Page 39 of Forsaken Oath

Because if Slick Rick comes back, he’s gonna get acquainted with my fist.Again. That asshole runs his mouth too much. And he runs his mouth when he’s feeling insecure, which means he’s always talking shit.

I like to think I’m a moderately reasonable guy, but there are things in life that I just won’t tolerate. And Rick Gannon sniffin’ around my girl is on the top of the list.

“What kind of name is Slick Rick, anyway? It sounds so lame,” she mutters.

I match her leisurely pace as we head toward the block party festival. I’m in no hurry to end my time with her.

“It matches him perfectly. He’s a slimy little bastard, but he’s mostly all bark, very little bite.”

“And you? What do they call you then?”

I chuckle, the sound low and rumbling in my chest. “I’m sure they call me a lot of things, Peach. But none of it is true.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “That’s what they all say.”

I flash her a grin, enjoying the back and forth between us. It feels easy, natural, like we’ve known each other for years instead of a day.

We reach the end of the block, the sounds of the festival growing louder with each step. I stride half in front of her, my body moving on instinct to shield her as I scan the road. My eyes flick left and right, ensuring the coast is clear before we cross.

Without thinking, I reach my hand behind my back, palm up and waiting. Her fingers brush against my palm, a whisper of a touch that sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I curl my hand around hers, her skin soft and warm against my callousedfingers. She doesn’t pull away as we step off the curb together, crossing the empty street.

The festival pulses with life around us. Music spills from open doorways, the salty-sweet scent of popcorn and funnel cakes fills the air, raucous laughter and snippets of conversation float on the summer breeze. But I barely notice any of it, my entire focus narrowed down to the way her fingers intertwine with mine.

We fall into a comfortable silence, but it’s anything but quiet. We’re approaching the heart of Clearwater’s block party, and the night feels alive.

I glance sideways, watching Eloise take in the sights. Her gaze lingers on a group of people dancing to a band set up in the courtyard of a cafe, a small smile playing on her lips.

“So,” she says suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. “How can you race in the Gauntlet and run the Alley at the same time?”

I wasn’t ready for her question, but the fact that she’s asking means she’s thinking about me. I rock back on my heels, letting out a low chuckle. “So you watched me drive tonight, huh?”

She rolls her eyes, but a faint blush creeps up her cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself, Carter. I watched everyone drive.”

I clutch my chest with my free hand. “You wound me, Peach.Carter? It’s like that now, hm?”

She smirks, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Isn’t that what your friends call you?”

I grunt, my head rearing back as I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. It takes her two more steps to realize it, our hands outstretched and fingers still locked together. She looks over her shoulder at me, and I feel like the world tilts on its axis for a moment. The playful glint in her eyes, the way her lips twist into a mischievous grin, the breeze sweeping a few pieces of her hair across her cheeks.

In all my years racing fast shit, there’s only been a handful of times that I actually got hurt. I always chalked it up to luck more than anything. I wasn’t ever the most careful child, and I definitely didn’t adopt that trait as a man. But there was one time that always sticks out. I’d just gotten a dirt bike from my grandpa Dalton, and he tried to tell me to go slow, learn how to ride the bike before it spit me up and left me worse for wear, as he’d say.

I remember thinking that I didn’t need lessons. I didn’t need someone to tell me to go slow. So I took it onto the backend of their property, Magnolia Lane, and I let that thing rip.

He was right, of course. I hit a divot in one of the little hills, flew over the handlebars like a goddamn slingshot, and wound up with a broken collarbone and a healthy appreciation for helmets.

I’ll never forget the jarring way I lost my breath. I never saw the divot, so I didn’t have time to brace. The doctors said that’s ultimately what helped me. My body wasn’t tensing, it just absorbed the blow.

I wasn’t bracing for Eloise, but damn if she didn't knock the wind right out of me all the same.

She tugs on my hand and arches a brow with a small laugh. “Are we not friends?”

I’m already shaking my head, doing my best to push away the bone-jarring impact of Eloise. “Nah, Peach. We’re not friends. Let’s grab something deep-fried, and I’ll go over all the reasons why we’re most definitely not gonna be friends.”

She laughs, and I feel like a fucking sap for the way I can feel my body fueling fucking pep as I take the two steps to reach her. I don’t think I’ve ever really felt pep in my step before, but I gotta say, I don’t hate it. Not if it means I get to spend time with her.

I steer us toward Batter Up. It’s a colorful food truck parked in front of what looks like a music store. A large menu boardhangs on the side, chalk-painted with whimsical illustrations of corn dogs, funnel cakes, and cookies dancing around the edges.

She leans toward me and looks at the menu. Vanilla peaches ambush my senses, and I’m taken back to the last time I got dosed with her scent.

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