Ronan
I never kissed her before a race. I always kissed her after.
Race One: Little Havana Pulse
The engine roars beneath me, a metal beast hungry for asphalt. I grip the wheel tighter, feeling each vibration, a promise of what tonight will cost. Blood. Every Syndicate brought their champion to the starting line, but none of them understands what waits for me at the finish.
Iris.
They look at me and see another driver. They don’t see what I’d tear apart to get back to her. Their mistake is underestimating me.
Neon bleeds across rain-slick asphalt, painting the street in liquid color. Even inside the Camaro, the humidity presses like a fist against my spine. I sit idling, every cylinder ticking.
She hates waiting.
So do I.
Across the line, Cruz’s GT-R rumbles. The blue LEDs pulsing like war horns under the frame.
The Calle Ocho Syndicate’s golden boy.
He’s leaning out his window, gold chains catching the light, that cocky grin plastered across his face like he’s already won, trying to amp up the crowd. He’s been running these streets for three years, racked up more wins than losses, and he’s got the ego to prove it. He thinks he’s untouchable.
He may be fast and reckless, but he’s wrong, and tonight will be his last race.
The crowd surges, hungry for adrenaline.
They stand shoulder to shoulder, phones raised like torches, waiting to catch a blurred video of the high-speed and inevitable crash.
It’s just entertainment for the underground circuit at this point.
I see onlookers pulling out their wallets, cash flickering between their fingers.
The air tastes of gasoline, sweat, and anticipation. Iris prowls the edge of the crowd, standing to the side of the starting line, with her clipboard crushed between white-knuckled fingers, her jaw locked so tight I can practically hear her teeth grinding from here.
Those eyes—fuck—cutting through the night like blue flame through metal.
She thinks that the wall she’s built will keep the hurt out if the race doesn’t end in our favor. Last year, we played at love while death rode shotgun.
This year? Our souls are welded together, and if I don’t cross that finish line alive, I’ll drag her heart into the grave with me.
Tonight, she’s poured herself into a black dress that hugs every dangerous curve, balanced on heels sharp enough to kill a man. Her blonde hair is swept up tight, but those signature pink streaks have escaped, falling in rebellious curls against her throat like a promise.
Promises involving my hands on that exact spot later tonight.
My cock twitches in my jeans.
Christ.
Getting horny before hurtling down Miami’s deadliest streets at one hundred forty miles per hour isn’t exactly a survival strategy.
She steps into the center of the asphalt, pulling every gaze like gravity, mine included. I strain for the sound of her voice, knowing it might be the last time I hear it.
“Little Havana Pulse,” she announces through the headset wired to our helmets.
“Calle Ocho is your starting point. Eighteenth requires a hard left. Watch for the blind alley beyond the mural. Drift wide, and you’re done.
The bridge stands naked—no rails. After Domino Park, the road narrows.
You get one shot. It’s a brutal circuit—tight corners, pedestrians who don’t give a fuck about looking both ways.
The kind of race that separates the skilled from the stupid.
Standard rules. No weapons. You crash, you’re out. You die, you’re out.”
With a nod, she yields to the starter and retreats to the sidelines.
She won’t spare me a glance.
A flare ignites. The world flinches.
I drop the clutch.
The Camaro launches forward, like a bullet set loose from hell.
Tires claw at the pavement, shrieking as the rubber burns.
Each gear shift—first, second, third—shatters Miami into fragments around us.
Police lights bleeding red across windows, the bass vibrations rattling my teeth, the thunder of competing engines as they slam against the night.
The surge of adrenaline pumps through my veins.
Cruz clings to my tail through the first straight, arrogant enough to draft my slipstream. I feel his turbo burble in my eardrums.
I smirk.
Good.
Little Havana twists ahead with crammed alleys, blind corners, and absolutely no mercy. Iris carved this labyrinth herself. I know her mind—a spider’s web where men get trapped.
The streets are alive tonight, even at this hour.
People spill out of restaurants and clubs, their laughter and music mixing with the scream of engines.
I blow through an intersection, barely registering the flash of a traffic light, the blare of a horn from some civilian who doesn’t know better than to be out here when the races are running.
The Camaro handles like a dream, every input from the wheel translating directly to the road, no lag, no hesitation.
This is what I live for—this perfect synthesis of man and machine, this moment when nothing else exists except speed and skill and the razor’s edge between control and chaos.
I plunge into the turn, braking late, coaxing the rear out in a controlled drift that makes his eyes widen behind tinted glass. He panics, slams the wheel. Turbo spools with a desperate whine.
Desperation makes you sloppy.
Perfect.
The bridge rises before me—a knife-edge suspended over midnight black water. Nothing to catch you. Only the fall.
I hammer the pedal. My Camaro roars awake, the supercharger screaming as every piece of American muscle transforms into pure velocity.
