Page 17 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

She knows. And she likes it.

I climb into one of the vans, squeezing between other drivers who smell like cigarettes and bad decisions.

"Container yard's gonna be brutal tonight," someone says. "Heard they made the course tighter."

"Good," I hear myself respond. "I like it tight."

Someone laughs. Someone else starts talking about tire pressure and optimal drift angles.

But I'm not listening. I'm spinning my keys again, faster now, the rhythm matching my racing heartbeat.

Mira Knight. I'm so fucked.

The warehouse disappears behind us as we head toward the port, toward the container yard, toward whatever comes next.

My hands are still shaking, but it's not from the gambling anymore.

It's from her.

five

Jax

The container yard sprawls like a metal canyon under sodium floodlights. Shipping containers stack four stories high, creating walls that turn the makeshift course into a death trap of blind corners and elevation changes.

The asphalt gleams wet from marine fog rolling off the harbor, oil slicks creating rainbow patterns that promise spectacular wipeouts.

Perfect conditions for someone with a death wish.

Which apparently I have, since all I can think about is her watching.

"Ace!" Gideon's voice booms across the staging area. "Got something special for you."

He's standing next to a motorcycle—a Ducati Panigale V4, cherry red with carbon fiber everything, the kind of bike that costs more than a new BMW and goes faster than God intended.

My blood turns to ice water.

"Remember when you could make a bike sing?" Gideon's grin is pure nostalgia. "Thought you might want to show these kids what real riding looks like."

The bike gleams under the lights, all deadly curves and barely contained violence. Just looking at it makes my shoulder throb again.

Tommy's bike was red too. Looked just like this when they scraped him off the barrier.

"I don't ride anymore." The words come out through gritted teeth, my jaw so tight it aches.

"Come on, kid. It's been what? Twelve years? Time to get back on the horse."

"I said no." My voice drops to something dangerous, and several nearby drivers take a step back.

Gideon studies my face, and I see the moment he understands. The memory of Tommy bleeding out on the track, the sight of his spine snapping, the way his bike kept sliding for another hundred feet without him.

"Cars then," he says, switching gears smoothly. "Got a Mercedes AMG that needs a driver. Unless you're scared of four wheels too?"

The challenge in his voice makes my hands clench. Around us, other drivers are watching, whispering. The legendary Jax Ryder, too scared to race.

Fuck that. And fuck him for knowing exactly which buttons to push.

"Where's the car?"