Page 12 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

The kitchen feels too big, too empty. I grab my keys from the table where I set them. Spin them hard enough that when they hit my palm, the metal cuts into skin. I can feel the indentation of teeth marks from earlier, though I don't remember biting them. The pain helps for exactly two seconds.

Tomorrow.

Without thinking, I put the keys in my mouth. The copper taste explodes across my tongue, mixing with arousal and something that might be madness. Cold metal against hot tongue. My teeth scrape against the ridged edges.

Why the fuck did I just do that?

four

Jax

"Holy shit. Ace is back."

The bouncer's eyes go wide with recognition as I hand over the fifty. My name still carries weight in these circles. The second I cross the threshold, it hits me like mainlining adrenaline straight to the heart.

The warehouse thrums with barely controlled chaos—engines revving, money changing hands, the sweet stench of nitrous oxide hanging in the air like perfume.

Fuck. Here we go.

My hands are already shaking. Not from nerves, but from need. Pure, undiluted need that crawls under my skin like fire ants.

Need to bet. Need to move. Need something.

A makeshift betting station sits just inside the entrance, manned by a kid with neck tattoos and gold teeth. Behind him, a whiteboard lists odds that change every thirty seconds as someone shouts updates through a megaphone.

"Ten grand the Supra beats the Skyline in warm-ups."

The words tumble out before my brain engages. I'm already pulling cash from my jacket—crisp hundreds I'd grabbed from the safe for operational expenses.

Cover maintenance, my ass.

The kid's eyes light up as he counts the bills, fingers flying. "Supra's running new turbos. Smart money."

"Nitro, what are you doing?" Cole's voice whispers through my earpiece, tight with concern.

Can't stop. Won't stop.

I grab my slip for the bet and move deeper into the warehouse, weaving between bodies. The crowd's a mix of serious players and weekend warriors, old-school gearheads and new money looking for thrills.

My shoulder throbs suddenly—phantom pain from Tommy's crash that always hits at the races. Thirteen years since the accident, but my body remembers. The way the bike went sideways. The sound of him hitting the barrier. The silence after.

Tommy would hate what I've become.

I roll my shoulder, trying to shake it off, but the movement just reminds me why I'm here. Why I can't be here. Why I need to be here.

Another bookie operates near the main floor, this one older, more professional. Suit jacket over a bulletproof vest, the bulge barely visible. His table's covered in neat stacks of hundreds, separated by denomination.

"Five on the BMW spinning out before sector two."

I slap the bills down, and he slides them into a metal box without counting. I slide another slip into my pocket.

"That's two bets in three minutes," Asher's voice joins Cole's in my ear. "Jax, you're at risk of spiraling."

They don't understand. The itch needs scratching.

The interior opens up ahead of me—a massive space converted into an arena of speed and money. Sleek machinessit under spotlights like exotic dancers, each one representing someone's mortgage, someone's retirement, someone's bad decisions.

A Ferrari 488 in rosso corsa that costs more than most people's houses. A murdered-out Lamborghini Huracán with modifications that definitely void the warranty. A classic Nissan Skyline that probably has a seven-figure build cost hidden under its unassuming paint.