Cruz kisses the curb. Sparks scatter like fireflies.
I refuse to look back.
The home stretch lies before me. A straight-shot gauntlet lit by neon deathlines. I crush the throttle to the floor.
Behind me, Cruz’s engine wails in protest. Metal groans. Something must fail because then a sickening snap fills the air.
His GT-R spins wildly.
Time slows as I glance at the rearview mirror.
He slams into the concrete divider, flips once, twice—shards of glass fly through the air in slow-motion agony. Flames erupt, painting the night in violent orange.
A decent person would stop. Check if he’s alive, if he needs help.
I’m not a decent person.
The finish line slaps my windshield.
I cross alone.
For one breath, the world pauses.
My hands are shaking—they always shake after a race, the adrenaline still coursing through me with nowhere to go.
I grip the steering wheel harder, trying to steady myself, trying to come down from the high.
My throat tightens as I force my face to stone and the Camaro rolls to a stop.
With a flick of my wrist, I kill the engine. The sudden silence is deafening.
Cupid’s Run claims its first victim.
Another man’s death settles into my bones.
Another stark reminder of the reality I live in.
Then the world detonates into cheers, screams, and applause rising like an explosion. Hands beating against my Camaro like war drums signaling victory.
Private paid fire and emergency crews surge past me toward the wreck. No one bats an eye. None of us offers help. He paid in blood.
I swing the door open and emerge into the chaos. One of my crew is pounding his fist against the hood in celebration.
“Fuck up my paint job, and I’ll make you eat that hand, Kade.”
Miami heat crawls across my skin, sweat carving rivers down my back. The victory high begins to hit my bloodstream—electric and merciless. I can feel the adrenaline shakes start to take over.
The crowd presses in—voices slam into me, beers thrust under my nose. I let them drown in their own ecstasy.
I have tunnel vision.
Through the chaos, I find her.
Iris stands frozen, watching black smoke plume skyward. Every muscle in her frame is wire-tight, that clipboard crushed in her grip like salvation itself.
Around us, bets settle, and engines fall silent.
The night exhales as the air around us calms.
The last car screams away in a cloud of burnt rubber, and the pit crews scatter, leaving only her and me, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating between us like a charged current.
“You were reckless,” she says, voice low but simmering.
I curve a grin. “You ate it up.”
“You chopped corners where seconds didn’t exist,” she murmurs. “You like reminding them who you are.” She shakes her head, fighting a smile. “Cocky asshole.”
“I’ve never heard you complain about my cock before.” I lean in, heat prickling between us. “Besides, you like watching.”
She shoves at me as her jaw muscle ticks again.
“Ronan, I swear, be more careful next time.”
I tilt my head. “Afraid of losing me, Ms. Cross?”
She meets my stare, a playful challenge replacing the tension. “Just protecting my investment, Mr. Vale.”
“Ohhh, I’m just an investment now, huh?”
I let my thumb ghost across her wrist, her skin soft and dewy from the humid air.
Her breath stutters.
We stand, tension wound tight, Miami humming around us, distant sirens mourning, six more races waiting for blood.
“You’re shaking,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that wasn’t there before. Something softer.
“Always do after a race.”
“I know.” She reaches out, her fingers brushing against my wrist, and the contact sends a jolt through me like touching a live wire. “You need to come down.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact, an acknowledgment of something we both understand but never talk about.
The adrenaline, the hunger, the need that builds after every race and demands to be satisfied.
I’ve tried other ways—running until my lungs burn, lifting weights until my muscles scream, drinking until I can’t feel anything.
None of it works. There’s only one thing that works, and she’s standing right in front of me.
“Your place?” I ask, my voice rough.
She shakes her head. “Garage. Otto’s.”
Otto’s garage. Her father’s place, the shop where she works, where she’s been rebuilding engines and fixing cars since she was old enough to hold a wrench. It’s neutral territory, or as neutral as anything can be between us.
Not her apartment, where things feel too intimate, too much like a relationship. Not my place, a run-down townhouse that smells like cigarettes and regret. The garage is where we go when we need to pretend this is just physical, just two people burning off excess energy, nothing more.
“Lead the way,” I say.
She nods, turns, and walks toward her car—a metallic pink ‘71 Chevelle SS with a modified engine. I watch her go, my eyes tracing the line of her spine, the sway of her hips, and the hunger in me intensifies. This is the part I hate, the waiting, the anticipation that stretches out like a wire pulled taut. But it’s also part of the ritual, this drive through Miami’s streets, following her taillights through the darkness, knowing what’s waiting at the end.
I climb back into the Camaro, fire up the engine, and pull out behind her.
For twelve months, we’ve been in fucking denial, but seven nights of Cupid’s Run will burn away every pretense we’ve built.