Chapter 1 Pit Stop Problems #2
He's in my space before I can blink, closing the distance with that Alpha speed that always seems to catch Omegas off guard. Except I'm not like other Omegas—I've trained myself not to flinch, not to back down, or show any of the submission instincts that suppressants can only do so much to hide.
His breath is hot on my face as he leans in, all aggressive posturing and barely-controlled rage.
"You think you're funny? You think you can talk to me like that?"
His scent hits me with such closeness—sharp citrus and motor oil mixed with something acrid, bitter. It's all wrong, aggressive, and unpleasant in a way that makes my Omega instincts recoil even as my suppressants work overtime to keep my body from betraying me.
This scent, combined with his Alpha impulsive energy, is nagging at my senses, setting my teeth on edge.
I wrinkle my nose, unable to hide my distaste.
"I think you should invest in better deodorant."
He growls—actually fucking growls like some kind of animal—and I tune him out.
It's a trick I learned young: how to let angry Alpha voices wash over me like white noise while I retreat into my own head.
My brother taught me.
Count backward from one hundred by sevens.
Focus on math.
They can't touch your mind, even if they can hurt your body.
Ninety-three.
Dante's still ranting about respect and knowledge of his achievements, and something about his family's investment in the team.
Eighty-six.
His spit is literally flying as he gesticulates, and I'm going to have to shower after this.
Seventy-nine.
I'm halfway through calculating whether I have time to strip and clean the differential before my shift ends when I catch it.
A scent.
Not Dante's aggressive, unpleasant assault on my senses. Something else. An aroma that cuts through the motor oil, rubber, and rage like a knife through silk.
Burnt cedar. Dark coffee. Raw amber.
It wraps around me like a blanket—warm and grounding and achingly familiar—and my heart does something complicated in my chest. Something I've spent months trying to convince myself I don't feel anymore, that our hot-and-cold toxic bullshit was killed years ago.
My Omega instincts make me want to purr in complete submission at their presence.
I mentally tell it to shut the fuck up.
"Get the fuck out of their pit tech's face," a voice drawls from behind me, deceptively casual in the way that promises violence, "or you'll have to enjoy this fist."
Cale.
I don't have to turn around to know it's him.
Don't have to see his face to picture the lazy, dangerous smile he wears when he's about three seconds from beating someone's ass.
That voice has been haunting my dreams—both the good kind and the kind that leave me aching and frustrated—for longer than I care to admit.
I smirk, keeping my eyes on Dante's face even as I track Cale's presence behind me like a fucking homing beacon.
"How chivalrous."
But then there's another scent—this one lighter, cleaner, with notes of ozone and fresh linen that my Omega recognizes on an instinctive level that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with pack.
Family.
I glance over my left shoulder, and sure enough, there's my identical twin brother.
Roran Lane.
He's scowling daggers at Dante, still in his racing suit from his practice session, helmet dangling from one hand like he's ready to use it as a weapon.
We share the same sharp features, the same short blonde hair with its engineered highlights that catch the light, even the same star crescent tattoo under our right eyes—though his is visible while mine is currently hidden under a layer of carefully applied concealer.
Looking at him is like looking in a mirror, if mirrors could show you what you'd look like if you'd been born with the right parts to be accepted in this godforsaken sport.
One glance around the garage confirms what I already suspected: everyone has taken several large steps back.
The tension is palpable, thick enough to choke on.
Because when Cale Hart and Roran Lane are in the same room and united in purpose, smart people make themselves scarce.
They're not even in the same pack.
Hell, they're rivals more often than not, our families locked in some bitter feud that goes back generations.
But when it comes to me—to protecting me and hiding my deepest secret—they present an absolutely terrifying united front.
"You've got about five seconds to back up," my brother says, his voice flat and cold in a way that makes Dante's earlier growling look like a child's tantrum. "And then we'll recalculate your facial structure."
"Free of charge," Cale adds helpfully. "Consider it a service."
Dante looks between them, doing the math.
He might be an entitled Alpha asshole, but he's not completely stupid. Two Alphas—both of them established racers with nothing to lose and everything to prove—against one?
The smart move is obvious.
"This isn't over," Dante snarls at me, jabbing a finger in my direction.
"Looking forward to it," I deadpan.
He shoulders past Cale with more force than necessary—stupid, that, because Cale's the type to take that as an invitation—and storms out of the garage. The door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I sigh and turn to face my protection detail.
