Chapter 8
Test Drive Turbulence
~AURORA~
"Get your horny ass away from me," I grunt, shoving at Cale's chest with both hands. "We're at work."
The garage is already bustling with activity around us—techs prepping equipment, engines being tested in the distance, the particular organized chaos that comes with a high-performance racing facility operating at full capacity.
And here's Cale, still looking at me like he wants to bend me over the nearest toolbox and finish what we started this morning.
His Alpha pheromones are spiking with want, burnt cedar mixing with something muskier, more primal. It's making my suppressants work overtime to keep my Omega biology from responding in ways that would be catastrophically obvious.
"Hmm." He hums thoughtfully, but instead of backing off like a reasonable person, he pulls me in closer.
One hand fists in my coveralls—the same grease-stained uniform I put on this morning while he watched with predatory interest—and his mouth crashes against mine with bruising intensity.
The kiss is hard and possessive and absolutely inappropriate for our current location. His tongue demands entry and I give it for just a moment—just long enough to feel the heat of him, taste the lingering coffee and bacon from breakfast—before I bite down on his bottom lip.
Hard.
He pulls back with a wounded noise, hand flying to his mouth where I can see the indent of my teeth. His grey eyes are wide with betrayal, bottom lip jutting out in a pout that would be adorable if I wasn't trying to maintain professional boundaries.
"Ow."
"Good." I huff, rolling my eyes and shooing him away with both hands like he's an overenthusiastic dog. "Now go. Shoo. We have work to do."
But he's still close enough that I can feel his body heat, can smell the way his scent mingles with motor oil and rubber in a combination that my hindbrain finds disturbingly appealing.
"You know," I mutter, pitching my voice into the lower register I maintain as Rory, "we're going to give off major bromance vibes. I look exactly like my brother, remember?"
The words taste bitter on my tongue because it's true.
Roran and I are identical in every way that matters to outside observers—same sharp features, same blonde hair with strategic highlights, same storm-green eyes, and star crescent tattoo placement.
The only real difference is what's hidden under our clothes, and that's not exactly something people check before making assumptions.
Cale shrugs, completely unbothered by the implication.
"Wouldn't be the first time I've dealt with that shit."
"What's that supposed to—"
"Well," a third voice interrupts, dry with amusement, "let's hope we don't spark anything with how everyone's losing their minds this afternoon."
I turn to see my twin brother approaching, and my immediate reaction is equal parts relief and annoyance.
Roran walks toward us with that particular swagger that comes naturally to successful racers. He's in his team racing suit, the sleek material designed to be both fireproof and aerodynamic, with sponsor logos plastered across his chest like badges of honor.
"Roran," I groan, using the opportunity to push at Cale again. "Tell your ‘friend’ to stop being clingy."
But Cale's still trying to hug me, arms wrapping around my shoulders from behind in a way that would look friendly to casual observers but feels deliberately possessive. His chin hooks over my shoulder, and I can feel him grinning even though I can't see his face.
"Get off."
"But you're warm."
"I'm also at work, and you're being a pest."
Roran stops a few feet away, crossing his arms and giving us both a look that's somewhere between exasperation and resignation.
"You two done?"
Cale finally releases me—thank fuck—and I immediately put distance between us, adjusting my coveralls and trying to look like a professional pit tech instead of someone who spent the morning getting thoroughly fucked by the Alpha currently smirking at my discomfort.
"Who pissed you off?" Cale asks Roran, head tilting with genuine curiosity.
"I'm not pissed off," Roran shoots back, but his jaw is tight and his shoulders are tense in that particular way that means something's definitely wrong.
"Yeah, right." Cale's smirk widens. "I know when you're mad as fuck."
"And how's that?"
Instead of answering verbally, Cale just looks at me.
Pointedly.
Deliberately.
With that knowing expression that says everything without saying anything at all.
Because, of course Cale knows when Roran's upset.
They've been racing against each other, training together, existing in each other's orbit for years.
Add in the fact that Roran and I share identical tells—the jaw clenching, the shoulder tension, the way our eyes narrow just slightly when we're containing emotions we'd rather not display—and Cale's basically fluent in reading Lane's body language.
