Chapter 3 The Biker

Never in my nineteen years did I imagine I would be in a place like this with no restrictor plates, no noise regulations, no corporate sponsors worried about the decibel limits of their brand.

Just raw horsepower tearing up a stretch of cracked asphalt bordered by dirt and rusted fences.

I leaned against the passenger side of Chloe’s matte-black Audi, my arms crossed over my chest, unable to look away from the starting line. Two heavily modified imports were lined up, their engines revving so hard the vibrations traveled through the soles of my boots.

A girl in cutoff shorts dropped her arms, and the cars launched forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, exhaust, and burnt rubber.

I inhaled deeply. It smelled terrible and yet so fucking incredible.

At the Mercer High-Performance Racing Academy, everything was spotless. The asphalt was swept by machines every morning. The engineers adjusted my telemetry data in climate-controlled booths. The male drivers—the ones who spent their afternoons actively trying to run me off the practice track—drank expensive hydration formulas and treated racing like a do-or-die affair.

Down here, there was none of that, it was just guts, poverty, and dangerous driving.

Chloe had disappeared ten minutes ago, lured away toward the shipping containers by a guy with a neck tattoo and a pit bull. She told me to stay put. I didn't mind. I wanted to watch the cars. I needed to see how these drivers handled the lack of grip on the dirty road. They were drifting through corners with a reckless aggression I was explicitly forbidden to use at the academy.

"Nice ride."

I didn't turn my head immediately. I kept my eyes on the track, hoping whoever was talking would take the hint and walk away.

"I said, nice ride." A hand slapped the roof of the Audi.

I finally turned. Two guys were standing way too close. They were older, probably in their late twenties, wearing grease-stained denim and smelling strongly of cheap beer and stale smoke. The one who had hit the car was

smirking, his eyes raking over my jeans and jacket. I had tried to dress down to blend in, but I knew the fabric and the cut still gave me away.

"It's not my car," I whispered, not wanting any trouble. "Please don't hit the paint."

"Not your car," the second guy repeated, stepping closer. He boxed me in against the side mirror. "So you're just standing around waiting for a ride, sweetheart? We can give you a ride. Got a truck parked over by the fence."

I stiffened. I wasn't an idiot, I knew exactly how

isolated I was in this corner of the dirt lot.

"I'm fine," I said, keeping my voice hard and loud enough to be heard over the idle engines nearby. "Back off."

The first guy laughed, leaning his arm against the car window, effectively trapping me between the two of them and the vehicle. "Don't be a snob. You come down to the dirt, you play with the locals. What's your name, rich girl?"

I calculated the distance to the main crowd. Five seconds if I sprinted. But the guy on my left had his boot planted directly in front of mine.

Before I could open my mouth to yell, a shadow dropped over us.

"She told you to back off, Mickey!"

The two creeps spun around, their bravado instantly evaporating.

I looked past them and stopped breathing for a second.

The guy standing there was massive, easily six-foot-seven. Through his outfit, I could see the outline of his abs and biceps.

A slightly wrinkled leather jacket hung open, revealing intricate tattoos that covered his arms and crept up the side of his neck. But it wasn't the size or the tattoos that made the two guys freeze. It was the look in his eyes.

He looked completely dead inside.

And had a fresh bruise along his jawline and a split lip that looked like it had stopped bleeding about ten minutes ago.

"Kelvin," the first guy, Mickey, stammered, taking a quick step back. "We were just talking to her. Just having a conversation."

"The conversation is over," he said.

The two guys didn't say another word. They exchanged a nervous glance, shoved their hands into their pockets, and quickly walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

I let out a slow breath, unclenching my fists. Ugh, I hated looking vulnerable. I dealt with enough bullshit from the sexist guys at the academy; I wasn't going to let an underground street racer see me shake.

"Thanks," I said, meeting his eyes. "I had it handled, but I appreciate the intervention."

He finally looked at me, his gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth, down to my boots, and back up again. Somehow, seeing the hungry look in his eyes, made something awaken in me.

"You didn't have shit handled," he said, lighting up a cigarette. "You were about ten seconds away from getting dragged behind those crates over there," he pointed to his left side. "You have no business here if you don't know how to handle yourself."

My jaw dropped slightly at the level of disrespect. I was used to men either babying me because of my father's money, or actively avoiding me. I wasn't used to being spoken to like an idiot.

"I know how to handle myself," I snapped, my defensive instincts flaring.

"Sure you do," he mocked, taking a slow step toward me. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. He smelled like motor oil, sweat, and something else. Blood, maybe. It was an incredibly harsh masculine scent that completely short-circuited my brain for a fraction of a second. "That's why you parked a quarter-million-dollar car in the darkest corner of a chop-shop yard. Brilliant move, princess."

For God's sake, why was everyone calling me princess? I had a fucking name. "Stop calling me princess. And it's not my car."

"Doesn't matter. You look exactly like what you are."

"Which is what?" I challenged, refusing to step back even as his closeness started to make my skin hum.

He leaned in, resting one large hand on the roof of the Audi, right next to my head. His knuckles were raw and split.

"A tourist," he said softly. "A pampered, corporate nepo baby who got bored of her billion-dollar simulators and decided to come watch the poor kids risk their lives for gas money. Isn't that right, Nora?"

I gasped.

"How do you know my name?" I asked, my voice dropping.

"Everyone who touches a steering wheel knows who Stellan Mercer’s kid is," he sneered, his eyes piercing through mine. "I read the magazines. They call you the future of the grid. They say you have the cleanest racing lines in the country."

"I do."

He laughed. "Clean lines don't mean shit.out here. Besides your hair and eyes made you look like a Christmas present."

I touched my hair. "Is there something..."

I proceeded to remove my hair from it's middle part bun in an attempt to shake out what ever was in there but he only laughed.

"Relax. I meant your ginger hair and blue eyes are already markers no matter how much you try to deny it."

Anger flashed hot and fast in my chest. It was the same bullshit the guys at the academy fed me, but coming from him, it felt different. The guys at the academy said it to keep me out of their boys' club. But he was saying it to pick a fight. He wanted a reaction out of me.

"You don't know a fucking thing about me or how I drive," I fired back, stepping closer until my chest almost brushed his leather jacket. I didn't care about the size difference anymore. I wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his bruised face. "I leave space because I'm professional. I don't need to drive like a reckless amateur to prove I have a spine."

His eyes darkened, the pupils blowing out slightly.

"You call it professional," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my mouth again. "I call it

fear. You're terrified of getting your hands dirty. You like the rules because they protect you."

"I'm not afraid of anything," I breathed, my heart hammering all of a sudden.

This was so stupid. He was dangerous, a street thug, and he clearly despised what my last name represented. But standing this close to him, feeling the heat radiating off him, I felt an intense, irrational urge to grab the collar of his

jacket and pull him down to my level.

He seemed to read my mine as a dangerous smile pulled at the corner of his split lip.

"Prove it," he challenged, dropping his hand from the car and taking a step back. He gestured with his chin toward the darker, isolated side of the lot where a row of rusted shipping containers cast long shadows. "Walk with me. Unless the Mercer princess is scared of the dark."

I knew exactly what he was doing, but looking at him, feeling the disrespect and hunger rolling off him, I didn't want the safety of the car. I wanted the danger he was offering.