Carter
Chapter four
The ocean smelled like salt and gasoline, a combination that had a habit of staining things forever.
SHIFT wasn’t much to look at from the street—just a sideways neon sign flickering like a dying hope and a row of sun-bleached picnic tables pushed into the sand.
The real attraction was the parking lot.
Chrome and custom paint jobs caught the last smear of sunset like predators stretching before dusk.
Engines purred low and expensive, the kind of money that didn’t need to advertise itself because the bodywork already screamed it.
Luka said he liked this place because the burgers were good. I liked it because I bet no one cared that my sedan had a rattle in the dashboard that sang every time I hit a pothole. SHIFT was democratic; respect was earned by popping your hood, not flashing a wallet.
The hood of Luka’s car was propped open, tools scattered across the asphalt like a metal breadcrumb trail.
I had a socket wrench in one hand and the scent of raw fuel clinging to my skin as I tightened the new regulator onto the fuel rail.
I had grease smudged across my cheekbone and music blaring from two different cars competing for bragging rights when the atmosphere shifted.
The engine note was my second warning. Low. Controlled. Confident in the way that only comes from handcrafted precision and an entitlement to match.
Dominic Valerio arrived like the world had been built solely for him to grace with his presence.
His car slid into a spot at an angle that implied ownership.
People shifted. The music softened without being asked.
Sienna climbed out first—glossy hair and a smile practiced in mirrors designed for that exact purpose.
Dominic emerged after, moving with the relaxed arrogance of a someone who believed gravity worked for him, not the other way around.
He saw me. His eyes paused. Not with surprise, but with something sharper—like he remembered the exact shape of my middle finger from earlier and was already calculating how to break it.
He muttered something to Sienna that made her laugh and loop her arm through his. A performance. For him. For me. For the cameras on people’s phones.
“Oh,” Luka said, returning with trays. “That’s… not great.”
“Define great,” I murmured, wiping a stray drop of gasoline off the manifold with a rag, keeping my eyes on the engine. It made a better audience.
“Anything that doesn’t end in someone throwing a punch,” he said.
“He’d chip a knuckle,” I snorted.
Dominic and Sienna approached with the slow confidence of royalty inspecting the peasants. His gaze lingered on my car first, taking in every dent with leisurely disdain.
“This the charity case you ferried my brother around in?” Dominic asked, his voice smooth but soaked in contempt.
I wiped my hands on a rag. “Careful. Wouldn’t want you to get humility on your shoes.”
His stare locked on me. “You think you’re clever. Diagnosing engines like you have a right to breathe the same air as people who actually win races.”
“I do love a man who introduces himself with insecurity,” I said.
His smile was slow and poisonous. “You’re not in my league.”
“No,” I said, letting my eyes travel pointedly over Sienna clinging to him like a designer accessory. “I have standards.”
A circle of onlookers inhaled like I’d taken a shot at a king. Dominic stepped closer, close enough that the air felt thin.
“You think this rebellion act makes you interesting,” he murmured, his voice dropping low. “But you’re just noise. Static.”
“And you’re just horsepower,” I countered. “But engines stall, Dominic. All it takes is the right pressure in the wrong turn.”
Something behind his eyes flickered—a hairline fracture in his composure. Before he could fire back, a marshal jogged up. “Dom. Your slot’s in fifteen.”
Dominic didn’t look away immediately. That would have been too human. He just blinked, slow and dismissive. “Try to keep up,” he told Luka, though the smirk was aimed at me.
As they walked away, a low-grade friction sparked in my chest—the kind of annoying, persistent hum you get from a bearing that’s just starting to go bad.
I didn’t want him. I didn't even like the way he breathed. But watching Sienna’s fingers dig into the expensive fabric of his jacket made my focus slip just enough to be irritating.
It was an unwelcome distraction, like a pebble caught in a tire tread—small, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore once you noticed it.
“What does that mean?” I asked, distancing myself from that weird, internal interference. “A slot.”
