Page 9 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

Trip

Leaning against the fence, I watched nonchalantly as the racecar sped past, keeping my eyes solely on the car and how it hugged the track until something caught my eyes. I pushed myself off the fence, straightening my back, and took a step closer to the track, my eyes narrowed in focus.

The racecar sped by in a blur of color and sound.

The engine’s roar filled my ears. I observed the way the car navigated the twists and turns of the track, taking note of the driver’s skill and the vehicle’s responsiveness.

The way she handled the hairpin turn, with a slight drift, was impressive, and I wondered if she was an amateur playing at being professional.

There were rules on the track, and drifting wasn’t allowed.

As the car rounded the final bend, I noticed a slight wobble in the rear end, a subtle loss of control that she quickly corrected.

It was a minor flaw, but one that would cost her the race.

I made a mental note to inquire about the car’s suspension and tire pressure.

The smallest details could be the difference between victory and defeat.

My eyes remained fixed on the track, anticipating her next lap.

She was good, but there was room for improvement.

As she crossed the start line again, her determination was palpable, even from where I stood.

This time, her technique seemed sharper, her movements more deliberate.

The car hugged the curves of the track with a renewed sense of precision, and the earlier wobble was nowhere to be seen.

She had adjusted—even recalibrated—but the question lingered in my mind: was it instinct or strategy?

I leaned forward, gripping the fence now, my pulse quickening with the rhythm of the race.

The roar of the engine echoed against the concrete walls, drowning out everything around me.

This was more than just a practice run. This was a demonstration of skill, grit, and the silent communication between driver and machine.

What secrets did the car hold, and how much of her performance relied on its engineering versus her own mastery?

The hairpin turn approached once more. She entered it with calculated velocity, almost teasing the boundaries of control.

My breath hitched as the tires squealed slightly against the asphalt, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though time suspended itself.

When the car emerged unscathed, with a flawless realignment, a ripple of admiration coursed through me.

Amateur or professional, she was undoubtedly in a league of her own.

But then, a new thought crossed my mind: what if she was holding back? What if she wasn’t showing all of her cards? What if she was testing limits, pushing boundaries, or preparing for something far greater?

I’d seen drivers do it before, and she certainly had the spark of someone playing the long game.

I wasn’t sure if I admired her audacity or questioned her priorities.

Either way, it made her unpredictable, and in this sport, unpredictability was a weapon as sharp as any.

I jumped the fence and headed toward the pit. Walking across the track, I tried not to let the familiar sense of home, the smell of the rubber, the adrenaline, or the feel of the track under my feet interfere in what I was doing here. I had a job to do, nothing else.

As I approached the pit, my eyes scanned the area, taking in the familiar sights and sounds.

I spotted the car, the sleek machine that had just danced so gracefully around the track.

It was now stationary, the engine silent, and the once-roaring beast reduced to a dormant state.

I quickened my pace, eager to uncover the mysteries that lay beneath the hood.

The driver was nowhere to be seen, likely debriefing with Crane, analyzing data and discussing strategies.

I knew this routine well; it was a ritual performed after every practice session and race.

The car, however, beckoned to me, its metallic body reflecting the fluorescent lights of the pit lane.

I ran my hand along the smooth surface, feeling a connection to this machine that had just displayed such raw power and precision.

Under the watchful eyes of her current pit crew, I began my inspection, my hands moving with practiced efficiency as I checked the suspension, the tire pressure, and the engine.

My fingers traced the lines of the car, feeling for any imperfections, any clues that might explain the wobble I had witnessed earlier.

What drove her to push the limits?

Was she a maverick, a wild card, or simply a calculated risk-taker?

“Get the hell away from my car!”

Slowly straightening, I turned and challenged, “Your car?”

“You!” she damn near screeched as she stopped dead in her tracks.

“The name’s Trip.”

“Your name is ASSHOLE!”

“Or that too.” I grinned, leaning against the car, taking a good long look at the woman before me. Had to admit, she had a smokin’ hot body, even wearing that gawd awful jumpsuit. “Though I don’t think we know each other well enough for pet names yet.”

Marching right up to me, she licked her lips and sneered, “How’s this for a fucking pet name? ‘Thanks for the fuck. Hit me up next time you’re in Rosewood and I’ll put those lips of yours to good use.’ ”

“Kinda long if you ask me.” I chuckled but inwardly cringed.

Good God, what have I done?

King was going to have my balls.

