Chapter 7 #2
But I don’t press.
And neither does he.
He just finishes wrapping my ribs, hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before he stands.
I keep my expression neutral, watching as he grabs his cigarette off the crate, flicking ash onto the floor.
“That will have to do until we can get some more supplies,” he says, voice low. “Now get dressed, we’ve made the crew wait long enough.”
I arch a brow. "The crew?"
"You think I race alone?" He smirks, pulling on his jacket, already moving toward the door. "You’re not the only stray I picked up."
Taz stretches first, arching her back before hopping off the bed with a lazy shake of her head, ears flopping. I take that as my cue to get moving. The pile of clothes I grabbed last night is shoved against the foot of the bed, the denim shorts rough and stiff in my hands as I pull them on.
Riot doesn’t move, doesn’t turn away.
Of course, he doesn’t.
I pretend I don’t notice, pretend I don’t feel the weight of his gaze raking over me as I shimmy the shorts into place, buttoning them at my waist. The material is worn, frayed, but they fit well enough, hugging my hips just right.
The shirt?
That’s a different fucking story.
I grab the old, threadbare thing from the bin that looked decent enough at first glance. But the second I try to pull it over my head, I realize my mistake.
It’s too tight, too constricting.
I hiss through my teeth, arms barely halfway through the sleeves before the fabric strains against my ribs, pressing into the bruised skin. The pain lances through me, sharp and immediate, but I don’t let it show.
I just grit my teeth and try again.
And that’s when I feel him move.
Before I can fight it, Riot’s there, pulling the shirt out of my hands with an unimpressed look. I scowl, ready to snap at him, but then he’s turning, yanking something off a hanger hooked onto a rusted nail near the door.
One of his shirts.
Black, soft, and slightly oversized.
He holds it out, his tone flat. “Put this on.”
I narrow my eyes, glaring up at him. “I don’t need your—”
“Put it the fuck on, Sin.”
It’s not a suggestion.
Not a request.
I grind my teeth, snatching it from his hand before shoving it over my head. It’s warmer than I expect, the scent of smoke, leather, and something distinctly Riot wrapping around me like a second skin.
It pisses me off how comfortable it is.
How much better it feels than that stiff, too-tight piece of shit from the bin.
I tug at the hem, ignoring the way he watches me as I adjust the fabric over my frame.
“Happy?” I mutter.
His smirk is slow, dark. “Getting there.”
I flip him off, grabbing my boots, and shoving my feet into them before heading for the door.
He follows, and so does Taz, the three of us stepping out into the pit like some fucked-up little pack.
The garage is a cavernous space of rust, oil, and gasoline, the air thick with the scent of burning rubber and metal grinding against metal.
Overhead, a row of dim, flickering fluorescents cast long, uneven shadows against the concrete floor, illuminating rows of parked bikes, each one bearing the scars of The Gauntlet.
Riot’s bike is front and center, propped up on a stand, its frame sleek and dark, a beast waiting to be let loose again.
But it’s not the bike that gets my attention.
It’s the crew working on it.
I expect hostility. The same kind of shit I got in the pit, the same glares, the barely restrained violence lurking behind every glance.
Instead, the second we step inside, I get something worse.
Curiosity.
"Well, well," a deep voice rumbles. "This the one fucking up all the bets?"
A guy with broad shoulders, dark skin, and a thick beard straightens from where he was working on the bike. Grease stains his knuckles, a wrench dangling from his grip. His sharp brown eyes study me like I’m some kind of puzzle.
"Bishop," Riot says.
Bishop tilts his head, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Heard you made quite the entrance, sweetheart."
I roll my eyes, shifting my weight onto one hip. "If you liked my entrance, just wait for my exit. Might give the whole damn crowd a show—flash 'em the tits they were so damn sure they'd be burying."
A laugh rings out from behind me.
"Shit, I like her," a lighter voice chimes in.
I turn, catching sight of a wiry guy with inked-up arms and a grin sharp enough to cut glass. He gives me a once-over, clearly entertained.
I smirk, then glance at Riot, making sure he fucking sees it before I look back at the guy. "Good taste, tattoo boy. Too bad it’s wasted on shit company."
Bishop chuckles, shaking his head. "Damn, Riot. You sure about this one?"
Riot just exhales slowly, like he’s already regretting every decision that led him to this moment. "Unfortunately. Luca," Riot adds, turning his eyes to me. "Resident shit-stirrer."
Luca winks. "Oh, come on, you know you love me."
Bishop jerks his chin toward a woman stepping out from behind Riot’s bike. "That’s Doc."
She wipes her hands on a rag, eyes sharp beneath dark lashes.
Her dark brown hair is cut into a blunt bob, the ends just brushing her jawline.
There’s grease smudged across one high cheekbone, a small silver hoop in her nose, and an old scar cutting through her left eyebrow.
She’s lean but wiry, built like someone who’s been in her fair share of fights and won most of them.
"Short for Doc Holliday."
I arch a brow. "What, you some kind of medic?"
"More like a miracle worker."
Luca smirks. "She patches us up when we’re dumb enough to need it."
Doc tilts her head, unimpressed. "And you need it a lot."
"Let’s be honest, she’s the only reason most of us are still alive," a quieter voice says.
A kid—maybe nineteen, olive skin, and quick eyes leans against the workbench. He rolls a coin between his fingers, expression unreadable.
"Ghost," Riot says, nodding toward the guy half-hidden in the shadows. "Got his name ‘cause he sees and hears everything before anyone else. Always watching, even when you don’t see him."
Ghost barely acknowledges the introduction.
He’s tall and lean, dressed in all black, hood up, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.
His face is sharp, angular, a mess of dark stubble shadowing his jaw.
His gray eyes flick to me—assessing and unreadable—before he shifts his weight and looks away like he’s already figured out everything he needs to know.
I cross my arms, shifting my own weight as I glance around the garage, then back at Riot. "So, you really do collect strays."
Bishop chuckles, wiping grease off his hands. "We all got a reason for being here."
Taz settles next to me, her massive head resting against my leg, eyes sharp as she watches the crew, like she’s already decided whose side she’s on.
I glance between them. None of them are racers. They chose this life. "You all work for him?"
Luca flashes a grin. "Nah. We work with him."
Riot watches me, smirking like he’s already won something. Cocky bastard.
I lift my chin, meeting Riot’s gaze with a smirk. "Damn, must be rough working with such an unbearable asshole."
Luca snorts, Bishop grins, and Doc shakes her head like she’s already sick of my shit.
Riot, though?
His smirk tightens, eyes darkening just a fraction. "Careful, Little Stray. You’re already on thin fucking ice."
I shrug. "Yeah? Seems to be holding just fine from where I’m standing."
Bishop grins, tossing me a rag. "Alright, well if you’re gunna stick around, grab a wrench, sweetheart."
"Enough chit-chat," Riot cuts in, his voice dropping back into that smooth, commanding edge. "We’ve got a race to win."
The smirk fades from Luca’s face. Bishop and Doc exchange a look. Even Ghost finally lifts his head.
"First round of The Gauntlet is in forty-eight hours," Riot continues, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "The Bone Yard." His eyes flick to me, sharp and certain. "And with Sin riding with me, we’ve got a lot of fucking adjustments to make."
Silence. Tension. The weight of what’s coming settling over the room like a storm about to break.
No one argues. No one questions.
Because this? What Riot is doing, riding with me… it changes everything.