Chapter 8
DRIFT
The following night, my world was filled with noise, smoke, and speed.
Break Point Run, the Redline Holdings track just outside of Crossbend, was alive with rows of bikes lined up under floodlights. The crowd shuffled to their seats in the grandstands, and engines snarled like caged animals waiting to be turned loose.
I leaned against my bike near the start line, the steel frame humming faintly under my hand from the idling vibration.
The heat coming off the engines rolled across the pit, mixing with the humid night air.
Nitro crouched beside his Harley, checking chain tension, his knuckles streaked with grease and road dust. Axle stood a few feet away, his helmet hooked on two fingers, that cocky half smile saying he was already running odds in his head.
“Your rookie’s late,” Nitro muttered, tightening a bolt. “If he misses the start again, I’m letting Axle ride him into the guardrail this time.”
Axle smirked, brushing a speck of grime from his glove. “Wouldn’t be the first rider you scraped off the pavement, brother.”
“Won’t be the last,” Nitro shot back, straightening to his full height and wiping his hands on a rag. “Kid’s too cocky. Thinks the line will move and make room for him.”
“Lines don’t move,” I grumbled. “They punish you for crossing ’em and for forgetting who owns the asphalt.”
That earned a chuckle from Axle. “You’d know, Drift.”
I didn’t bite. My head wasn’t in it tonight. The track noise faded in and out, a hum behind the thing I couldn’t shake loose—the image of Alanna outside that café.
Her flinch and step back. It hadn’t been nerves. It had been instinct.
The way her body went stiff when that prick Ethan’s hand brushed her arm.
And the look in her eyes when she saw me instead.
I ground my teeth, my gaze locked on the start line as another bike revved beside me. The scent of high-octane fuel burned through the air, but all I could smell was vanilla and a hint of floral, mixed with the sea.
“Drift.” Nitro’s voice cut through the roar. “You ridin’ or spectating while you're brooding and in my way?”
“Spectating.” My tone came out flat.
He raised a brow, mouth twitching. “You sure? You’re wound tighter than Axle’s clutch cable.”
Axle barked a laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” Nitro murmured. “Looks like he needs to blow somethin’ up. Or fuck something—and I have a feeling it’s a very specific someone—before he explodes.”
“Fuck off,” I muttered, the corner of my mouth lifting anyway.
Axle snorted. “He’s fine. Probably needs a clean run to get it out of his system.”
“Or a target,” Nitro added.
“Keep talkin’ and you’ll do,” I grunted.
They laughed, the sound brotherly—violence and affection in equal parts.
Nitro grinned, satisfied he’d gotten a reaction. “Whatever’s eatin’ you, handle it before it eats the rest of us.”
“Working on it.”
When the starter stepped out—in a neon vest with the flag raised—the row of bikes growled in unison. Tires smoked, exhaust burned the air, and the whole track shook as the flag dropped. Nitro shot forward, Axle right behind him, the blur of chrome and black disappearing into the curve.
But quiet always found its way back.
Later, when the engines had cooled and the winners had taken their cash, I sat astride my bike at the edge of the lot.
The moon was high, casting a silver glow on the asphalt.
Nitro and Axle were still giving each other shit near the finish line, their laughter rough and easy.
I didn’t join them. My thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Back in that café parking lot.
To her voice. The tightness around her eyes. The way she’d leaned into me like I was the only solid thing in her world.
My jaw ached from clenching it.
Something about that kid was off. Too polished and practiced. Too sure of himself. Guys like him didn’t smile like that unless they were hiding something ugly underneath.
I started the engine, the low rumble settling in my chest like a heartbeat.
By the time I rolled through the clubhouse gates, the night had turned heavy and still. The lot was lined with bikes, chrome catching the security lights while the air carried faint smoke from the burn barrel near the side fence.
I parked by the back door, killed the engine, and swung off my hog.
Inside, the clubhouse was a low hum. A few brothers were at the bar in the common room, voices low over the sound of a race replaying on the TV. I passed them without a word, heading straight for my office.
The door shut behind me with a click, and I dropped into the chair, opened my laptop, and flexed my fingers. If Ethan wanted to play the harmless-college-boy act, fine. I’d strip that shit down to the bolts and see what rattled underneath.
I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for.
But I knew I’d recognize it when I saw it.
It would’ve gone faster if I’d brought Jax up to date on the situation, but I talked myself out of it. The guy had earned his damn honeymoon, and if this turned out to be nothing, I wasn’t about to ruin it with paranoia.
