Page 19 of Blood & Throttle

Jace is running too hot, an engine past redline—seconds from blowing, but too stupid to shut down.

The problem with Jace is he doesn’t know when to quit. He’s the kind of rider who pushes too hard, and ignores the warning signs until everything blows up in his face. The kind of arrogance that makes a man reckless and will one day get him killed.

He’s young, hungry, and too goddamn cocky for his own good. Tall, lean, built like a fighter rather than a racer—long limbs, wiry muscle, quick reflexes but no discipline. He’s got a cocky-ass smirk that makes you want to break his teeth, and eyes that are always looking for the next fight. His blond hair’s a mess—either from his helmet or another night drinking himself stupid, usually both. He’s covered in ink, most of it cheap shit that doesn’t mean anything, the kind of tattoos punks get to make themselves look tougher than they really are.

The only marks that actually matter are the scars, souvenirs from wrecks he barely walked away from. And that’s the thing about Jace—he’s survived a lot. He should’ve been dead at least a dozen times over, but he’s too stubborn, or too fucking lucky to stay down.

Jace wasn’t born into the circuit. He forced his way in, dragging himself up through the ranks of illegal street races until he finally got a shot at The Gauntlet. He took out a few nobodies, made enough noise to get noticed, and startedrunning his mouth like he was someone important. The kind of guy who has just enough skill to be dangerous but not enough to back it up when it counts.

But the real issue, is that he wants to be me.

Jace has spent the last two years chasing my shadow, taking whatever scraps of attention he can get, acting like he’s already king of the fucking pit. He’s fast, brutal, and willing to kill for a win, but he’s not smart about it. He doesn’t play the long game. He fights messy, sloppy. And worst of all?

He makes it personal.

We weren’t always enemies. The first few times we met, he kept his head down, respected the system, and knew his place. Then he started winning and running his fucking mouth. I ignored him at first. Let him bark and make an idiot of himself, but he pushed too hard.

Stepped over a line he shouldn’t have.

A year ago, he tried to take me out—not on the track, but off it. No fair fight. No challenge. Just a cheap, back-alley setup with a knife in the dark.

Didn’t want to prove he was better, just wanted me gone. Rigged a deal, lured me in, and had three guys waiting. Thought numbers would do what skill never could.

He was wrong.

I walked away and he spent a month pissing blood.

Since then, he’s been a bitter, grudge-holding little shit. Always scheming, always waiting for his moment.

But no matter how hard he tries, he’s still second place.

And now?

Now, he’s fucking livid. Because I just threw a wrench into his entire world.

Because I put Sienna on my bike. Because I won, and shelived, and every single person who bet on her dying just lost a lot of fucking money.

And for Jace? That’s enough reason to go to war.

The bastard shoves through the pit, eyes wild, rage twisting his features. He’s still got blood on his temple from the crash he barely walked away from, but the idiot doesn’t know when to quit.

"What the fuck was that?" he snarls, storming toward us. "You fucking cheated!"

I don’t react. Not yet.

"That bitch should be fucking dead! You can’t put her on your bike! That ain’t how this shit works!" Jace’s voice is raw, furious, ripping through the pit like a gunshot. He shoves forward, shoulders tense, chest heaving, the veins in his neck bulging like he’s about to explode.

I swing my leg over the bike, slow and deliberate, like I’ve got all the time in the world. The pit is a riot of noise, tension thick enough to choke on, but I don’t rush.

I never rush.

I yank off my gloves, tossing them onto the seat before reaching up and unfastening my helmet. The second I pull it off, the air is thick with sweat, exhaust, and the scent of burning rubber. I run a hand through my hair, shaking out the stiffness from the ride, then reach into my jacket, fingers curling around my pack of smokes.

I tap one out, placing it between my lips, taking my time as I flick my lighter open with my thumb. The flame catches, the ember glowing red-hot as I inhale deep, the first drag sinking into my lungs like a slow burn.

Only then do I exhale through my nose, smoke curling into the night air as I finally look at Jace.

I watch him like he’s a goddamn joke. Because heis.