12. 12
T he air hits different when I’m on the track.
It unfurls ahead of me like something alive—coiling, unpredictable, begging to be tamed. My fingers tighten around the handlebars, the engine growling beneath me like a caged animal desperate to be let loose. The sun hangs low behind scattered clouds, the air thick with the scent of burnt rubber.
This is where everything makes sense. Where the noise inside me goes quiet and the rest of the world can’t touch me. Out here, it’s just me, this beast of a machine, and the finish line.
I lean into the curve, tyres skimming the edge of the track as the wind howls in my ears and rushes against my body like a scream I don’t have to hold in.
The throttle obeys without hesitation, the engine roaring as I tear down the straight, the vibration rippling through my bones like adrenaline made tangible. I don’t think. I don’t doubt. I ride.
There’s a moment at the start of every lap—right before the first turn—where something shifts inside me. It’s not nerves. I don’t get nervous. It’s need.
This hunger to push further, go harder, find the edge and see what happens when I toe the line.
The race this weekend isn’t just five laps—it’s five opportunities to prove that I still know how to stay in control.
That I still know who the fuck I am. When I hit the final corner and pull up beside the timing truck, the gravel kicks up in a satisfying spray.
I catch Xavier leaning against the bonnet of his Tacoma, arms crossed, stopwatch in hand and shit-eating grin firmly in place.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I mutter, killing the engine and dragging off my helmet. Sweat clings to the back of my neck, my heart still racing in my chest.
“You’re fast,” he drawls, looking at the stopwatch. “But not fast enough to beat your last time.”
Harrison lounges in the tray, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers. “And that was on a wet track last week. What’s your excuse now?”
I swipe the back of my hand across my brow, catching the sweat before it drips. The corner of my mouth pulls, but I don’t give him the full smile he’s fishing for.
“Yeah, well, maybe if I spent as much time talking shit as you do, I’d shave a few seconds off just to shut you up.”
Xavier laughs. “Wouldn’t count on it. Talking shit’s where he thrives.”
Harrison raises his water bottle like a toast. “Man’s not wrong.”
I swing off the bike, rolling my shoulders as the leftover adrenaline buzzes through my muscles. A stretch pulls the tension from my arms, and I snatch the water bottle Xavier chucks at me before it can hit the ground.
“I had to downshift early. The gravel on that second corner nearly sent me flying. I’m riding smart, not stupid.”
“Excuses, excuses.” Xavier grins. “Still, if you keep this pace, you’re a real contender. Just remember—you’ve gotta not only finish with the highest points but be the first over the line on that last lap. No pressure or anything.”
I nod, taking a long pull from the bottle. The race is already crawling under my skin, not because I’m afraid of losing, but because I’m not sure what will happen if I win.
Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I’ve spent so long building myself back up from the ashes of my childhood that I’m not sure I know how to be seen without the smoke.
Harrison leans forward with a glint of something too smug in his eyes. “So, how’s your new lady friend?”
I level a flat look at Xavier. “You just had to tell him?”
He shrugs, grinning like the traitor he is. “Oh, c’mon… when Isla told me, there was no way I wasn’t telling him.”
I scoff, dragging the edge of my shirt across my jaw to wipe away the sweat. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a… friend.” Truth is, I don’t know what to call it yet. Infatuation? Maybe.
Harrison smirks. “Right. So you just go around buying random women cats?”
“It wasn’t just a cat—it was temporary companionship. For her. She looked like she needed it.”
Harrison snorts. “And you just decided to play Good Samaritan out of the kindness of your heart?” His face stays neutral, but his eyes—that resemble mine—are lit with that familiar, smug amusement he never bothers to hide.
“Isla reckons there’s something going on between you two. Care to explain?” Xavier adds.
“There’s literally nothing going on.”
“Really?” He laughs, pushing off the bonnet. “Because from what I heard, the day you two met? Sparks were flying.”
I scoff and shake my head, dust clinging to the sweat on my neck. “Where the fuck are you hearing this?”
Xavier shoots a knowing grin toward Harrison and nudges him in the ribs.
Harrison doesn't flinch, just lifts a brow like he’s waiting for me to trip over myself.
I sigh and pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket, lighting it with a flick of my thumb.
The first drag hits my lungs like relief.
I don’t need their shit today, not when I’ve already got too much of my own rattling around in my head.
“She came into the shop,” Harrison says as he settles beside Xavier.
“What? A couple weeks ago? You were all stiff shoulders and tight jaw, like someone punched you in the chest just looking at her. And she wasn’t much better.
