Page 19 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

C.C.

The garage was silent as the early morning light crept in.

The dim light of the overhead fixtures cast long shadows along the walls.

Trip grabbed the toolbox, tossing it onto the workbench with a resounding clatter.

“You start with the intake valves; I’ll handle the cylinders,” he said, his voice steady, almost mechanical.

He really hadn’t said much about anything since he picked me up this morning.

I knew something was bothering him and until he was ready to talk about it, I wasn’t going to pry.

Besides, I had my own problems to think about.

Like how I was going to broach the subject of me testing the car on the track without him chewing my ass off.

Like any driver, I was very particular who I allowed to sit in my seat. While I somewhat trusted Trip, I wasn’t ready to completely hand over the keys quite yet.

As we worked, my mind replayed every lap I’d ever driven, every rev of the engine vibrated through my bones. But this time, it wasn’t adrenaline that fueled me.

It was dread.

Each bolt I unscrewed felt like unraveling a mystery etched into metal—a mystery that connected fragments of my past to the uncertain path ahead.

The hours slipped by in a haze of oil-stained fingers and muted curses as we worked side by side.

The rhythmic clink of tools and the occasional scrape of metal against metal filled the garage, an unspoken language of determination between us.

Piece by painstaking piece, the engine began to come apart, its secrets slowly laid bare under the harsh fluorescent glow.

“Do you remember the first time you raced?” I broke the silence, my voice low but laced with a wistful curiosity.

Trip paused, the wrench in his hand hovering over a stubborn bolt.

“Yeah,” he said, a small, almost bitter laugh escaping him. “Back then, I thought the only thing that mattered was how fast I could push the car. Didn’t think about the mechanics, the sacrifices, the risks. Just the speed.”

I smiled faintly, my hands deftly working on the cylinders. “For me, it wasn’t the speed. It was the control. The way the car responded like it was alive, like we understood each other. Out there on the track, the world made sense.”

I didn’t respond, but I knew my silence was answer enough.

We both knew why we were here, pouring every ounce of energy into this engine, into the dream it symbolized.

It wasn’t just about the opening race; it was about proving something—to ourselves, to the shadows of doubt lurking in the corners of our minds.

Finally, Trip held up a gear, its teeth stripped and edges worn almost smooth. “Here,” he said, breaking the silence again. “This... this isn’t right.”

Walking over, my brows furrowed as I inspected the piece. “How does something like this even happen? This isn’t just wear and tear—this looks deliberate.”

Shit. The second I said the words, I knew I fucked up. I’d been around cars my whole life. I knew the drill. My dad was the same way. Had the same look Trip was giving me now. And when Trip swallowed hard, I braced for impact because I knew I would not like what came next.

“C.C.?”

My jaw tightened, a storm brewing in the pit of my stomach. “Don’t fucking say it, Trip.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No!” I shouted, throwing my wrench across the garage. “It’s not fair. I’ve worked my ass off to get accepted into this fucking boys’ club, and now, because of some asshole, it’s all being taken away.”

He stepped closer, his voice steady despite the chaos threatening to erupt from me. “C.C., listen to me. No one is taking anything away from you.”

I glared at him through the dim light of the garage, fierce and unyielding. “That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. Tell me how this is going to play out because from where I’m standing, it’s me sidelined.”

“Only until we catch the bastard.”

“And how long is that going to take, Trip? I’m already behind schedule. The first clash heat is weeks away, and I’ve only been on the track twice, and both times ended in disaster. So tell me how I qualify, if I can’t get behind the wheel?”

He held my gaze, refusing to back down. “You don’t. I do.”

Taking a step back, I whispered, “What?”

“I know you’d rather spit nails than trust anyone behind the wheel, but whoever is doing this started when I was driving. The guys and I think it’s someone with a grudge against me or Ansel.”

“But you don’t know who it is.”

“That’s why we’re using Trip as the bait,” King firmly said, walking into the garage with the rest of the Sons of Hell, Gator, my brother, and Ansel.

“And what about my career?” I challenged. “The second the circuit learns that Trip is driving for Ansel, I will be obsolete. It’s too late to find another team or sponsor.”

“Cosette,” Romeo sighed. “Baby, your life is more important than your career.”

