Page 51 of Blood & Throttle

Just as he opens his mouth to fire back, the doors to the pit slam open, cutting through the moment.

"Well, well, well," Luca drawls, striding in first, grinning wide. "Look who lived to piss off the rest of The Gauntlet another day."

Bishop follows, shaking his head, his sharp gaze sweeping over us, the bike, and the still-buzzing tension in the air. "Hell of a fucking show."

Doc steps up last, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You two good?"

Riot finally steps back, his hand skimming the seat beside me as he moves away. He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders. "Better than the poor bastards who didn’t make it."

Luca whistles low, eyeing the wreckage still being cleared from the track. "You got that right."

Bishop nods toward the bike. “Let’s check her over. Make sure she’s good for the next round.”

Riot smirks, tossing me a look, his gaze dragging over me slowly and deliberately. “Yeah, I got something I’d like to check over too.”

I scoff, shoving off the bike, doing my best to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “Keep dreaming, Carter.”

His smirk deepens like he already fucking is.

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms as he turns back to the crew, shifting gears like he wasn’t just looking at me like he wanted to take me apart, piece by piece, and put me back together with his hands.

Insufferable fucking bastard.

Ten

Riot

Troublemaker - Olly Murs, Flor Rida

It’s beenthree fucking days since The Bone Yard, and I still see blood every time I close my goddamn eyes.

The garage reeks of scorched metal, exhaust, and sweat. Our bike—torn apart and waiting for resurrection—sits front and center like a corpse we’re trying to breathe life back into. Bishop’s buried in engine parts, cursing about some valve issue. Luca’s grinding something too loud and too fast, sparks flying like he’s trying to set the whole fucking place on fire. Ghost is where he always is—silent, still, and watching everything from the shadows.

And Sin?

Sin’s bent over the fucking toolbox in those cut-off shorts that ride up every time she so much as breathes. One of my shirts clings to her back, loose and worn, hanging off one shoulder like a goddamn invitation. She doesn’t wear it like she borrowed it. She wears it like it belongs to her now.

Her ribs are still bruised, the deep kind that take their timehealing. But I see them. Every time she stretches. Every time her shirt rides up. And every fucking time, the rage that burns through me makes my hands twitch. I know who left those marks. I remember their faces. And if I ever see them again, I’ll carve new ones.

I should stop watching her. Should pretend I’m focused on the bike, or the race, or anything else.

But I can’t.

Every smirk she throws across the room. Every drop of grease she wipes off her fingers like she knows I’m watching. Every smart-ass comment. Every slow stretch.

She’s fucking feral. And it’s driving me insane.

Worse?

Now every other asshole in this place is watching her too.

And I’m one second away from breaking someone’s fucking jaw for it.

My jaw tightens as she laughs at something Luca says, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. Her long legs stretch out as she leans into the bike, examining the new exhaust line we installed last night.

She doesn’t notice the way the eyes follow her.

But I fucking do.