Whispers and Wildfire (Haven Brothers #4)

1. Luke

CHAPTER 1

Luke

Anticipation thrummed through me, a hint of life returning to my body. I could feel the pulse in my neck, tension rippling through my shoulders and back. The scent of gasoline, rubber, and dust filled the air, and the rumble of engines vibrated through me, heightening the sense of expectation.

It was the middle of the night, but the not-exactly-legal races still drew a crowd. Drivers, car enthusiasts, and groupies milled around, and street cars shined their headlights, illuminating the old racetrack. It was about an hour outside my hometown—not in the jurisdiction of the Tilikum Sheriff’s Department. An important detail when your brother was a sheriff’s deputy, and your nosy family didn’t know you still raced.

“How you feeling tonight?” Kyle, a guy about my age who’d been part of my unofficial pit crew for years, handed me my helmet. He wasn’t asking because he cared. He was deciding how much money to put on me to win.

I took the helmet, my eyes never leaving the track. “Good. Focused.”

He clapped me on the back. “That’s what I like to hear. ”

For most spectators, the race was only part of the draw. They were there to gamble. Thousands of dollars—all cash—would change hands before the night was over.

I didn’t care about any of that—the crowd, the groupies, the money. I was there for one thing and one thing only.

The rush.

Outside the track, in the normal routine of daily life, things were fine. I had no reason to complain. My custom auto shop was thriving. I owned my house, had money in the bank. Had my pick of badass cars to drive. I came from a good family—who thought I’d outgrown this particular habit. I was single, but I liked to think of it as being available. Open to possibilities.

So why was I so empty?

Not there. Not with the excited energy of the growing crowd, the rivalries with other drivers, the intense competition.

When I was on the track, I felt alive.

There was probably something wrong with me. Racing was dangerous—especially the way we did it. Not many rules. Certainly no organizational oversight. Just a bunch of guys with minimally modified cars in our backwoods version of showroom stock racing.

I’d started racing as a teenager and somehow managed to get by with only minor injuries, easily explained away. Every few years, I’d quit—for a while. But something about it always drew me back in. My day-to-day existence would get too gray. Too monotone.

Too boring.

Dangerous or not—stupid or not—I was there, my body beginning to buzz with adrenaline.

Breathing deeply of the exhaust-tinged air, I savored the sensation. The way my heart started to beat harder, the wave of anticipation that swept through me.

A girl in a black crop top and shorts that were hardly more than bikini bottoms walked by, eyeing me as she passed. Her blond hair reached her lower back, and she somehow managed to walk in high heels on the uneven ground. She gave me a sultry smile. I tipped my chin to her.

The race on tap was the classics division, loosely defined as nothing newer than 1975. The cars were beasts—heavy and lacking a modern suspension. But that was what made it fun. Top speeds weren’t what you’d get out of smaller, newer vehicles. But there was something about making an old school muscle car obey your commands that set a guy’s blood on fire.

I loved it.

Drivers started getting in, so I went to my car—a 1966 Ford Mustang—got in and put on my helmet. That helmet and roll cage were the only real nods to my nocturnal activities in that car. No bright-colored racing jumpsuit with a sponsor’s logo on the back. Just an old T-shirt and faded jeans. Some drivers wore gloves, but I liked my hands on the wheel with no barriers.

Dimly, I was aware of the roar of the engines as the other drivers started up. The crowd moving off the track. It was an irregular shape, modified from its original oval sometime after it closed, giving it a series of S-curves just after the first turn. Part dirt, part pavement. On a hot summer night, the dust cloud would be intense.

I turned on the engine and revved it. The throaty roar and low vibration rippled through me. It took another moment to get everyone out of the way, and my patience was wearing thin. I needed this. Needed the speed. The danger. The thrill.

Finally, a guy with a reflective vest climbed the ladder set up on the side of the track. A hush settled over the crowd, and it seemed as if we all drew a collective breath. He raised a gun into the air and fired a blank.

The shot was barely audible over the roar of engines, but it was enough. My foot slammed down on the gas, and I was off.

