”
“They’ll be late.” I take a sip of my beer, glancing toward the house again where someone’s just knocked over a decorative lantern.
“Typical though, innit? They get to ride while we’re stuck out here basically acting as eye candy for rich people who couldn’t tell what we actually do if their lives depended on it. ”
Wolfe lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Shit, no complaints from me. Free beer, free food, decent music… and a bit of fun if the night plays out right.” He nudges the toe of his boot lightly against mine. “C’mon, loosen up a bit, yeah?”
I lift my bottle slightly toward the house.
“You say that now,” I mutter, watching another group of guests spill out onto the deck like they’ve just discovered alcohol for the first time. “Give it twenty minutes and you’ll be just as bored as I am.”
Wolfe smirks around the neck of his bottle.
“Doubt it.”
Course he would say that.
“Lucky for them,” I say, taking another sip of my beer, “the contract didn’t specify how many of us actually had to show up.”
Wolfe hums like he’s considering that.
“Yeah, well,” he says easily, “lucky for him two incredibly handsome Demons still made the effort.”
I grin at that, shaking my head.
“Bit generous, that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, gesturing lazily between the two of us with the neck of my bottle. “Only one of us is handsome.”
Wolfe turns his head slowly, giving me a long look.
“Right.” His brow lifts slightly. “Well, which one?”
I take another drink before answering.
“Me, obviously.”
Wolfe snorts, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
“Course it is.”
Wolfe’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile before he shakes his head and looks back toward the house.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Jealousy’s not a good look on you, mate.”
He doesn’t answer that.
That usually means he’s chosen patience over punching me, which, fair enough.
The quiet settles between us after that, easy and familiar. We’ve spent enough hours side by side—tracks, garages, long rides that stretch halfway across the state, that silence isn’t awkward. It just sort of… sits there.
Still, standing this close to him does strange things to my brain.
Bloody annoying things that probably come from spending half my free time sketching manga panels full of dramatic tension and broody protagonists who fall in love with people they absolutely shouldn’t.
Add a steady diet of early-2000s boybands on top of that and suddenly you’re a grown man standing next to your teammate wondering why your brain’s acting like you’ve just wandered into a bloody NSYNC music video.
Which is ridiculous.
Completely unacceptable behaviour from my own internal monologue, frankly.
Across the lawn, laughter bursts out near the fire pit. Someone pops a bottle like they’ve just won a championship instead of opening prosecco. The music shifts into something heavier, bass thumping through the ground hard enough that I can feel it humming up through the pavement under my boots.
The party’s finally waking up.
About fuckin’ time.
Wolfe adjusts his stance slightly beside me.
That’s when I notice her walking up the driveway like she’s got absolutely no doubt she belongs here, even though this whole place is crawling with people who’ve spent the evening trying far too hard to look like they do.
Long dark hair falling in soft waves down her back, catching the warm light from the house as she moves.
She’s wearing a pale corset-style top that fits like it was designed specifically to ruin a bloke’s ability to think straight, paired with jeans that sit just low enough on her hips to make the whole thing feel unfair.
Simple. Effortless.
There’s a small cross hanging from a thin chain around her neck that glints every time she steps under the driveway lights, and her eyes scan the place slowly, calm and curious like she’s clocking everything at once while looking for someone.
She stands out straight away.
Not because she’s trying to.
Actually the opposite.
Most of the people at this party are doing that thing rich people do where they pretend to be confident while practically drowning in insecurity. Flashy watches, loud laughs, and houses that look like they were designed specifically to scream I’ve got money, please notice.