CHAPTER SIX
Asher
Iditched my racing gear and wiped sweat from my forehead. As I reached for my shirt, Dawson stepped into the garage, running a hand through his short hair. “Great job out there. Safe to say you already know the track.”
“Yeah?” I glanced at him, shoving my arms through the sleeves. “Still feels like my timing on the corners sucks.”
“Hm.” He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “It’s a tough track. Takes some getting used to. Let’s see how you do tomorrow and compare.”
The races wouldn’t start until March, but there was no time to slack. Today I ran training laps at the Emerport International Race Complex—one of the best circuits around and the closest I could get to my favorite track in Jerez.
I buttoned my jeans, nodding. “I’m glad Russell hired you as my crew chief. Honestly, I’d be lost without you.”
Dawson shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’d manage. But I’m not ready to retire yet. Pretty sure this’ll be my last job, though.”
“Who knows?” I said. “You might change your mind later.”
I headed for the exit with Dawson close behind. We were meeting Ale for lunch before I drove back to Stetbourg.
At the marina, Dawson parked, and we chose a quiet European restaurant with a terrace facing the water. Ale joined us just as we were about to order drinks.
“White wine for me,” he said. “I’ll be having fish for sure.”
“I’ll take water.” I opened the leather-bound menu and scanned the options.
A few minutes later, the waiter served our drinks and took the rest of our order.
“To your new season with Forward Racing!” Alejandro raised his glass. “May it be the start of a successful career.”
“Thanks. We’ll see.” I downed half my water. Dad had set the bar impossibly high, and I didn’t want to jinx anything by sounding confident. If I wanted to win the opening races the way he had, I needed to stay sharp.
Dawson chuckled. “It’s okay to be optimistic, you know? You’ve got what it takes.”
“You definitely do, Ash.” Ale rubbed his palms together, then glanced toward the sliding doors.
Our server was heading over with the codfish we’d ordered.
He claimed it was cooked from an old Portuguese recipe, and while I doubted it would taste the same, Ale and Dawson’s expectations were sky-high.
Ale tried it first. “Prueba.” He nodded at my plate. “No está mal.”
I forked a piece and tasted it. He was right. Not bad at all. The salty flavor reminded me of the cod I’d had in Portugal during races there, served with thinly sliced potatoes just like this.
“I miss Portugal,” Dawson said, eyes on the horizon. “And Spain.”
Ale chewed, then set his fork down. “Me too. By the way, you guys want to go out tomorrow? Someone mentioned Starlit—apparently, it’s the most popular club in Stetbourg.”
Dawson took a sip of wine, hiding his smile behind the glass. “Nice of you to ask, but I’ll pass. Got a few movies waiting.”
Ale sighed. “You’ll never meet anyone if you keep staying in, old man.”
“Who said I’m looking? I’m good. But you two go have fun.”
Ale wanted me distracted from the articles about my father and me. One presentation with the team and already the press had churned out a stack of nonsense. It got under my skin more than it should and piled on pressure I didn’t need.
After we ate and ordered coffee, Ale stood, phone in hand. “Give me a minute, guys. I got an email from a gear brand about a possible sponsorship. Might be interesting, Ash. I want to see what they offer.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Sure.”
As he stepped off the terrace, I breathed in the briny air, buying time to gather my thoughts. It was my chance to ask Dawson what had been clawing at the edges of my mind.
“Did you see the latest articles about me?” I asked. Dawson always kept up with racing news. So did Ale, but I didn’t want to make him worry more than he already did.
He set his glass down. “Yeah. They’re comparing you to your father. It’s inevitable. Sergio was a legend. Admired and envied in equal measure.”
“Even though some say he made an amateur mistake that cost him his life?”
“Don’t overthink it. They just want clicks.” Dawson lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “Even the best fail. And that’s okay. No athlete’s invincible.”
Breathing felt like a chore. I traced invisible lines on the white tablecloth. “Is there a chance the post-race inspection missed something critical?”
Dawson shook his head. “Not at his level. Custom bikes go through rigorous checks.”
My chest tightened. Why couldn’t I let it go? Dawson hadn’t told me anything new. If Dad had highsided because of a mechanical issue, someone would’ve caught it. But still, something didn’t add up.
“Guess I just didn’t think he’d make that mistake.” I pushed my empty glass in slow circles. “He knew better.”
“Listen.” Dawson sighed, the weight of it heavy. “I know a thing or two about losing someone you love. You don’t get over it easily.”
His wife had died seven years ago, but I sensed there was more he wanted to say.
“But?” I pressed.
He toyed with his napkin. “Sometimes there is no answer. Accepting that is the only way to heal.”
***
Exhaustion sank into my bones by the time Ale dropped me at Russell’s.
Sore from a day of racing, I shuffled toward the house.
Just as I stepped inside, my phone buzzed.
Javi’s face lit up the screen—equal parts welcome and warning.
Madrid was seven hours ahead; too late for him to be awake, even for me.
“Hola,” I said, bending to untie my sneakers.
“?Qué pasa, tío?”
I smiled at the familiar greeting. “Just got home from Emerport.”
“How was the training?”
“It was okay.” I kicked off my shoes and leaned against the door, tempted to slide to the floor and stay there. “What’s up with you?”
“Well…” Javi hesitated. “Todo bien, tío. I just read some articles about your dad and wanted to check on you.”
Mierda. News traveled fast. I held still, listening.
The house was quiet—empty, like I’d hoped.
The last thing I needed was Mom or Russell overhearing.
“I might email my father’s mechanic,” I admitted.
“It makes no sense, Javi. Yeah, he highsided on a tough track, but that turn in Aragón wasn’t nearly as sharp as some in Emerport today.
He would’ve been careful. No tiene sentido, tío. It doesn’t make sense at all.”
“You lose nothing by talking to Miguel,” Javi said. “Just…don’t obsess. If he knew something, he would’ve told you years ago.”
But what if he did know something? What if he’d been avoiding me for a reason?
I dragged a hand through my hair. “You’re right. I just want closure.” Even if, by now, getting it seemed impossible.
“I’d want that too. Tell me if he answers, okay? I’m gonna call it a day.”
“Thanks for calling.”
Javi hung up. As I slipped my phone into my pocket, faint noises reached my ears. Fuck. Someone was home. I headed upstairs but saw neither my mother nor Russell. Their bedroom door was closed, the light off. Kaia’s, though, was ajar.
I moved closer. She was on the floor, stretching to a slow song, her face angled toward the window. Her body was beautiful, and those skin-tight yoga pants were worse than the tiny shorts she’d worn the other day.
My gaze lingered on her back, slid down her waist to the curve of her hips, and my pulse kicked hard.
Shit. I couldn’t just stand there like a creep. She was off-limits, and I was screwed, because it wasn’t only her body I liked.
I liked talking to her. I liked the way she laughed at my dumb jokes. I liked that she loved Spanish—because even this far from home, hearing her speak it made me feel like I wasn’t alone.
Balling my fists, I backed away as quietly as I could. In my room, I scrubbed my palms over my face, desperate to erase her image from my mind.
Heat spread through my veins as my heart hammered and my lungs begged for air.
“She’s still in high school, you idiot,” I muttered, eyes shut. “Russell’s her father.”
The age difference was nothing—barely two years. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was everything else. Her still being under his roof. Me living under it too. The line between us felt razor-thin, but crossing it would cut us both.
Kaia and I—it couldn’t happen.
And for my sanity, I couldn’t let myself imagine otherwise.