Luka’s grin spread. “It means you’ve never seen the fun side of this place. Better if I show you.”
Ten minutes later, we were at the beach. It wasn't a shoreline; it was a battleground. Engines snarled in a half-moon around a starting line carved into damp sand. Rigs stripped to the bone, tires thick enough to swallow ruts, lights mounted like impatient suns.
Dominic was already there, ripping across the sand as he finished a solo warm-up. He moved with precision, but I saw the hesitation in his turn radius—a slight compensation that told me he was fighting the terrain instead of dancing with it.
“You could race him,” Luka said, leaning against the side of a parked rig with a look that was far too innocent to be trusted.
My pulse rose—a stupid reaction to a stupid idea.
But watching Dominic command the night made something inside me burn.
He was currently idling near the start line, leaning out of his rig to let some female take a photo.
He looked bored by the adoration, wearing that heavy-is-the-crown expression that made me want to scream.
I watched Dominic flick a dismissive, playful hand at another fan, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like he was the lead actor in a movie he’d already seen a thousand times.
“He thinks he’s the only one who knows how to read the tide,” I muttered, my fingers itching for a steering wheel just to break the static in my veins.
“He thinks he’s the only one worth watching,” Luka countered.
He didn't sound angry; he sounded like a guy who had spent years watching his brother win and was finally bored of the script. He shot me a sharp, conspiratorial grin. “But I’ve seen you under a hood. You don’t just fix things; you understand why they break.
Dom’s spent so much time at the front of the pack he’s forgotten what it’s like to actually fight for a win. ”
I looked at Dominic again. He was now revving his engine—a loud, arrogant sound that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. It was a taunt disguised as a warm-up.
“He needs a wake-up call,” I said, the words feeling like a physical weight in my throat.
“He needs to realize that the sand doesn't care about his last name,” Luka corrected, his eyes bright with the kind of mischief only a younger brother can weaponize. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and flicked them at a marshal with a flourish. “Slot six! She’s in!”
The marshal grunted and tossed a battered helmet toward us. Luka caught it and held it out to me like he was handing me a loaded weapon.
“Wipe that look off his face,” Luka murmured, his voice humming with anticipation. “I love the guy, but he’s spent too long believing he’s the only lion on the beach. Do me a favor and give him a reason to actually check his mirrors for once.”
“I don’t just want to rattle him,” I said, tightening the strap of the helmet until it felt like a part of my own skull. “I want him to remember he’s mortal.”
Luka’s laugh was bright and reckless, lost in the roar of the engines as I climbed into the rig.
It was rough, stripped down, and smelled of old oil—it felt like home.
Two lanes over, Dominic was still adjusting his gloves, completely unaware that his own brother had just lit the fuse on his perfect night.
The marshal raised the flag. I gripped the wheel with a crushing force, breathing through nerves that tasted like salt and pure, unadulterated defiance.
Go.
Sand exploded. I didn’t chase him; I stalked.
Every weight shift mattered. The rig wanted to buck, so I gave it a firm hand and a promise of speed.
Dominic took the lead with textbook elegance, but he braked too soon at the first pinch.
I dropped low, cutting along a ribbon of compact sand where the tide had receded.
Water splashed the frame, icy and sharp. I coaxed the machine through with quiet violence.
Halfway through the dunes, Dominic accelerated aggressively, but the sand dragged at his tires. He hit a dip wrong and the rear end kicked. A flaw. Small, but real.
I claimed the momentum. The moon lit the grains of sand like stars beneath me. For a moment, it felt like flying.
Dominic finally looked.
Our headlights locked for a split second across the dunes, and even behind the glare of his visor, I felt the moment the realization hit him. I saw his chassis jerk—a physical manifestation of shock—before fury ignited his precision. He didn't just want to win now; he wanted to bury me in the sand.
He gunned it, the engine screaming a vicious, high-octane demand for more. Now he was actually racing.