Tires squealed, dust and smoke from burning rubber rose in the air. I shot ahead but didn’t take the lead. Not yet. Rookie drivers liked to do that—get out in front early on, thinking they could hold it. Took me a while to learn that lesson. But I wasn’t a rookie anymore.

The race was five laps. No idea why, it was probably arbitrary. I hugged the first turn, letting a few cars get in front of me. I wasn’t worried. I’d overtake them later. I was more concerned with not letting anyone clip me. A lot of those guys raced dirty.

More spectators were probably camped on the hill above the S-curves, but I ignored them. With intense focus, I drove, flying around the turns as I let the outside world fall away. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, fueling the high I was forever chasing. Bliss was always around the next turn, or the next, just slightly out of reach.

I drove harder, faster, until sweat dripped down my temples and only two drivers were in front of me. Four laps down. One to go.

My engine didn’t purr, it roared like a lion. I flew past the starting line for the last time, my attention never wavering from the track and the drivers about to go down. A smile crept over my lips, and euphoria swept through me as I pushed my car to her limits, tires squealing on the turn.

I overtook the number two car, sneaking by him on the inside, and grinned at my glimpse of his shocked expression. He’d really thought he had me.

Dirt flew at my windshield as the driver in front of me hit the S-curves. The asshole had slowed down just enough to let his tires catch in the track, spewing debris behind him. Prick. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t slowing down. His taillights led me through the cloud, and in seconds, I was right on top of him.

No way was he letting me pass him on the inside, and I only had two turns left. I wasn’t going to fight dirty—I had no intention of crashing—but I needed the win.

Not for the money. Not even for the glory. It was all about the rush. I wanted the speed. The battle for the win.

I got behind him and faked like I was going to try for the inside. He moved over, and as soon as we hit the final turn, I floored it. My hands held the wheel in an iron grip and my muscles clenched tight as I fought my car to make the corner—as I bent her to my will.

“Come on,” I growled.

The tires were going to slip. I was losing control. I could feel it.

Gritting my teeth, I held on. We came through the turn, and I shot ahead as soon as my tires straightened.

Seconds later, I crossed the finish line. Winner.

I came to a stop to the sound of cheering. It wasn’t really for me. No one out there gave a shit about Luke Haven. They gave a shit about the money they’d just won betting on my win.

Still, the high lingered, and I got out smiling. Took off my helmet and lifted it over my head, letting the euphoria sweep me away.

People ran over to congratulate me with high fives, handshakes, and a few back-slapping hugs. The honest ones thanked me for winning them money. I laughed, still feeling the effects of the race. It was better than the most potent shot of liquor.

Kyle shoved an envelope of cash at me—my share of the winnings. I didn’t bother counting it. Just leaned against my car and took a few deep breaths, inhaling the scent of fuel, dirt, and victory.

The woman in the crop top watched me from about ten feet away. Gave me the look. I’d seen it plenty of times. Knew exactly what it meant. She’d leave with me if I asked. Probably let me do all sorts of things to her, no strings attached .

I blew out a breath and looked away, the high already receding. The rush never lasted. I wanted to race again. To feel the tires almost leaving the pavement, their grip failing. I wanted imminent danger and the rush of knowing I’d cheated death. Again.

The cash, the girls, they were just… there. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter what the girl in the crop top looked like, I wasn’t interested. A younger me would have thought I was an idiot. How could I pass up such an obvious yes?

But I was already sinking, the darkness swirling around me, churning like a river at the height of the spring snow melt. Ignoring the girl, I got back in my car and tossed my helmet on the passenger seat.

The party around me was just getting started, but I wanted out of there. I’d already gotten what I came for.

I had to roll slowly to get through the people, but soon enough, I was making my way down the dirt road that led to the highway. A cloud of dust rose in my wake, and the exhilaration that brought me out to race again would soon be gone.

That was how it worked. Nothing I could do about it except wait it out and chase the next high.

Although it made me wonder if I was ever going to find what I was looking for.