"You know, you don't have to interfere every time a driver loses their shit on me."
"Yes, we do," my brother says immediately.
"Absolutely we do," Cale agrees, which is probably the only thing they'll agree on all day.
Cale's standing there with his arms crossed, and even in his casual clothes—dark jeans and a band t-shirt that's seen better days—he's unfairly attractive.
Tall and lean in a way that suggests coiled strength, tattoos crawling up his forearms and disappearing under his sleeves. His black hair is shaved close on the sides, longer on top, and his silver-gray eyes are currently fixed on me with an intensity that makes my suppressants work overtime.
"The only one who's gonna be yelling in your face is me," he grumbles, and I hate how my body responds to that promise. How my Omega instincts interpret it as mine instead of the threat it should be.
My brother makes a disgusted noise.
"Not if you want me to kick your fucking ass for bullying my younger brother."
"Younger by three minutes," I interject.
"Still counts," he shoots back.
Cale rolls his eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"I swear he's older."
They're glaring at each other now, testosterone and rivalry crackling in the air between them like static electricity.
On any other day, I'd let them posture and threaten each other until they either started throwing punches or remembered they have practice schedules to keep.
Today, I'm tired and thirsty and increasingly aware that my morning suppressant is wearing off faster than it should.
I shoo them away with both hands.
"Yeah, yeah, whose dick is bigger? Very fascinating. I'm taking a ten-minute break."
Both of them frown in perfect synchronization, which would be funny if it weren't for the concerned way they're looking at me.
"You okay?" my brother asks, dropping the aggressive posturing in favor of genuine worry.
"Fine. Just need some air."
Pemberton, who's been watching this entire exchange from the safety of the far wall, clears his throat.
"You're not planning to walk off the job, are you?"
I level him with a look that could strip paint.
"I'll be back in ten minutes. Car won't be ready until I say it's ready, and I say it's not ready until I've had a break." I walk toward the corner where my water bottle rolled, bending to scoop it up even though it's now empty and slightly dented. "I just need some fresh air."
"Make sure you eat something too," my brother calls after me. "You look pale."
"Don't tell me how to live my life,” I huff in annoyance, though deep down, his concern makes my heart swell.
Brotherly love.
"Drink water!" Cale adds.
"That would be easier if someone hadn't kicked my bottle, but sure."
Their laughter follows me out of the garage, and I hate how the sound makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to longing.
The late afternoon air hits me as soon as I step outside, warm and carrying the scent of racing fuel and hot asphalt. The private facility is massive, sprawling across acres of prime real estate, with multiple garages and a full-size track that winds through carefully landscaped grounds.
I walk until I'm out of sight of the garage, until I'm sure no one's watching, and then I lean against the side of the building and let my carefully constructed mask slip.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear—never from fear. From the effort of holding myself together, of maintaining the performance, of being Rory Lane the talented but cocky tech instead of Aurora, who just wants to fucking breathe for five seconds without calculating every movement, every word, every facial expression.
The suppressants are definitely wearing off.
I can feel it in the way my senses are sharpening, the way Cale's scent is still clinging to my memory even though he's not here. The way my body wanted to lean into him instead of maintaining the careful distance I've spent months cultivating.
I dig into my pocket, fingers closing around the small pill bottle I always keep with me.
For emergencies, I tell myself, even though I know that's bullshit.
This is the third time this week I've needed an extra dose. The suppressants are supposed to last twelve hours. I took my morning dose at six, which means I should be good until at least six tonight.
It's barely four.
I stare at the bottle, watching the pills rattle against the plastic, and wonder how much longer I can keep this up.
How much longer before my body starts rejecting the suppressants entirely?
Before someone notices that the intervals between doses are getting shorter and shorter?
Is it only a matter of time before everything I've built comes crashing down around me?
The pill is bitter on my tongue, even with the water I manage to coax from a nearby fountain.
I close my eyes and count backward from one hundred, waiting for the chemical calm to settle over my system like a weighted blanket. Waiting for my Omega instincts to be smothered back into submission where they belong.
Waiting to be safe.
For now, at least.
For my own sanity.
Hopefully, I can make it through the rest of this shift without anyone figuring out that Rory Lane, talented pit tech and up-and-coming wishful thinking name in the racing world, is living a lie that gets more complicated with every passing day.
Just another day in the world of racing.