Page 35 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

“Holy shit.” The profanity slips out with his surprise. “Sorry, but—that’s actually my favorite, too.” He looks at me with a wide smile and bright eyes.

I can’t help but smile at his genuine excitement. It’s like watching a switch flip—the slightly guarded William replaced by someone bursting with enthusiasm .

“What?” I say. “Did you think I’d agree to go to a live show with you just because? I actually enjoy rock music.”

“I thought you were humoring me! You know, team bonding or whatever.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. “I was already planning my apology for subjecting you to what I assumed you’d call ‘noise.’”

“What exactly do you think I listen to, based on my—how did you put it—my ‘vibe?’”

He considers this, head tilting. “Trendy pop? Classical? Maybe some jazz? Definitely something you’d hear at one of those fancy charity galas where everyone pretends to enjoy the music, when they’re actually calculating how much they need to donate to get their name on a plaque.”

I laugh, genuinely, not the controlled chuckle I use at press conferences or around the team. “That is oddly specific and completely wrong.”

“Then enlighten me, Colton. What does the soundtrack of your life truly sound like?”

I tell him about growing up with a father who blasted Led Zeppelin and David Bowie while working on cars, about discovering punk rock in university as an outlet for stress, about Anna introducing me to Japanese metal bands like The GazettE during the early stages of our friendship, and my newfound love for Sleep Token.

The words pour out more easily than expected, my usual filters temporarily disabled.

William listens, asking questions that prove he’s actually paying attention.

His eyes light up when I mention bands we both like, and he playfully argues with me about artists we disagree on.

It’s nothing like the strategic conversations that fill my days, where every word is measured for impact.

I’m having a lot of fun and smile to myself as I look at the road ahead of us.

“So, you’re telling me,” he says after a particularly spirited debate about a recent album release, “that the uptight CEO who made me do fifty-seven media training sessions—”

“It was three.”

“—was secretly a rock fan this whole time? While I was trying not to swear on camera, you were probably blasting Slipknot in your office?”

“Only on particularly difficult board meeting days.” I smirk. “The soundproofing in my office is excellent.”

He laughs, full and unrestrained, and I join him. The sound of our combined laughter fills the car; I haven’t felt this light in months. Maybe years.

When our laughter subsides, I catch him looking at me, his expression shifted into something softer. The streetlights flash across his face as we drive, illuminating his features in brief, golden bursts.

“You should laugh more,” he says suddenly, voice quieter than before. “Your laugh can cure migraines. It’s soft, gentle, infectious. The type of laughter I lo—”

He stops abruptly, gaze snapping back to the road. His hands adjust on the steering wheel, which is unnecessary, since we’re on a straight stretch of highway .

“The type of laughter anyone would love,” he amends, clearing his throat. “Good for team morale and all that.”

The moment hangs between us, neither awkward nor comfortable, just… there. I study his profile—the sharp jawline softened by his perfectly curated beard, and the slight furrow between his brows that appears when he’s focusing.

“Anyway,” he continues briskly, “tell me about that summer you spent going to indie rock shows.”

And just like that, we’re back to easy conversation. William tells me about his first concert, and I counter with the story of how Anna and I talked our way backstage at a festival by pretending to be music journalists.

The drive passes quickly, Birmingham’s lights appearing on the horizon before I expect them. William navigates the city with familiar ease, pointing out landmarks and sharing random facts about venues he’s visited.

“Hungry?” he asks as we approach the city center. “There’s a decent place near the venue. Nothing fancy, but they make a great burger.”

“Lead the way. I’m starving.”

He parks in a small lot behind a row of brick buildings and leads me to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with mismatched chairs, and tables that wobble.

The menu is written on a chalkboard, and the place smells of grease and spices.

It’s about as far from my usual dining experiences as possible.

Not that I’m fancy, but the dinners I attend would never be held in a place like this.

“Trust me?” William asks, eyebrow raised .

I nod, and he orders for both of us. The food arrives quickly—loaded burgers, and thick-cut fries that steam in the cool air. It’s messy and perfect, the kind of meal that requires multiple napkins and no shyness.

“This is so good,” I admit between bites. “How did you find this place?”

