Page 38 of Blood & Throttle

I roll my eyes, shifting my weight onto one hip. "If you liked my entrance, just wait for my exit. Might give the whole damn crowd a show—flash 'em the tits they were so damn sure they'd be burying."

A laugh rings out from behind me.

"Shit, I like her," a lighter voice chimes in.

I turn, catching sight of a wiry guy with inked-up arms and a grin sharp enough to cut glass. He gives me a once-over, clearly entertained.

I smirk, then glance at Riot, making sure he fucking sees it before I look back at the guy. "Good taste, tattoo boy. Too bad it’s wasted on shit company."

Bishop chuckles, shaking his head. "Damn, Riot. You sure about this one?"

Riot just exhales slowly, like he’s already regretting every decision that led him to this moment. "Unfortunately. Luca," Riot adds, turning his eyes to me. "Resident shit-stirrer."

Luca winks. "Oh, come on, you know you love me."

Bishop jerks his chin toward a woman stepping out from behind Riot’s bike. "That’s Doc."

She wipes her hands on a rag, eyes sharp beneath dark lashes. Her dark brown hair is cut into a blunt bob, the ends just brushing her jawline. There’s grease smudged across one high cheekbone, a small silver hoop in her nose, and an old scar cutting through her left eyebrow. She’s lean but wiry, built like someone who’s been in her fair share of fights and won most of them.

"Short for Doc Holliday."

I arch a brow. "What, you some kind of medic?"

"More like a miracle worker."

Luca smirks. "She patches us up when we’re dumb enough to need it."

Doc tilts her head, unimpressed. "And you need it a lot."

"Let’s be honest, she’s the only reason most of us are still alive," a quieter voice says.

A kid—maybe nineteen, olive skin, and quick eyes leansagainst the workbench. He rolls a coin between his fingers, expression unreadable.

"Ghost," Riot says, nodding toward the guy half-hidden in the shadows. "Got his name ‘cause he sees and hears everything before anyone else. Always watching, even when you don’t see him."

Ghost barely acknowledges the introduction. He’s tall and lean, dressed in all black, hood up, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. His face is sharp, angular, a mess of dark stubble shadowing his jaw. His gray eyes flick to me—assessing and unreadable—before he shifts his weight and looks away like he’s already figured out everything he needs to know.

I cross my arms, shifting my own weight as I glance around the garage, then back at Riot. "So, you really do collect strays."

Bishop chuckles, wiping grease off his hands. "We all got a reason for being here."

Taz settles next to me, her massive head resting against my leg, eyes sharp as she watches the crew, like she’s already decided whose side she’s on.

I glance between them. None of them are racers. They chose this life. "You all work for him?"

Luca flashes a grin. "Nah. We workwithhim."

Riot watches me, smirking like he’s already won something. Cocky bastard.

I lift my chin, meeting Riot’s gaze with a smirk. "Damn, must be rough working with such an unbearable asshole."

Luca snorts, Bishop grins, and Doc shakes her head like she’s already sick of my shit.

Riot, though?

His smirk tightens, eyes darkening just a fraction. "Careful, Little Stray. You’re already on thin fucking ice."

I shrug. "Yeah? Seems to be holding just fine from where I’m standing."