Chapter 10
Bree wiped her hands on a small hotel towel and studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The steam from her shower had faded, leaving the glass clear, revealing damp hair, a faint flush in her cheeks, and shadows under her eyes that hadn’t quite disappeared since Bryn died.
She tilted her head, considered the soft green T-shirt she’d pulled on over faded jeans, and made a face at herself. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was clean, and she could move in it. Movement mattered when you spent hours with a sketchbook.
Her phone buzzed on the edge of the sink.
Her pulse jumped before she flipped it over.
A photo filled the screen. Julie from the front, gleaming and ready, Hank kneeling on one knee beside her.
He’d taken it from a low angle, so the horizon cut the shot diagonally, the pits and ocean behind him blurred.
His mouth was tipped in a half-smile, as if he’d been caught between focusing on the camera and watching something off to the side.
Underneath it, he’d typed, For reference. In case you want to make me prettier in the painting.
Her mouth curved. She sank onto the closed toilet lid, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
You’re assuming you’re the subject, she wrote. Maybe I’m painting Brian.
He answered almost immediately. Brian’s hair would take too much paint.
She laughed out loud, the sound echoing off porcelain and tile.
You’re not wrong, she sent. Are you done for the day?
Riders’ meeting in ten, he replied. Then we’ll tweak gearing and try not to obsess. You headed to the balcony hideout?
She hesitated. Her sketchbook and pencils sat on the bed, ready. The balcony had the view she loved, the sweep of the track, and the ocean in the same frame.
Before she could answer, a second message appeared.
Wherever you go, stick with Brian or Colby. Promise me.
Warmth and anxiety twisted together under her ribs. He didn’t make it a command; he gave her space, but he still wanted her safe.
She typed, I promise. I’m not wandering into the lion’s den.
There was a knock at her door.
Bree blinked at it, then typed, Someone’s here. Talk later?
Always, he wrote.
She set the phone aside and crossed the room. When she opened the door, Carmen stood in the hallway, barefoot in worn cutoffs and a black tank top, damp hair pulled back in a low knot. A thin gold chain hung at her throat; her expression was already apologetic.
“Hey,” Carmen said. “Got a minute?”
“For you, sure,” Bree said. “What’s up?”
Carmen glanced toward the elevator, then back. “Heidi’s having a moment. A loud, dramatic, potentially wardrobe-related moment. I could use a sane person with eyes who isn’t invested in making Marcus look like a god.”
Bree blinked. “That’s a very specific request.”
“It really is.” Carmen sighed. “She wants a neutral opinion on the suit designs, and I’m apparently biased because I don’t worship at the Red Dragon altar.”
You mean you don’t drool over men who almost decapitate you with loose tools?” Bree asked.
Carmen snorted. “Exactly. Please come. You’ll be my excuse to escape if it goes nuclear. I’ll owe you.”
Bree thought of Hank’s text, of the warning stitched inside the concern. Stick with Brian or Colby. The pits. Needs guarding.
She’d promised.
“Give me thirty seconds,” she said.
Carmen nodded and leaned against the doorframe while Bree grabbed her sketchbook and a light hoodie.
As she slid her phone into her back pocket, the image of Einstein’s bowed head and busy hands flitted through her mind, paired with Hank’s quiet certainty that something about the Red Dragons wasn’t right.
Maybe seeing them up close wasn’t the worst idea.
They walked together down the hallway and took the stairs instead of the elevator. The stairwell smelled faintly of concrete dust and salt air. Carmen moved like someone who’d spent years assessing exits and angles, her hand brushing the railing, her gaze tracking automatically to each landing.
“You sure you’re okay being down there?” Carmen asked as they pushed through the ground-floor door into the lobby. “The pits are loud and full of testosterone.”
“I survived dealing with Marcus,” Bree said. “I think I can handle some engine noise.”
Carmen’s mouth twisted. “It’s not the engines I worry about.”
Outside, the late afternoon sun had mellowed, leaving Copper Moon in that soft between-light that painters loved.
Long shadows stretched from the trailers and tents; everything looked edged in gold.
The crowd that had packed the boardwalk earlier had thinned a little, some people drifting up toward the hotel, others toward their respective hotels.
The pits were still busy.
Engines sounded from different corners, sharply distinct notes like voices in a choir. Wrenches clinked. An air gun rattled in short bursts. The tang of fuel layered over salt and sunscreen.
Carmen wove through the maze of trailers with the ease of someone who’d done it a dozen times. Bree stayed tight to her side, careful not to cross any painted lines without invitation, aware of how many strangers’ eyes tracked new movement on autopilot.
