Page 13 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

His eyes gleam, and he leans forward slightly, elbow on the table. “And she got it from me . So ergo…” he taps the air between us, “… you got it from me too. You’re welcome .”

Then he winks . Just a little one. Just enough to wreck my internal systems. My mouth opens, then closes, then I glare at the table as if it’s personally betrayed me.

“Have you ever gotten to ride with her? Alaina, I mean. She was something else.” He grins his damn grin. “She had the most distinct style. Like chaos with a purpose.” He exhales a soft laugh. “I could tell her apart from anybody else with my eyes closed.”

His words settle over me like sunlight I’m not supposed to feel. I want to soak in it, but the air suddenly feels too thin.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“No. She quit before I started.”

“Pity.”

His answer hangs in the air like a trap. I cannot tell for the life of me whether he’s toying with me or knows exactly who I am and is really toying with me.

Finn sets his drink down and nods at the notebook on the table. “You always this intense about your setup?”

What does he even want?

I shrug, my brain short-circuiting. “I don’t like surprises.”

I’m not about to tell him that I wake up from nightmares with the taste of blood in my mouth and the urge to check my bike overwhelming me.

How I’ve jolted out of sleep and crawled to my setup so I can run my fingers over every bolt, every screw, making sure no one’s touched it.

How the crash didn’t just break my body but shattered every ounce of trust I had in my hardware.

How it left me with this twitchy, gnawing need to control every damn variable.

Because that didn’t happen to Allen .

Theoretically, Allen can sleep without knowing exactly, being absolutely sure that he was the only one who laid a hand on his bike.

But maybe Allen is just as obsessive. Writes everything down. Checks every bolt, every cable, every angle. Twice. Three times. Memorizes torque specs like they’re mantras.

But the moment I, or Allen, stop, the second trust is placed in anyone’s hands but our own, we lose.

I lose .

“Sure.” He arches a brow. “That’s why you’ve got pages and pages of handwritten notes in there like you’re logging scientific research, not bike maintenance.”

I bristle. “How’d you know?”

Finn has the decency to look sheepish. “I snooped while you were sleeping.”

“What the…”

“Relax.” He lifts his hands. “I didn’t read your diary. Just saw that you scribbled torque numbers and gear ratios in the margins like a total psychopath.”

“It’s more than maintenance,” I mutter, clutching the notebook tighter. “It’s memory.”

“Okay.” Finn doesn’t laugh or give me his usual smirk. He just leans in, curiosity sharpening the edges of his expression. “But why ?”

I glance at the pages, the messy handwriting, and at the little arrows I draw to remind myself what to double-check. I shouldn’t say it, but the words are already crawling up my throat.

“Because if one bolt slips… it’s over. Not just the run. Everything.”

“And… you’ve had that kind of experience, kid?”

I look away, jaw tight. “I’m not a kid.”

Not since I learned what it feels like to suffocate on blood, silence, and the weight of your own body turning traitor.

“No,” he agrees. “No, you’re not.”

Then silence, thick and crackling.

“You ever crashed so hard it rewired your brain?” Finn asks eventually, the tone of his voice losing its teasing edge, turning to something lower and more real. “I did. Les Gets. Four years ago.”

I remember. God, I remember. We watched it live.

Dane’s face lost all color when Finn crashed and had to be airlifted from the track.

I told him twenty times as he paced to call and check on Finn because I needed to know, too, but he didn’t, so I did.

Used a blocked number, and when Finn picked up and said, Hello? I panicked and hung up.

At least I knew he was alive. The following season, he was racing again as if nothing had happened.

“Woke up on a stretcher, couldn’t feel my legs,” Finn shares, like we’re trading ghost stories. “Doctors said it was shock. I told them I didn’t care. I just needed to know if the bike made it.”

Right. He’d been handed his team’s latest prototype, a carbon beast no one else had raced yet, so everyone was watching.

He huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That shit sticks. I still wake up some nights not feeling my legs and looking for that damn bike.”

“You don’t get over crashing.” I nod slowly. “You just get better at hiding the fear.”

“Yeah.” His voice is softer now. “Yeah, you do.”

Our eyes lock, and this time, neither of us looks away. Something flickers behind his eyes, a shift. Understanding? Something was starting to click.

“I crashed once too,” I say before I can stop myself. “Body met tree. Tree didn’t move.” I meant it as a joke, but it comes out raw, and he doesn’t laugh. “They said I was lucky I didn’t die. But I didn’t feel lucky.”

Why am I even telling him this? What the hell is wrong with me?

Stupid, Alaina. Stupid. If I want to keep this cover, I’ve just done the dumbest thing imaginable. Yeah, plenty of riders crash into trees. But this? This was practically a neon sign. Too close. Too specific .

But my brain never did work right when his eyes were on me.

“You didn’ t feel lucky because it wasn’t luck. It was grit. And pain. And fighting like hell to stay standing.”

I tear my gaze away from him and hug myself again, not because of the shirt now, but because I can still feel the memory in my bones. The impact. The blood. The gravel.

The bus continues to hum with the sound of tires rotating against asphalt. Finn lifts his can to his lips again. “Well,” he says, voice lighter now. “That got deep. I’m gonna go take the wheel before Dane drives us into a cow.”

He finishes the drink, crumples the can in his large hand, and stands with a low groan, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifts with the motion, rising just high enough to flash a strip of toned stomach, with cut lines, and a hint of his V-shape that should be illegal.

My gaze zeroes in before I can stop it.

When I look up again, his eyes are already on me. And yep, there it is. That damn grin. He turns toward the front of the bus, then pauses halfway down the aisle.

“Try not to drool on your notes this time,” he calls over his shoulder, then chucks the can into the trash.

I’m left staring at my notebook, my heart thudding like I just raced a double-black with no brakes and survived.

But it was a close thing.