The one fucking woman at that damn wedding and I went and sank my cock into another brother’s sister. Not just any brother, either. Romeo, a brother in the Silver Shadows MC.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, oh nooo ... she was also the cousin to Gator, the president of the Bourbon Kings. The very motherfucking club that was hosting the Sons of Hell while I tried to help this woman out.

Oh, I helped alright!

I helped myself right into her tight little cunt, and if her mouth was any indication, I couldn’t wait to see what it could do.

My God, this woman was something else. Strong, independent, damn good with cars and fuck me, did she have one banging body.

I should know. I’d banged it into oblivion in a fucking storage closet!

Maybe returning to the circuit wouldn’t be a hardship after all.

“You think you’re funny, asshole?” she spat, her hands now planted firmly on her hips as her glare burned into me.

“Sometimes,” I replied with a shrug, letting my crooked grin widen as I watched her face flush with anger.

This wasn’t just a woman who knew her way around cars; she knew her way around a fight too. That much was clear from the way she held herself, like she was ready to swing a wrench if I said another word out of line.

“What’s your deal, huh? Ansel may want you here, but I don’t. You show up here, act like you own the place, and crack crappy jokes like you’re some damn comedian. You’re nothing but a goddamn grease-stained, washed-up nobody!”

I smirked, pushing myself off the car and stepping closer. “You think you know me, huh?”

She didn’t back down, not even an inch. If anything, she leaned in, daring me to keep pushing her buttons.

“I know enough to know I don’t need your help,” she shot back.

And damn if I didn’t admire her fire. She was tough as nails, no nonsense, and completely unapologetic about it. The kind of woman I didn’t meet every day. The kind of woman who could turn heads and set the entire circuit ablaze without even trying.

But I wasn’t about to let her win this round.

Not yet.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I said, giving her one last wink before turning on my heel. “I’ll be outta your hair soon enough. But you might wanna check under that hood again. Something tells me you missed a spot.”

With that, I walked away, leaving her fuming but knowing I’d be back. That woman was just the beginning of what promised to be one hell of a ride.

Throwing my leg over my bike, I reached inside my jacket and pulled out my phone, quickly making a call as I watched C.C. rant and rave at some unsuspecting guy, who smartly nodded and said nothing.

As soon as the call connected, I said, “King, I’ve got a problem.”

“Trip, you’ve been there less than six hours. Gunner can’t even fuck up that fast,” he snarked.

“I fucked the driver.”

“Didn’t know you swung both ways, Trip,” King deadpanned. “But, hey... whatever floats your boat, brother.”

Groaning, I rolled my eyes. “The driver is a woman, jackass.”

“Okay? So you fucked her. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is C.C. DuBois, is Cosette Celine DuBois, the little sister to Jasper DuBois, also known as Romeo, a brother in the Silver Shadows.”

“And Gator’s cousin,” King groaned.

“Yep. That one.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Trip!” the man roared. “Only you can fuck up this badly. Was it a hit it and quit it?”

“I’m not sure,” I muttered, glancing back toward the garage where she stood, arms crossed and eyes blazing, like she was ready to incinerate me on sight. A part of me should’ve felt guilty, but instead, I was grinning like a damn idiot.

“Well, what does she want to do?”

“Hell if I know, King,” I snapped, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just talked to the woman and if my Bitch-O-Meter is reading the situation right, I need to step the fuck off. Woman wants my balls hanging from the rear bumper!”

“She can get in line,” my Prez muttered, then groaned.

“Trip, you’ve got to clean this up, and fast. I won’t let some piece of ass cause a club war because she can’t keep her legs closed.

I don’t give a fuck whose sister she is.

And for the love of God, keep your dick in your pants.

The rest of us will be flying in tomorrow.

In the meantime, stay the hell away from her. ”

“That’s going to be hard, King. She’s Ansel’s driver.”

“Find a way. I don’t care what you do, but stay the hell away from her until the rest of us arrive. I mean it.”

“I don’t think I wanna do that, King.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“No,” King groaned. “Don’t you dare say it. She’s the sister of a brother. A brother in the Silver Shadows.”

“What’s that saying, when you know, you know? ”

“You don’t know shit!” King roared. “You’re head’s still messed up from the accident!”

Grinning, I simply said, “Head’s never been clearer, Prez.”

“That’s because you’re thinking with your other head!”

“Gotta go, Prez,” I muttered, disconnecting the call and watching as she climbed into her car.

Well, this shit just got more interesting.