Jax (Redline Kings MC #5)

Chapter 1

JAX

T orque Ridge was only one of the raceways owned by Kane, the president of my MC, the Redline Kings.

It was alive the way it always was before a race.

Loud as sin, hot under the floodlights, engines tuned so tight you could feel the vibration in your teeth.

The scent of burned rubber and hot metal was thick in the air.

Pit crews moved like ants, hauling gas cans and toolboxes and cussing at each other over the noise—the soundtrack of our lives.

Damn, it was hot. August in Florida was like walking on the fucking sun in the rain.

I strolled past my VP’s car, tablet balanced in my hand, glasses catching the light.

With a grin I couldn’t resist tugging at my mouth, I gave him a lazy two-finger salute, then flipped my ball cap around backward.

“Try not to kill anyone out there, Edge. I don’t feel like spending my night wiping you off the asphalt. ”

His eyes narrowed, green flashing under the glare, but I caught the corner of his mouth twitching before he looked away.

Kane stepped into my path like a brick wall with a red beard, shoving a sheet of paper into my chest. “Background check. New hire.”

I caught it against my tablet with a grunt, thumb already waking the screen as I scanned the name. My fingers tapped on instinct, calling up the basics while I walked. This was routine. I’d done it a hundred times.

Three steps later, my brain stopped processing the noise around me.

The picture loaded.

Dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail, a pair of big eyes that were soft and sharp at the same time. Light brown, warm, like they’d see right through you and not apologize for it. Full mouth that wasn’t smiling but looked like it might if you gave her half a reason.

Something inside me snapped tight, like a switch being thrown.

My body recognized her before my brain had time to name the feeling.

Heat shot straight south, hard and fast. I nearly stumbled, covering it with a shift of my grip on the tablet, jaw clenching while my cock pressed hard against my jeans.

What the fuck.

It had been years since I reacted to a woman. Lust wasn’t new, but this was instant, overwhelming, and bone deep. Actually, I’d never had a reaction quite like this before. It was annoying and unwelcome. Something I didn’t have fucking time for.

I stopped mid-step, head jerking back up, my eyes cutting to Kane. Holding up the screen, I kept my voice flat because anything else would’ve given me away. “This is your new hire?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. Of course not.

“Fuck.” It came out twisted and low, my mouth curling like the word tasted worse than it was. I snapped the tablet shut and stalked off without saying anything else, heat still burning under my skin, pissed at myself for letting a photo hit me that hard.

The noise of Torque Ridge fell away as I cut back across the pits.

Engines revved and metal clanged. Edge barked something smart-assed to Drift, and Kane stood like the storm he always was, arms crossed, eyes tracking every moving piece like a chessboard only he understood.

I barely noticed any of it. My brain was still on the picture.

Her picture.

By the time I reached my bike, my tablet was tucked under my arm, and my jaw was tight enough to crack teeth.

My cock was still half hard, and that pissed me off more than anything.

I fired the Harley up and took the long way back, letting the night air slap at me.

Hoping it would knock some fucking sense into me.

Crossbend blurred past, dark stores, neon bleeding against black sky as I drove past The Burnout—a bar owned by the MC. Laughter and bass beats spilled out onto the cracked sidewalks. Not in the mood for anything except solitude, I didn’t stop.

The compound waited a few blocks off the main drag, the clubhouse a slab of brick and steel surrounded by the familiar sprawl of bikes under security lights. The compound always smelled faintly of smoke, oil, and whatever someone was cooking to keep the brothers’ stomachs full.

Inside, the noise shifted from the chaos of race night to the deeper hum of home. A few voices drifted from the common room—laughter, cards slapping wood, and a low curse at a bad hand. I didn’t pause. Didn’t give the guys a chance to look too close at my face.

My office was down the hall from the side entrance. I liked it there—out of the way. It was far enough up and tucked away that most people didn’t bother me, but close enough to hear if trouble came through the door.

The industrial fan clicked as it turned, stirring warm air over rows of monitors that bathed the walls in a blue-white light. Wires coiled like snakes, routers blinked, and the hum of cooling fans filled the silence.

I tossed the paper Kane had given me on the desk, dropped onto the chair, and tapped a button to wake up my system.

My fingers moved without thought—pure muscle memory, instinct, and addiction.

I’d built this setup from the ground up.

Three towers lashed together into one brain, a wall of screens that could bend the world with the right command, with even more monitors perched on my desk.

Her file came up in seconds. Lark Whittaker. Twenty-two. Assistant Event Coordinator at Brake Point Run. Some education after high school that appeared fine on the surface, a couple of references that checked out on first glance, and a credit score sitting right in the middle. Average.