They passed Hank’s pit. Julie sat on her stand like a coiled spring, gleaming. Colby was hunched over the laptop again, Brian nowhere in sight.
Bree’s stride hitched.
Carmen noticed. “Want to stop?” she asked quietly.
“In a minute,” Bree said. “If I see him now, I’ll be tempted to stay. You said Heidi needed you.”
Carmen made a noncommittal sound. “Heidi thinks she needs everyone.”
The Red Dragons’ setup came into view a moment later. Their hauler loomed behind the pits, glossy black with a stylized red dragon curling along the side. The logo wrapped around the back doors, teeth bared, eyes narrowed.
Music pumped from speakers set on the tailgate of a pickup, some pounding rock song with a driving beat. Two girls in crop tops and cutoffs leaned against the truck, talking to one of the younger crew members, who puffed up visibly with every laugh he earned.
Closer to the bikes, the mood was less playful.
Heidi stood in the center of the taped-off area, holding a glossy red-and-black leather suit up to her body as if she were in a fitting room that had lost its walls. Her jaw was tight, her eyes sharp, and the words coming out of her mouth sounded like they’d been honed on glass.
“It’s wrong,” she snapped. “The lines are wrong, the shoulders are too wide, and if Marcus leans in the way he rides, the colors are going to warp. It’ll look like a cheap knockoff on camera.”
The man she was chewing out wore a polo shirt with a small manufacturer logo at the collar and carried a tablet. He looked sweaty and miserable.
“Heidi,” he said, patient but clearly tired. “The template is the same as last season’s. We adjusted for the new sponsor badge and added side vents like you asked. There’s only so much we can alter without compromising impact protection.”
“Then you’re not trying hard enough,” she fired back. “This is the Copper Moon Cup, not some backlot sprint. The suit has to move with him. The dragon’s head needs to stay visible through the whole roll, not get swallowed by a seam.”
She shook the suit once for emphasis. The light flashed on the embossed dragon scales along the chest and shoulders. Bree had to admit, it was striking.
“Here we go,” Carmen murmured. “Storm warning.”
Heidi spotted them and homed in. “Finally,” she said. “A person with taste. Bree, thank God. Come here.”
Bree nearly glanced behind herself to see who else Heidi might mean. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” Heidi said. She shoved the suit into Carmen’s arms and reached for Bree’s hand. “Come stand right here. I need a fresh set of eyes.”
Carmen shot Bree a quick apologetic look over the glossy leather, then stepped aside as Heidi pulled Bree into the center of the pits.
Bree felt every gaze that turned their way. Crew members, hangers-on, and one of the riders. Marcus wasn’t in sight yet, which made the stage feel even higher, somehow; the actors gathering before the lead.
Heidi held the suit up in front of Bree, squinting, then circled her, muttering under her breath.
“You’re close enough to my measurements,” Heidi decided. “Turn a little. There. Okay. Pretend you’re straddling a bike.”
Bree blinked. “I’ve never straddled a bike in my life.”
“That’s tragic,” a crew member said.
Carmen glared at him. “Watch it.”
He lifted both hands and backed up a step.
Heidi made an impatient sound. “Fine. Just imagine you’re leaning forward, arms out. Like this.” She grabbed Bree’s wrist and placed it on an invisible handlebar in the air, then did the same with the other hand. “Perfect. Now, look at the chest.”
Bree looked.
The dragon’s head sat centered across the chest, its body curling over the ribs, tail wrapping low along the hip. It was beautiful work; the color gradation, the stitching, the subtle stainless accents that would catch the light.
But Heidi was right about one thing. With Bree’s arms up, the dragon’s eye tipped toward her shoulder instead of the camera line; the lower jaw distorted along where a rib protector seam would sit.
“It pulls,” Bree said, surprised at her own certainty. “When you lift your arms, the eye tilts. The snout gets… pinched.”
Heidi pointed at her like she’d solved a proof. “Exactly. Thank you.”
She turned back on the manufacturer rep. “See? It’s wrong.”
He sighed. “We can lower the graphic three centimeters and widen the chest panel. Anything more, and the articulation suffers. It’s a tradeoff.”
“Then we prioritize the shot from the outside of the turns,” Heidi said. “Shift the weight of the graphic so it reads clean from the primary camera angle.”
The two of them launched into a rapid-fire argument about seams, relief cuts, and camera placement. Carmen slid closer to Bree, still holding the suit.
“Welcome to my life,” she said under her breath. “She does this with every set of uniforms. You should’ve seen the soccer league last spring.”
“She cares,” Bree said softly.