“I explore before races. Helps clear my head.” He steals one of my fries despite having his own. “Finding places tourists don’t know about is my specialty.”

“You’re hardly a tourist,” I add as I bite into the burger again.

He seems to be choosing which fry is next to be gobbled up and turns to me as he puts one in his mouth. “I may be British on my passport, but I was born in the US, so I’ve always considered myself a tourist of sorts around here.”

“If anything, the tourist is me. I didn’t even know Birmingham had this burger joint.” I wipe my mouth with a tissue.

“Well, you’re more of a sweets type of person. I bet you know all the good ones.” He faces me as he rests his head in his hand. The crinkles around his eyes make him look older than he is, and the corners of his lips curl up in a warm smile that makes me smile back.

“You’re not wrong. But I’m trying to control myself lately. Don’t want to rip my ‘power suits,’ you know?”

He lets out a hearty laugh and says, “You’d still look beautiful.” He turns back to his food as I’m left with my face burning up after the unexpected comment .

After dinner, we head across the street to the venue—a narrow building with peeling paint, and a neon sign that flickers.

“Don’t judge by appearances,” William says, noticing my expression. “Some of the best shows happen in the most questionable-looking places.”

“Not judging, just observing.”

“Violet Colton.” He pauses to look me in the eye. “You don’t just ‘observe.’ I’ve been around you long enough to know that.”

I snort and lower my gaze. “Touché. I may have been judging it a bit.”

“Come,” he says as his hand comes close to my back but not touching. “Let’s get inside to avoid getting stuck in the center of the venue. I don’t want you to fly against a wall, shoved by some dude in the mosh pit.”

Inside, the venue is larger than it appeared from outside, but still intimate. A small stage dominates one end, and there’s a bar along the side wall. People mill about, but it’s not crowded.

“Not much of a turnout,” I observe.

William shrugs. “Indie band. They’re still building their following. Sometimes, these are the best shows—bands with something to prove play harder.”

“Reminds me of us.” I scoff.

“Indeed.” His hand rests on my shoulder. “And that’s the exciting part. Passion. Heart. Chasing a dream.”

He hands me a ticket he’s apparently already purchased, his fingers brushing mine. The casual contact shouldn’t register, but somehow it does .

“That’s for you to remember this night out,” he says, eyes bright with anticipation.

A surge of excitement washes over me that has nothing to do with the band, and everything to do with being here, now, with this unexpected version of William Foster—who talks with his hands, and steals fries, and knows the perfect hole-in-the-wall burger joint in Birmingham.

The lights die all at once, leaving us in darkness so complete, I can barely see my hand in front of my face.

Then, a single spotlight hits the stage, and four men who look like they were plucked straight from a Viking raiding party stride out in costumes.

Long beards, longer hair, and arms covered in intricate tattoos.

The crowd surges forward as the first guitar riff slices through the air, raw and hungry.

The sound vibrates in my chest, under my skin, and I remember now—this feeling.

This is why people chase live music. It’s not just hearing; it’s feeling the notes rearrange your atoms. The feeling of your heart becoming one with the emotions in the music.

The vocalist grabs the microphone, his voice a controlled roar that somehow transforms into melody.

It’s harsher than what I usually listen to, but there’s beauty in its intensity—like watching a storm from a safe distance.

The melodic metal weaves complex patterns, building and breaking in waves that sweep the crowd along.

Three songs in, I’m completely absorbed, my body moving instinctively with the music.

I shift my weight, tired of standing in one spot. When I turn to check on William, the sight stops me cold .

He’s completely transformed. Head thrown back, eyes closed, hands forming metal horns in the air.

His deep voice rises above the surrounding crowd, every lyric perfect, every note on key.

The blue and purple stage lights catch on his right neck tattoo—a bird of some kind—making it seem alive against his skin.

The black leather jacket hugs his shoulders, unzipped just enough to reveal a band T-shirt underneath.

His distressed black jeans cling to his legs, ending at heavy Dr. Martens boots that he stomps in time with the drums.

This isn’t William Foster, Formula 1 driver. This is someone else entirely—someone wild and free and unrestrained. He looks dangerous, untamed.

The exact opposite of the polished corporate world I inhabit.

The type of man I’d cross the street to avoid if I passed him late at night.