Ignoring my brother, I stormed over to Ansel and slapped the fucker across the face. “This was your fucking plan all along, wasn’t it? You set this shit up to get Trip back!”

Ansel said nothing as I turned to Trip. “You do this. You take my place and we’re done. Whatever is going on between us is over. I didn’t work my ass off for some washed-up has-been to come in and take over my position.”

“C.C.!” Romeo shouted, grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him. “Enough! You don’t know what’s going on. You only think you do. We’re not doing this to punish you.”

The tension in the garage was suffocating, a heavy blanket of anger and betrayal draped over everyone present. King stepped forward, his voice sharp yet calm, cut through the chaos like a blade. “That’s enough, C.C. We don’t have time for this shit. This is about keeping you safe.”

Trip’s jaw tightened. His gaze flickered between me and King. “I never said I would take your spot, Cosette. I only want to keep you safe, whether you believe that or not.”

His words stung, but my pride refused to let me acknowledge the softness in his tone. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked to the far side of the garage, every step a declaration of protest.

Ansel finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly.

“Cosette, I’m not replacing you. But, honey, I can’t in good conscience put you behind the wheel until we catch whoever’s doing this.

My decision has nothing to do with your career or your pride.

Someone out there is playing a dangerous game, and we’re trying to end it before anyone else gets hurt. ”

I whirled around, my fists clenched. “And what if you never catch this person? What then, Ansel? Do I just sit back and watch Trip take over my career?”

King ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “You may not trust us, and I really don’t give a shit. The decision has been made, C.C., whether you like it or not.”

I glared at King. “The decision isn’t yours to make, King.”

The big man grinned, then lowered the boom. “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart, because as of an hour ago, I own everything. Including you.”

I stood there, my breath coming in short, sharp rasps as the reality of my situation sunk in.

The air in the garage seemed to thicken with my anger and frustration.

I knew they were right, that their concern was genuine, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

My gaze fell on the engine, its inner workings exposed and vulnerable, a reflection of how I felt in that moment.

Trip’s voice cut through the tense silence, his tone quiet but intense.

“I know this is hard to accept, C.C. I get it. But I’m not trying to take your spot.

I just want to keep you safe. I promise I’ll find out who’s behind this and put a stop to it.

Then you’ll be back where you belong—in the driver’s seat, showing them all what you’re made of.

” He took a step toward me, his eyes pleading for me to understand.

“How can I trust you?” I whispered, my voice laced with pain.

“How do I know this isn’t some ploy to get me out of the way?

To take what I’ve worked so hard for?” My gaze darted around the garage, taking in the determined faces of the Sons of Hell, my brother, and Ansel.

“You all think I can’t handle this, that I need protecting.

But I’m not some fragile doll that needs to be locked away for her own good.

You know what? I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m done.”

And with those words, I left the garage and everything I ever dreamed about behind.

“Does Trip know you’re drinking alone in a bar?”

Slowly turning, I was about to say some snarky retort when I saw Crane slide onto the seat next to me. Lifting my beer to my lips, I muttered, “I don’t answer to him.”

“Does he know that?” Crane chuckled, motioning to the bartender for a beer. “Would have thought there would be weddin’ bells by now.”

“If you’re lookin’ to piss me off, Crane, keep talkin’.”

“So, why are you drinking alone?”

“Why do you care?”

“Come on, C.C., it’s me. Your good buddy Crane.”

“Whatever.”

“Let me guess. The golden boy sidelined you.”

Ignoring his comment, I waved my empty beer bottle at the bartender.

God, I really wasn’t in the mood for company, and I sure as hell didn’t want to talk about Trip or anything else.

I only wanted to get drunk and forget about everything that happened at the track today.

The bartender slid another beer my way, and I took a long swig, not taking my eyes off Crane. “What do you want, Crane?” I growled.

“Just lookin’ out for you, partner.” Crane took a sip of his beer, his eyes glinting with a mixture of resentment and jealousy. “We both know the golden boy always gets what he wants.”

I scowled into my beer, the events of the day playing out in my mind like a bad country song. I didn’t know what Trip did to Crane for the man to hate him so much, and I didn’t care.

Not my problem.