Eyes darting all around the place, death-staring at you. The tension was unreal.”
“Fuck, I wish I was there to see that.” Xavier lets out a low whistle, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Would’ve paid good money to watch you fumble your way through that interaction.”
“It was like watching Imogen the first time I saw her,” Harrison adds. “Same look. I reckon the bloke’s in love.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, exhaling a stream of smoke as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I flick ash to the dirt and run a hand over the back of my neck. The cigarette dangles between my fingers, and the familiar weight of it anchors me while they carry on with their shit-stirring.
“So, who is she then?”
I pause, my gaze drifting past them to the edge of the open track. I take another drag, letting the silence sit a moment before answering. “Dunno,” I admit. “Someone just passing through. But she’s got family here, so who knows how long she’ll stay. She’s pretty closed off.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Harrison murmurs. I ignore his jab, though part of me hears it louder than I should. Maybe that’s why she caught my attention in the first place. She’s not a puzzle I need to solve. Just someone I can’t seem to ignore.
“You gonna invite her to the race this weekend?” Xavier asks.
I snort. “Nah. She’d bite my head off for asking.”
“Since when are you afraid of a little challenge?” Harrison steps closer, folding his arms.
“She’ll say no.”
“So what?” Xavier shrugs. “What’s the harm in asking anyway?”
I run a hand over my buzzed hair. They have a point. I don’t even know what I’d be asking her for. To watch me prove something to a crowd that doesn’t matter? Or to stand there and see the version of me I only ever show on the track?
Xavier’s watching me too closely now. “You’re thinking about it.”
I flick the cigarette butt away. “I’m thinking about finishing another lap and wiping that smug look off your face.”
He laughs, already grabbing his stopwatch. “Bring it.”
This time, when I take off, I don’t think about the race.
I don’t think about Xavier’s teasing or the way Harrison can read my silences better than my words.
I just ride. The wind hits harder now, cooler, biting at my skin as I tear down the track again.
The corners feel sharper, the straights longer, but it’s all familiar.
My body knows every shift, every pivot. The fear that used to ride shotgun with me is long gone—burnt out of me after years of surviving things I never speak aloud.
When I come to a stop, ground crunching beneath my tyres, I look over to see Xavier staring down at the stopwatch, eyebrows lifted.
“New record?” I ask.
He nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “By two seconds. That final lap? Perfect run.” A strange sort of satisfaction settles deep in my chest.
“You’ll win,” Harrison says from beside me. “I can feel it.”
Pressing my helmet to my thigh, I tip my head toward my brother.
“Yeah. Me too.” But even as I ready myself to leave, my thoughts uncontrollably drift—not to the finish line, but to the woman with emerald eyes that don’t flinch, and a guarded mouth.
The woman who didn’t ask for a cat, or me, or anything at all, and yet, somehow, she’s the one thing I can’t stop circling back to.
The shower’s running hot enough to fog up the room, steam curling over the mirror.
I brace one hand against the tiled wall, hunched forward, letting the spray pound into my back, washing off the day’s sweat, grease, and track dust. I should be thinking about the race.
Should be replaying that perfect final lap.
But my head’s a traitor, and all it wants to serve me is Zoe.
That fucking hair—rich copper in the sun.
Those green eyes, as sharp as glass with an undercurrent she can’t hide.
The way she rolls them. Christ, even the sound of her voice is under my skin.
I don’t want to be this interested. I don’t want to care about what she’s doing or if she does, in fact, say no when I ask her to come to the race.
I’ve made a damn art form out of not letting anyone in, and yet here she is—wedged into every corner of my brain without even trying.
And it’s that thought—her, walking into the shop that first day, city clothes and fire in her eyes, glaring at me like she’d rather eat glass than ask for my help—that does it.
My cock’s already hard, pressed against my thigh, and I’m swearing under my breath.
I bite my lip, a low growl slipping out as I reluctantly fist myself, working it quickly.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, fast—because I shouldn’t be doing this.
Not over her. But fuck, the way she’d look spread out under me, hair fanned over my pillow, chest rising fast. Those perfect lips parted.
Heavy breaths drag through my nose, chest heaving.
Hell, if I had her here willingly, she’d probably smart off just to get me riled up, and I’d shut her up with my mouth between her legs until she was shaking.
I’d make her beg, make her choke on my name.
The thought pushes me over. “Fuck,” I grunt, hips jerking as hot spurts of cum hit the shower floor. The water takes it all away, along with whatever shred of dignity I had left.
And still, I can’t stop thinking about her.