Chapter 8 #2
A crowd has gathered around the three prototype cars lined up in testing configuration.
Richard Pemberton stands in the center like a general surveying a battlefield, his face red with frustration and his body language screaming Alpha dominance in a way that makes my suppressant-dampened instincts want to make myself smaller.
I catch several of the pit crew members' eyes, and they give me subtle nods of acknowledgment.
Marco mouths "good luck" while Jenna just shakes her head like she's watching a trainwreck in slow motion.
"—three models of this shit and yet nothing is working!
" Richard's voice carries across the garage with the particular pitch of someone who's been yelling for a while.
He whirls on Dante, who's leaning against one of the cars with studied casualness that doesn't quite hide his tension.
"Go do another test run and try to hit faster race numbers than Luca's record. "
Luca Thorne.
The name makes me pause, remembering the virtual race this morning. ThorneCrown in second place, beaten by GhostShift88.
By me.
Dante huffs, pushing off from the car with obvious reluctance. "I'm going to spin out of control with that shit. The handling's completely off."
"We need to figure out what's wrong with this new model," Richard snaps back, "which may mean you have to take risks with it. We're not waiting until race day to discover problems."
"What's the deal?" Roran speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension with the authority of someone who actually knows what he's talking about.
Several of the techs jump in, explaining the technical issues in rapid-fire succession.
"Suspension's reading is inconsistent across all three models—"
"Differential's not distributing torque properly—"
"Brake bias is fucked, keeps pulling left under heavy braking—"
"Aerodynamics are causing understeer in high-speed corners—"
I cross my arms, letting them finish their diagnostic litany while my mind processes the symptoms. The pattern is obvious if you know what to look for, and I've spent enough time under these cars to recognize the root cause.
I yawn deliberately—partly because I actually am tired after this morning's activities, partly to maintain the casual bored persona—and pitch my voice into that carefully practiced lower register.
"Root of the problem's an easy fix."
The garage goes quiet.
Everyone turns to stare at me, and I can feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing. Richard's eyes narrow with suspicion. Dante's expression morphs into something ugly and defensive.
"If it's so fucking easy to point out," Dante sneers, pushing off from the car to approach me with aggressive posturing, "why don't you jump into one of those fuckers and try it?"
The challenge hangs in the air, sharp with implied inadequacy.
My Omega instincts—even dampened by suppressants—recognize the Alpha aggression for what it is. A dominance play. A test to see if I'll back down, submit, accept my "place" in the hierarchy.
I smirk instead.
"If I did, you'd have these two beating your ass after I clocked yours." I gesture lazily at Cale and Roran, who both look ready to commit violence on my behalf. "But I'd gladly jump in and prove I have better balls than your weak ass."
Dante's face flushes red, and I see the exact moment he registers the implied insult.
"Although," I continue, voice dropping into something sharper, "I guess having a coward streak makes sense since you dropped out of the race this morning."
The garage erupts in barely suppressed reactions. Someone whistles. Marco makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. Even some of Dante's usual supporters look away, unable to defend the fact that their star driver rage-quit a virtual qualifier.
Dante's in my face before I can blink.
One second he's across the garage, the next he's invading my personal space with that overwhelming Alpha presence that makes the air feel thick and dangerous. His scent—sharp citrus mixed with something bitter and chemical—hits me like a physical blow.
It's aggressive. Dominant. The kind of scent designed to make Omegas back down and submit.
I catch myself before I take that instinctive step backward.
Hold my ground even though every biological imperative I have is screaming at me to lower my eyes, to show throat, to make myself smaller and less threatening to the angry Alpha currently close enough that I can see the individual pores on his face.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The binding around my chest suddenly feels too tight, restricting my breathing. Sweat beads at my hairline as my suppressants work overtime to keep my scent from betraying my designation under stress.
Hold. The. Fucking. Line.
Dante's eyes bore into mine, searching for weakness, for submission, for any sign that I'll back down from the challenge I just issued.
But before I can formulate a response, a hand appears between us.
Cale's hand, specifically, pushing Richard's face away from mine with casual strength that carries its own implicit threat.
"Man," Cale drawls, voice deceptively lazy, "learn some personal space. If you want to be openly gay to the world, wait your fucking turn."
The garage erupts.
Whistles. Laughter. Someone coughs "oh shit" loud enough to be heard over the general chaos. The tension that was coiled tight and dangerous suddenly transforms into something lighter, more manageable.
Dante stumbles back a step, hand flying to his face where Cale pushed him, looking between us with an expression caught somewhere between outrage and confusion.
"Are you openly saying you're gay?" Dante's voice has gone higher, almost squeaky with disbelief.
Cale's smirk is pure wickedness.
"I'm only questionable when it comes to the Lanes, but I haven't decided which brother is the better option."
"Fuck off," Roran and I say in perfect unison, our voices overlapping in identical cadence.
The synchronized response just makes Cale's grin wider.
He bows with exaggerated formality, arms spreading wide.
"See? Such a difficult choice. They even reject me in stereo."
A few of his racing buddies—other drivers who've wandered in to watch the drama—start teasing him mercilessly.
"Hart's finally come out of the closet—"
"About damn time—"
"Does this mean you're off the market—"
"He needs to focus that energy on the track," someone else calls out, "not on fighting with the Lane brothers."
Cale shrugs, still looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Why don't we test all three models and see what the actual issue is?"
