Page 6 of Racer (Iron Rogues MC #15)
EMILY
I should’ve walked away the second Kane finished introductions. But I didn’t.
I must’ve been a glutton for punishment. Especially the kind that made heat curl low in my stomach.
I spent most of my time around guys as far back as I could remember, but I’d never reacted to one like this before. Then again, none of the guys I worked with looked like Racer.
After years of wondering if my libido was broken, I finally discovered what kind of guy got my engine revving at the absolute worst time.
Tall and muscular with messy dark blond hair and green eyes that didn’t miss much.
And a body that came from adrenaline and grease, not vanity.
The flames inked down his right arm made me wonder if he had more art beneath his slightly damp black tee.
“Emily,” Kane said with a warning in his voice.
Racer waved him off. “It’s fine.”
Crossing my arms, I shifted my weight to one foot, unsure how to feel about him not minding my threats. “You sure he’s not just here to collect phone numbers?”
Racer grinned, all cocky confidence and no shame. “Only if yours comes first.”
Of course he had a quick comeback.
I kind of hated how easily he took our banter in stride.
As though I wasn’t being prickly on purpose.
Like I didn’t have a reason to be pissed that he needed to be here in the first place, let alone walking around the pit after fishtailing across the track and nearly kissing the damn barricade for attention.
Kane clapped him on the shoulder. “Careful, I wasn’t kidding about her skills. Em knows the insides of these engines better than most drivers know their steering columns.”
“Noted,” Racer said, still looking at me like I was more interesting than the damn car next to us.
I refused to blush under his stare even though it was hot enough to blame any color in my cheeks on the weather.
“As long as your golden boy knows how to keep four tires on the pavement, maybe he won’t make my job harder,” I muttered.
Racer chuckled behind me. “Wasn’t aware I needed to impress you, angel.”
“Never said you did,” I shot back. “But you don’t want to piss me off either.”
Kane waited until Racer wandered off to check one of the Chevelles, then hooked two fingers around my elbow and tugged me a few steps away. Not far enough for anyone to notice, just so our voices wouldn’t carry to the rest of our crew.
“He’s gonna race, but that’s not why I brought Racer down here,” Kane said, low and serious.
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“He’s bait.”
My stomach flipped. “Bait?”
“We’re trying to draw out whoever’s behind the sabotage. Racer’s flashy. Fast. The kind of driver that’ll piss the right people off. Make ’em sloppy.”
I blinked, stunned for a beat. “That’s the plan? Toss the new guy onto the track and hope the bad guy bites?”
Kane’s jaw flexed. “Trust me, it’ll work. Racer can more than handle himself on and off the circuit. He’s not just any guy behind the wheel. He’s also an Iron Rogues enforcer.”
Scrubbing my palms down my face, I heaved a deep sigh. “I still want to help. There are things I can do from the pit that a driver can’t.”
He shook his head, already stepping back. “Just let Racer handle it.”
“Kane—” I started, but he was already walking away, shoulders tight and done with the conversation.
My fists clenched at my sides.
I hated being sidelined while some cocky out-of-town racer with fast hands and a flirty smile got handed the keys to the whole damn situation.
I was the one who’d been here from the beginning. Who knew these cars inside and out. Whose brother was lying in a hospital bed, barely hanging on.
I wanted to help find the people responsible for his crash more than anything, but Kane was my boss.
And Mason’s club president. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d be okay with me pushing my way into the situation, so I would just need to be sneaky about it behind the scenes.
Sometimes you had to ask for forgiveness instead of permission, and I’d take the heat down the line if it came to that.
I stormed back toward one of the Chevelles, grabbing my tablet and tools like they were weapons instead of diagnostics gear.
Of course his road name was Racer. His club brothers might as well have called him Adrenaline McFlashy.
He was probably one of those golden boys who looked good behind the wheel, flashed a grin for the cameras, and didn’t know jack about the machines he drove. Guys like that pushed too hard, burned through clutches, and blamed the crew when something snapped.
And now Kane had given him my brother’s spot in our world.
I dropped to one knee beside the car, popping off the panel that gave me access to the rear suspension mount. I didn’t even realize my hands were shaking until the ratchet slipped on the bolt and scraped across my knuckles.
“Careful.” The low voice came from behind me.
Twisting around, I glared at him. “What do you want?”
Racer crouched next to me, hands on his knees as he peered into the cavity I’d just exposed. “That bracket looks off. See the weld?”
I opened my mouth to snap something sarcastic, but I paused when I noticed how closely he was looking at the part in question. Turning back around, I flicked my gaze down, following his line of sight.
Damn. He was right.
One of the mounting brackets had the faintest hairline crack near the weld. Not visible at first glance, but enough that, under race stress, it could’ve snapped and launched the driver into a wall or another car.
“You have a good eye,” I muttered, brushing my fingers over the fault line.
He didn’t gloat. Just angled in a little closer. “Mind if I take a look at something?”
I huffed but scooted over slightly.
Racer leaned in and ran a fingertip along the bolt housing on the opposite side. Then he pulled a small flashlight from his back pocket and clicked it on.
“There.” He pointed. “That scoring? Looks like someone used the wrong torque setting. Or maybe they just wanted it to look that way.”
I blinked, then nudged him to the side so I could see better. Sure enough, there was a shallow ring on the metal, inconsistent with our tools.
My mouth went dry.
Someone had tampered with that bolt. Subtly enough that it could’ve passed inspections. But if the bracket failed mid-race…
Crap .
“You might’ve just saved someone’s life,” I said quietly.
Racer met my gaze for the first time in a way that felt real instead of flirtatious. “That’s the idea.”
I sat back on my heels, blowing out a breath. “Guess Kane brought in the right guy after all.”
His mouth quirked into a half smile, but he didn’t say anything.
And just like that, Racer wasn’t the enemy anymore.
Kane headed back toward us, a grim set to his jaw that told me whatever conversation he’d just had hadn’t gone how he wanted. His expression only grew stonier when I pointed out what we found on the Chevelle.
I straightened. “Kane, listen?—”
“She should be in on this,” Racer cut in before I could finish.
I blinked, surprised he beat me to it.
He didn’t look away from Kane. “She knows these cars. She’s sharp. And if someone’s slipping past her, it means they’re damn good. You want this asshole caught? You need her eyes on the rides.”
Kane exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing his decision. Then he gave a curt nod. “Fine. But you help me keep an eye on Emily. Nothing better fucking happen to her. Understood?”
“It won’t,” Racer growled. “I won’t let anyone hurt her.”
Kane pointed at him. “You better not, or it’ll be your ass. No matter what Fox will want as payback.”
After growing up with an overprotective brother and another overprotective almost-brother, I knew better than to waste my breath saying I could take care of myself. Neither of them would listen.
When Kane walked off, I murmured, “Thanks for speaking up for me, Racer.”
He turned toward me, something warm flickering in his green eyes. “Call me Jude.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He gave me a half smile. “That’s my name. Jude Iverson.”
Most bikers I knew guarded their real names like state secrets, only letting family or people they’d known forever call them anything besides their road name. That he offered his so easily threw me even more than the pull I felt toward him. “Okay, Jude.”
It tasted strange on my tongue, more personal than I expected. And way too distracting.
I turned back to the car before I did something stupid. Like say it again. Or worse—doodle Mrs. Emily Iverson on my tablet as though I was thirteen again.