Besides, calling him meant explaining why I was watching Alanna’s every move—and I wasn’t ready to pull that trigger.
So I did what Jax taught me.
Lines of code flickered across the screen of my laptop as I worked through the club’s secure network, tracing digital threads the way Jax had drilled into me years ago.
Other than the click of the keyboard, the faint hum of the air-conditioning was the only sound in the room.
Outside, a bike revved once before fading into the distance.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, eyes on the search results rolling in. Ethan Miller. Twenty-two. Local. Clean record. No priors, no traffic citations, no debts, and no social media posts that set off alarms.
On paper, the guy was harmless. Boring even. The poster child for the clean-cut “boy next door.”
That was what bothered me. Every detail looked like it had been written for a novel. No rough edges or traces of the kind of stupid mistakes everyone made. No noise at all. It was like he was trying to be invisible.
My instincts were firing on all cylinders, and every one of them was blaring an alarm. I’d learned a long time ago that nothing was ever as clean as it looked—the dirt was covered up.
I narrowed the search, running his name through a few darker databases Jax had built into the system. Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.
“Fuck.” I rubbed the back of my neck, the skin strained from tension.
If it had been anyone else, I might’ve shrugged the worry off. But Alanna’s flinch, the way her voice had tightened when she’d said his name…it kept running through my head.
Eventually, I typed in her address and pulled up the live feeds from the cameras outside her building. The club’s security network covered half the damn city—partly for protection but also for leverage.
This was about her safety, I told myself.
Not obsession.
Four angles popped up on the screen. The front lot, side entrance, stairwell, and a split screen that showed the hallways outside the apartment doors.
The time stamp rolled over to 9:42 p.m. The feed was quiet—no motion and no noise. Alanna’s SUV sat in her space, gleaming under the security lights.
A low knock hit the door, distracting me from my inspection.
“Yeah,” I called without looking up.
The door swung open, and Edge stepped in—his cut hanging open, and his T-shirt clinging to him like he’d just come out of the shower. His dark auburn hair was damp, and that slightly unhinged, movie-star grin was already in place.
He leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded against his chest. “You look like a man trying to stop himself from doing something stupid.”
“Depends on your definition of stupid.”
He snorted, pushing off the frame and walking over to the desk. His gaze flicked to the screen before I could do anything about it, lingering on the feed showing Alanna’s apartment door. “Ah. That kind of stupid.”
“Don’t start,” I warned, but his smile just widened.
“Relax, brother. No judging. Just surprised you’re still pretending your recent brooding isn’t over a woman.”
“I don’t brood.”
“So this is about club security?” he drawled, calling me on my bullshit.
“Yes.”
“Sure.” He grabbed the empty chair across from me, spun it around, and straddled it backward. “And I only check the cameras at my place because I’m worried Callie might fall asleep watching Netflix.”
I gave him a look. “You done?”
“Not even close.” He nodded toward the monitor, his eyes skimming each feed, then he froze. “Is that…Alanna Bishop’s apartment, Drift?”
My silence told him everything.
“Fuck, brother,” he breathed. “Fucking stupid is right.”
I glared. “Not like it's a choice, Edge. You wanna tell me you coulda walked away from Callie?”
His mouth tightened, and his green eyes flared with fire. “Not a fucking chance in hell.”
“Exactly.”
We stared for a few moments, both of us sizing up the situation.
Finally, Edge sighed. “You check the guy yet?”
I almost asked, “What guy?” but caught myself because it would just be going round in circles, each one making me look like an even bigger idiot.
“Yeah. Clean record. Boring.”
Edge hummed low in his throat, thoughtful. “Those are the ones that bother me. Ones who don’t squeak when you twist.”
“My gut says something’s off.”
“When has your gut ever been wrong?”
I didn’t answer. We both knew the truth. It never missed.
Edge’s smile faded a little. “Then follow it. Dig deeper. And keep a close fucking eye on her.”
“Already am.”
“Figured.” He smirked. “You got that look.”
My eyes narrowed. “What look?”
“One that says if anyone breathes wrong near her, you’ll bury them under the track.”
“Fair,” I grunted, not bothering to deny it.
Edge leaned forward, forearms resting on the chair back. “You’re walking a thin line, brother. She’s not just any girl. She’s Jax’s family. His blood. You’re gonna have to bring him in if this turns out to be real.”
“I know.”
“But you won’t. Not yet.”