Page 1 of Nitro (Redline Kings MC #3)

NITRO

T he shadows of Crossbend had their own pulse.

You felt it in the humid press of hot air, in the greasy tang of exhaust hanging over cracked asphalt, in the way men leaned on hoods with smokes dangling and bets exchanged in low voices.

Tonight wasn’t about the sanctioned tracks or Kane’s empire with polished sponsors and shiny press crews.

This was the side of his empire that the Redline Kings MC ran.

It was the underbelly—the kind of racing that sifted out posers, stripped flesh from bone, and showed you who belonged.

Drivers proved themselves at the Shadow Tryout.

And three of my recruits had just gotten their asses handed to them by someone no one fucking knew. Who drove like they had no sense of mortality.

I leaned against the chain-link barrier, one boot braced, arms folded across my chest. My jaw worked hard as the roar of the last lap thundered around the makeshift track carved out of an abandoned industrial lot at the edge of town.

The floodlights mounted to scaffolding cut swaths through the night air, catching the haze of burnt rubber and oil.

My boys should’ve owned this. They’d been training on the circuit for weeks, memorizing braking curves, feeling out weight shifts. I’d tweaked their fuel mix myself, tuned the engines with precision. They weren’t Kane’s polished pros, but they weren’t wet behind the ears either.

But whoever the hell that “rookie” was had just smoked them. Not by an inch. By a full two car lengths. Clean. Precise. Like they’d been born behind the fucking wheel.

Beside me, Kane let out a low chuckle, beard twitching with the ghost of a grin and a flick of amusement in his green eyes as the checkered flag dropped.

“Tell me I didn’t just waste six months on those assholes,” I muttered as the last run clocked in on the big digital timer overhead.

The rookie’s numbers were brutal. Clean. No wasted motion. The kind of time you couldn’t fake.

“Looks like they need a remedial course, brother.”

His tone was casual, but there was steel underneath. As president of the Redline Kings, Kane was powerful, feared, and known for being merciless when it came to protecting his family—by patch, blood, or property vest.

But he’d already carried that power before he ever established our MC. He was a fucking billionaire who ruled the racing world—above and underground—like the Mafia. He could strip a man down with nothing but his silence, and right now, he enjoyed watching me lose. It rarely happened.

On Kane’s other side, Edge smirked. Leaning one shoulder against the chain-link fence, our club’s VP flipped his knife open and shut like a kid fidgeting with a toy.

He wore that easy grin, the one that meant he was filing the whole thing away to needle me later.

“Hate to say it, Nitro, but you look like someone kicked your puppy.”

“Fuck off.” I shot him a flat glare. “Maybe if you spent more time training instead of playin’ pocket-knife origami, you’d know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

It was a bullshit comment since we both knew Edge was one of the best drivers in the business.

His chuckle held no humor. “Careful, brother. Keep snarlin’ like that, and people are gonna think you care.”

I flicked him a side-eye, my mouth tightening. “Cute. Want me to build a charge for that mouth of yours? Bet you’d stop running it once your lips are on the ceiling.”

Edge grinned. “See? Volatile as ever.”

Kane’s smile widened, the cool amusement of a man who already knew he’d win whatever fight we tried to start. “Easy, Nitro. Don’t blow up the kid’s confidence before we even meet him.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. Volatile—yeah, they liked to call me that.

My road name was Nitro, for fuck’s sake.

However, it was more about my tendency to make things go boom than a reflection of my personality.

I could definitely resemble chaos incarnate in the workshop with my wire scraps, detonator switches, and grease-streaked schematics.

But when it came time to flip the switch and set that motherfucker off, I was ice cold.

Unflappable. And they fucking knew it. That was one of the reasons I was sergeant at arms for the Redline Kings.

It was the same when I raced. My precision came from street wars, not sponsors. When I drove, my vehicle was an extension of me—fast, sharp, and surgical.

Yet I’d somehow failed to teach it to these shitheads who’d possibly cost me a fucking grand.

Axle, our road captain and a world-class driver, had bet me that at least one of my recruits would crumble under the pressure.

A loss didn’t mean buckling…but if they didn’t take it like men, he’d be at my door to collect the second I got back to the clubhouse.

Engines cooled as cars rolled back into the pit zone, headlights cutting through the heat shimmer.

A couple of people in the crowd pressed closer, hungry for a look at the new hotshot.

My recruits climbed out of their cars, ripping their helmets off, expressions dark, as though someone had just pissed in their fuel tanks.

The runner-up ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the hood, then tore off his gloves and threw them down hard enough to scatter the gravel.

Sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the cocky prick with more tattoos than brains stalked toward the timing table, face twisted with rage.

He scowled at Kane, too stupid to realize our prez was the last man on earth you wanted to piss off.

“That’s bullshit,” Rodgers spat, voice carrying over the idling engines and murmuring crowd. “The clock’s rigged. No way some nobody walks in here and hits those times clean.”