We hit the final straight neck and neck.
He went wide, opting for the flashy, high-side arc that played to the crowd.
I stayed low, where the sand was dark and packed hard enough to break a bone.
I was going to beat him. I could feel the victory vibrating through the steering wheel. He realized it a heartbeat too late.
In a desperate, final strike, he forced a burst of speed the machine had no right to give, his rig lurching dangerously as he clipped the finish line a breath before mine.
He barely won. He barely deserved it.
Dominic skidded to a halt, ripping off his helmet before the dust had even settled.
His chest heaved, sweat darkening the hair at his temples—a rare crack in the perfection he curated.
He didn't look at the cheering crowd or the marshals.
He turned straight toward me, searching for the person who had dragged him that close to a loss.
I tugged my own helmet off, letting the salt wind catch my hair. Moonlight slid over my skin, catching the smear of grease still claiming my cheekbone.
He went rigid for half a second. The silence between us was louder than the engines.
“Well,” he said, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Almost impressive. But finishing the job matters. You should ask your father how well he handled that part.”
The words slammed into me with ugly precision. The kind of wound that wouldn’t bleed right away, just left you numb until the air hit it.
“Am I just a joke to all the Valerio men?” I hissed as Luka ran up, his face glowing with a pride I currently wanted to strangle him for. I shoved the helmet into his chest hard enough to make him stumble. “Is this what you wanted? A front-row seat to the Hayes family fire?”
“Carter, wait—” Luka grabbed my arm, his expression earnest, the mischief finally drained from his face.
“I didn't do it to embarrass you. I did it because I knew you could beat him. And you almost did. You rattled him so hard he almost flipped his rig trying to outrun you. No one touches him out here, Carter. Ever.”
“Almost doesn't keep the lights on, Luka,” I snapped, my voice shaking with a combination of spent adrenaline and the sting of Dominic’s insult. “You didn't give me a chance to win. You just gave him a target.”
I wandered toward the shoreline, the cool tide washing over my ankles and grounding the static in my head. Down the beach, the crowd was chanting Dominic’s name—a rhythmic, mindless worship that I’m positive would feed his confidence for the next week.
But he wasn’t looking at them.
He stood by his rig, eyes locked on the way Luka was standing too close to me, his hand a steady weight on my arm.
His teeth pressed together hard enough to sharpen the tension radiating off him.
It wasn’t the look of a person who wanted me; it was the look of a someone who had just been humiliated and was searching for a target to pin the blame on.
He gripped his phone so hard his knuckles looked like they were made of granite, his stare sharp and judgmental.
He looked disgusted—by me, by Luka, or maybe by the fact that he’d had to cheat the physics of the sand just to keep a Hayes in his rearview.
His stare felt like a physical pressure against my skin, heavy and entirely unwelcome.
I yanked my arm back from Luka, the sudden movement breaking the circuit. “I need space.”
As I walked away, my phone buzzed. No contact name. Just a number I didn't recognize.
Unknown Number: It’s cute how you think you can outrun your bloodline.
The message sat there, a threat wrapped in fake endearment. I looked back. Dominic was standing there, phone in hand, watching me. His brow was tightened with an irritation that felt like a cover for something else.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch. I just looked at him—really looked at him—until the smirk on his face started to look a little less like a victory and a little more like a shield.
He thought he was the first person to try and weaponize my name against me.
He thought my name was a pressure point he could drive his thumb into.
But I’d grown up in the beneath headlines that screamed much worse things than a text message ever could.
I was used to the impact. I’d spent my whole life bracing for the crash, and all Dominic Valerio had managed to do tonight was clip my bumper.
Whatever game he thought he was playing, he was overestimating his own gravity. He could keep his throne and his headlines. I knew how to handle a wreck.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked away without looking back. He could keep the spotlight. I knew how to navigate the dark, and I was already eyeing the exit.
Let him be the one spinning his wheels in the sand. I was just passing through.