I frown, rolling my eyes.
"You're going to be banned from having breakfast with me again if you keep acting delusional."
The threat is empty and we both know it, but I need to establish some boundaries or he'll keep pushing until we're making out against the garage wall where anyone could see.
Cale shrugs, crossing his arms in a mirror of Roran's posture.
"There's plenty of ways I can 'join' you for breakfast."
The air quotes around "join" make the innuendo crystal clear.
"Can you not talk all flirty with my brother around?" Roran's glare could strip paint. "Thanks."
Cale just chuckles, the sound rich with amusement and zero remorse.
"I'm in a good mood, so I won't further piss you off. But seriously, what's the deal?"
Roran's expression shifts from annoyed to genuinely troubled, and that makes my attention sharpen immediately.
"They're changing the rules of the game," he says, voice flat with barely contained frustration. "Potentially partnering me up with a completely different team."
All three of us freeze.
The implications of that statement ripple through my mind like dominoes falling.
Different team means different support structures.
Different engineers, different pit crew, different dynamics entirely.
For a racer who's spent months building rapport with their current setup, it's the equivalent of being told to rebuild everything from scratch right before the biggest competition of the season.
"What do you mean?" I ask, keeping my voice pitched low and steady, even though my pulse has kicked up. "Why would they do that?"
We start walking toward the main garage, falling into step together as Roran explains.
"They announced this morning, while you were probably still asleep, that they're implementing a new tier system for the upcoming Formula One Competition.
" His hands gesture sharply as he talks, punctuating his frustration.
"Saying they want to make things more 'unpredictable and exciting for viewers. '"
He uses air quotes with the kind of venom that suggests he's directly quoting some corporate marketing bullshit.
"Which means merging two different teams together. Potentially four drivers per team instead of the standard two, which would make the competition schedule significantly longer. But from everyone's reaction this morning, they might pull back on that stupidity."
"Four drivers per team?" Cale's eyebrows rise. "That's a logistics nightmare. Not to mention the internal competition would be brutal."
"Exactly." Roran's jaw clenches. "You'd essentially be competing against your own teammates for resources and recognition. It's designed to create drama for the cameras, not to showcase actual racing talent."
I process this information while we walk, my mind already calculating implications.
Merged teams mean merged technical crews. New hierarchy structures. Potentially working with people who have completely different methodologies and priorities. The chaos would be astronomical, and the potential for conflict—both interpersonal and professional—would be off the charts.
"The only good news," Roran continues as we approach the garage entrance, "is that some secret player won our virtual race qualifier this morning."
Cale and I share a look.
His grey eyes meet my storm-green ones with perfect understanding, and I have to suppress a smirk that would be entirely too telling.
"What do you mean by 'secret'?" Cale asks, voice carefully neutral.
"Dante dropped out like the childish coward he is," Roran explains, disdain dripping from every word. "So someone logged in last minute and did a twelve-race winning streak. Now the other teams are trying to claim we hacked the system or some shit."
"Hacked?" I keep my tone skeptical. "That's a serious accusation."
"Right? But the officials did a security check, and everything came back legitimate. Login was from our official servers, credentials were properly encrypted, everything by the book. So they can't rule us out or disqualify the results."
We reach the garage entrance, and the sound of raised voices immediately filters through the open bay doors.
"The system's encrypted enough that they can't figure out who actually logged in and raced," Roran continues, oblivious to the fact that he's currently walking next to the mystery racer.
"But I'm sure Pemberton's going to be all over it.
If someone on our crew can race like that virtually, he'll want to know what they're doing in an actual car. "
My stomach does a complicated flip.
That's... not good.
The last thing I need is scrutiny on my racing abilities. Questions about where I learned to drive like that. Speculation about why I'm wasting talent in the pit crew instead of competing professionally.
Questions that would inevitably lead to discovering that Rory Lane, the pit tech, is Aurora Lane, and that the talented tech everyone's been praising is actually an Omega woman hiding in plain sight.
We step into the garage proper, and the scene is immediately chaotic.