Exactly average.

I leaned back, adjusting my glasses on my nose as I stared at the screen.

Most people had clutter in their lives—late-night Amazon binges, old email addresses that never died, three or four forgotten social accounts that still carried embarrassing selfies from high school.

People’s lives were messy as shit. Digital footprints were even worse.

Lark had none of that.

No clutter. No noise. Clean lines and neat corners. Credit was boringly healthy. One card, no loans. Rent paid on time every month. Utilities in her name. Zero flags. It read like the fucking instruction manual for “how to look normal.”

And the absence of chaos? That was the red flag.

I muttered under my breath and rubbed the back of my neck. My cock had finally cooled off, but my brain wasn’t letting this go. Her information felt…manufactured.

My fingers tapped faster, chasing threads. No social media of any kind. Nothing. What twenty-two-year-old woman didn’t have at least one account? Even Kane had one, though he swore he never touched it.

That itch under my skin wouldn’t stop. The one that made me toss and turn when code didn’t line up, when a lock didn’t crack fast enough, when the pieces of a puzzle looked right but didn’t fit. My body wanted her, sure. But my gut—the part that never lied—told me she carried secrets.

Secrets got people killed.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, groaning low, and shoved the chair back from the desk. The office smelled faintly of heated metal, old coffee grounds, and leather. I’d been holed up in here too many nights lately.

Sleep. That was the smart play.

I cut the lights, headed down the hall, and shoved into my room.

The space was simple—a king bed with dark sheets, a couch against the wall, and a flat-screen TV above the dresser.

The closet was half open, with boots lined up, and an extra cut hanging inside.

The bathroom door was cracked, the smell of my soap and cologne wafting out.

I stripped down to my boxers and sprawled across the bed, my arm over my eyes.

Tried to let the quiet take me, but it didn’t.

My body twitched with leftover adrenaline.

Even worse, every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face.

Not smiling, not posing—just looking at the camera.

Brown hair pulled back, pretty brown eyes steady.

I rolled onto my stomach and grunted in frustration. It was too fucking hot in the room.

I turned. Tossed. Flipped the pillow. Swore.

An hour later, I gave up, cursing as I yanked on sweats and padded barefoot back down the hall.

My office was waiting, screens cold until my fingers woke them. The glow painted my skin pale, glasses flashing with reflection as I pulled her file up again.

There had to be something.

Line by line, I went through it all. Address history: neat. Job history: passable. Education: a little light but explained by a quick course online. I pulled the metadata on her employment record.

And froze.

There .

One tag buried deep, something most systems would never show unless you peeled the code apart. I knew it because I’d seen it before. A badly scrubbed signature in the metadata—one that screamed federal hands.

WITSEC. Or at least, the shadow of it.

My stomach twisted. Not with fear, but with rage.

Whoever had built her legend had half-assed the work.

They had pushed a twenty-two-year-old into a new name and new city, then sent her out into the world with the digital equivalent of a bright fucking orange vest. The thought of anyone touching what belonged to the Redline Kings had me itching to touch back harder.

What. The. Fuck.

I leaned back hard in my chair, the leather of the seat creaking as I scrubbed both hands over my face. My heart beat steady, but my head roared.

She was supposed to be hidden. Protected. And instead, she was sitting at one of Kane’s tracks, right under our roof.

Fuck .

I stared at the screen until the lines blurred, the glow etching her picture behind my eyelids when I blinked.

Possessiveness hit me like a sucker punch. Not caution, not distance. Possessiveness. The kind of instinct that said she was mine already even though I hadn’t heard her voice or seen her move.

And that pissed me off more than anything.

Because I didn’t have time for this shit.

The night crawled. To distract myself, I worked on other files, checked traffic cams, and updated secure comms for a few of our businesses. My body hummed with caffeine and frustration, the office a cocoon of light against the dark windows.

It was early afternoon by the time I noticed the sun seeping through the blinds. I shoved out of the chair and dragged myself to the shower. The water hit hot and fast, scalding my skin, but it didn’t burn the questions out of my head.

When I surfaced from the steam, I finally checked my phone. It buzzed with updates from the brothers—mostly security checks and race prep. Plus all the other techy bullshit people needed me to get done.

I shoved my cell into my jeans, pulled a clean shirt over my damp skin, and grabbed my cut and my keys.

Brake Point Run loomed in my mind as I swung onto my bike, the thrum of the engine under me steady and grounding. Kane would be there by now, overseeing the setup, the crowd, and the chaos.

I had to fill him in. And I needed fucking answers.