Richard pinches the bridge of his nose like he's developing a migraine. "Because if we fuck up all three prototypes, we're completely screwed for the competition."
"Why doesn't Cale test out speed?" I suggest keeping my tone casual and professional. "That's his specialty. Dante and I can test the mechanics since he's one of your 'star' drivers." The air quotes around 'star' carry just enough sarcasm to sting. "And I'm going to diagnose the problem."
"No." Roran steps in immediately, his protective instincts flaring with Alpha intensity that I can smell even through his scent blockers. "I can drive. Not you."
I roll my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain.
"I'm not going to find the problem without being in the car. Nice try."
"Then why don't we both be in cars?" he counters.
"Because then you're going to get hurt if something does fuck up." My voice is flat, stating facts rather than arguing.
"Then you're getting hurt!" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through.
I laugh—short and sharp and utterly without humor.
"What? You want to rock-paper-scissors this despite this being literally my job?"
"Well fuck yeah, because protecting my family is far more important than any job!"
The raw honesty in his voice makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
Because he means it.
Every word.
Roran would throw himself in front of danger for me without hesitation, would sacrifice his own safety and career and everything he's worked for just to keep me out of harm's way.
Which is exactly why I can't let him.
"You're being a protective douche all of a sudden," I mutter, but there's no real heat in it.
"Sibling rivalry must be nice," someone comments from the crowd.
"Right?" another tech agrees. "Wish my brother gave enough of a shit to argue about my safety."
"Honestly, I keep forgetting they're siblings," a third voice adds. "They look so damn alike I just assumed they were the same person for the first week."
"I wonder why the press only focuses on Roran, though," someone else muses.
"It's because Rory's the tech, obviously. No one pays attention to us. We're invisible until something goes wrong."
The words sting more than they should, carrying too much truth about the hierarchy in racing culture. Drivers get the glory. Techs get the blame.
"Enough!" Richard's voice cracks like a whip. "Some team leader is coming over in ten minutes to observe our testing protocols. Let's get this shit resolved before they try to steal our techniques."
I frown, curious about which team would bother sending leadership to watch us test, but the urgency in Richard's voice suggests we don't have time for questions.
"I guess I'll need this," I say, grabbing one of the helmets from the nearby rack.
The weight is familiar in my hands—not as sophisticated as the racing helmets the drivers use, but adequate for testing purposes. The interior smells like sweat and rubber and that particular chemical scent of fire-retardant materials.
"Roran," I call over my shoulder, already moving toward the nearest prototype. "I've got this."
"Cale," Roran growls, desperation creeping into his voice. "Stop him."
Cale casually jogs to where I'm sliding into the car's cockpit, and I know I have exactly three seconds to prevent him from physically removing me from the vehicle.
So I look up at him through my lashes and switch to Italian—low and intimate and absolutely devastating.
"Se mi fermi, non cavalcherò mai più il tuo cazzo come se lo intendessi davvero."
If you stop me, I'll never ride your cock like I mean it again.
The threat is delivered in the most casual tone imaginable, like I'm discussing the weather rather than making a sexual promise that has Cale's eyes going dark and his pupils dilating with immediate Alpha response.
He pauses mid-reach.
Stares into my eyes, reading the absolute sincerity there.
Then slowly, deliberately, he backs up with his hands raised in surrender.
"CALE!" Roran's voice cracks with betrayal.
Cale shrugs, expression caught somewhere between apologetic and shameless.
"I've been threatened in your mother language. My hands are tied."
"Cazzo!" Roran curses, switching to Italian himself as his frustration peaks. "Sei impossibile! Entrambi siete impossibili!"
I'm already smirking, settling deeper into the car's cockpit and adjusting the seat positioning to accommodate my smaller frame. The steering wheel sits perfectly in my grip, the pedals are positioned where I need them, and the dashboard displays are coming to life with diagnostic readouts.
This is it.
This is what I've been training for without realizing it. All those hours under cars, all those diagnostic procedures, all that intimate knowledge of how these machines work from the inside out.
Now I get to actually drive one.
I move the car to the testing line where Dante's already waiting in another prototype, his engine idling with a low rumble that vibrates through the concrete floor.
The pit crew scrambles into position, checking connections and running final safety protocols. I reach for the communications headset, adjusting it over my helmet and keying the mic.
"Everything good with tech?" I ask, pitching my voice to carry through the comm system.
"Affirmative," Marco's voice crackles back. "All systems reading nominal. We've got full telemetry."
"Diagnostic feed is live," Jenna adds. "We'll see everything you're experiencing in real-time."
"Good."
Dante's voice cuts through the channel, dripping with condescension.
"Try not to crash into anything, tech boy. These prototypes cost more than your annual salary."
I don't bother responding verbally.
Instead, I let my foot press the accelerator.
The engine roars to life—a glorious, violent symphony of combustion and mechanical precision that sends vibrations through the entire chassis and straight into my bones. The sound is visceral in a way that virtual racing could never capture, pure and raw and absolutely intoxicating.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
My eyes focus on the track ahead, already calculating racing lines and braking points and the thousand micro-decisions that separate decent drivers from exceptional ones.
Dante makes another comment through the speaker—something about amateurs and knowing my place—but I just roll my eyes, allowing the engine to roar louder in response.
Then I shift to drive and press the gas pedal.