Kane’s gaze cut toward him, eyes sharp as razors. Rodgers didn’t notice. Edge smiled wider, flicking his blade once more before snapping it shut. I just shook my head.

“Clock isn’t rigged,” I said flatly. “Your skills are.”

“Then it’s the track!” he spat.

Edge didn’t blink. He just tilted his head, slow and lethal. “You callin’ us cheats, boy?”

The kid froze, finally realizing he’d been loud enough to catch all of our attention.

His throat bobbed as his gaze darted from me to Kane to Edge.

He knew the rules—talk shit about the race once, and you were questioning my work.

Do it twice, and you were questioning Kane’s authority.

Which usually meant quality time with Edge.

And no one wanted to be on the opposite side of his knife.

His reputation for being a bit psychotic was well earned.

Kane didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “That mouth just told me everything I needed to know.” He let the words hang, lethal in their calmness. “You’ll never race for me. Walk away while you still have the option.”

Rodgers went pale. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then saw the way Edge was grinning at him, like he’d love nothing more than to gut a man just for practice. Rodgers grabbed his gloves, muttered something unintelligible, and stormed off toward the lot.

“Good riddance.” Edge flipped his knife again. “Guy’s temper was sloppier than his line through turn three.”

“And that was a fucking mess,” I muttered, my gaze straying to the rookie. Because the one that mattered hadn’t taken off his helmet yet.

Kane tilted his head toward the rookie’s car, still idling near the end of the track. “So. The real question. Who the fuck is our ghost?”

I didn’t have an answer. The driver was still sitting calmly in the car while the rest of the crowd buzzed. No gloating. No fist-pumping. Just stillness. Like they’d expected to win.

Cocky? Maybe. But it didn’t feel like arrogance. More like certainty.

We moved toward the pit together, boots crunching gravel, the smell of scorched rubber heavy in the air. My other recruits avoided my gaze. They knew better. Losing to some stranger was one thing. But losing in front of me was gonna sting for a while.

The rookie finally killed the engine. The machine shuddered once before falling quiet, headlights bleeding into the humid night.

They finally swung the car door open, unhurried, and climbed out, boots crunching on gravel, moving with the smooth precision of someone who knew their body as well as their machine. Gloves stripped. Helmet unclipped.

The lid came off, and the air shifted.

Fuck me sideways.

The driver wasn’t some cocky kid.

It was a woman.

She shook her head, long red hair tumbling out like fire let loose, tangling with sweat until it looked like embers lit from the inside. The lock clung to her neck, streaks darker where it was wet, but the rest flared bright—sunset and gasoline, wild and untamed.

Freckles scattered across pale skin, dusting across the bridge of her nose and high cheekbones. Lips full and pink, kiss-swollen from the pressure of the helmet, curved into a smirk that said she knew exactly what she’d just done.

A thin sheen of sweat slicked her throat, sliding down into the low collar of her fire-retardant suit, where it disappeared into shadows I wanted to strip bare.

Her eyes. Fuck.

Green eyes. Not soft. Not sweet. Green like broken glass catching light—dangerous, intense, alive. She looked straight at me with the unflinching focus of someone who’d already sized us up and wasn’t the least bit intimidated.

Her body was lean, all muscle and precision.

Five-eight, maybe. Athletic frame, toned and balanced from hours behind the wheel, but still curved in the places that mattered—hips made for gripping and tits that strained subtly against the suit.

She moved like every step was calculated, deliberate, yet with a looseness that screamed confidence.

My jaw locked.

And then, to my shock, heat slammed into me—violent, instant, and fucking primal.

My libido had been practically dormant for years. Buried under work, racing, and the endless rhythm of engines and explosions. Women blurred into background noise, none of them worth the chase. But one look at her, and my cock stirred like I’d been starving it.

My mouth twitched into that crooked, dangerous smile I hadn’t used in too long. This one was trouble wrapped in sweat and speed.

Her smirk tilted at the corner as though she already knew she’d rattled me. I felt it in my chest and the base of my spine.

She was chaos bound by control. Reckless and precise. She’d obviously come here to prove herself and didn’t give a single fuck who was watching.

And then, she lifted one eyebrow. Subtle. Barely there. A flicker of challenge.

It wasn’t arrogance or coyness.

It was a silent question. What are you gonna do about it?

Something twisted low in my gut. Not anger or frustration. Hunger.

Kane chuckled low under his breath because he saw it. Edge snorted, shaking his head like Christmas had come early. Which it probably had for him since he loved giving all of us shit.

But I didn’t look at them.

I kept my gaze on her.

She didn’t flinch under my stare. Didn’t shrink from the weight of it. Just gave me that eyebrow, that dare, and waited.

And fuck me if I didn’t already know.

She was fast. Too fast.

She didn’t scare easily.

She was gonna be a problem.

But she was mine now.

Which meant she was my problem.