RACE RIVALS. c**k RIVALS TOO?
The roar of engines still echoed in my skull even after the checkered flag dropped. Second place. Again. To him.
Jax f*****g Harlan.
I slammed my helmet onto the pit wall, the carbon fiber cracking against metal. Sweat poured down my back under the fireproof suit, sticking the fabric to my skin like a second layer of rage. The crowd’s cheers weren’t for me—they never were when he crossed the line first. Cameras flashed, reporters swarmed, and there he was: leaning against his car, helmet off, dark hair plastered to his forehead, that infuriating half-smirk aimed right at me across the paddock.
Six-foot-two of lean, coiled muscle wrapped in sponsor logos. Olive skin gleaming under the floodlights. Green eyes that always looked like they were laughing at me.
