Page 28 of Forsaken Oath

“Here I am. Did you miss me?” Hawke crows, his grin wide.

Jagger huffs into Cora’s hair. “You mean in the seven minutes you were gone? Nah, bro, we didn’t.”

“Hey, you can do a lot in seven minutes,” Hawke protests, tossing everyone a wink. “Especially if the setting is right.”

Cora covers her laugh with the palm of her hand. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?”

Hawke shrugs and passes out drinks to everyone. “Yeah, well, everyone’s gotta be something.” He hands me a beer, and I accept the olive branch for what it is. Even though I don’t drink on race nights.

I tip my head toward him. “Thanks, man.”

Hawke nods, a flicker of understanding passing between us. We may not be friends, but we’re not enemies either. Not anymore.

“No problem, bro.”

He hands a drink to Graham, who takes it with a grunt and passes it to his assistant next to him. Hawke shrugs and slides in next to Cora.

He takes a drink from his cup, his eyes glued to the oval. “How’s everyone doin’ tonight? Any standouts yet?”

I cut my gaze toward him, sharpened by his carefully chosen words. “You know someone who’s racing?”

“In the same way that you know someone who’s racing, I’m sure. Just curious,” Hawke says.

I recognize some cars, drivers who’ve run this track so many times I could spot them with my eyes closed. But there’s an alarming amount of visitors here. Or fuck, maybe they bought new cars since the last time they raced here. It makes me wonder how everyone finds out about the Gauntlet.

Hawke takes a swig of his beer, his eyes scanning the crowd. Suddenly, his gaze snags on someone a handful of people away. A slow grin spreads across his face as he pushes off the railing. “Well hello there,” he murmurs.

I follow his line of sight, my eyebrows shooting up when I spot who caught his attention. A woman with long dark hair leans against the railing, her attention fixed on the track below.

My heart kicks inside my chest, and that single drop of hope fucks me up a little bit. I start, my muscles locking up as I mentally will her to turn around. There’s something familiar about her, and for a single, blissful second, I think it’sher. But the hair’s all wrong.

But when Hawke approaches her, and she turns to face him, I get a good look at her. Hope plummets into the depths of acidic disappointment. It’s definitely not her.

I start to turn away when I catch her expression as Hawke talks. He’s an animated guy, I’ll give him that. But whatever he’s doing, it’s not fucking working on her. She rolls her eyes and scoffs, physically turning to face the oval once more.

“Damn.” I whistle low under my breath. “That’s a shut down if I’ve ever seen one.” I pause. “Not that I have, because I never get turned down.”

“You’re an idiot,” Cora huffs out.

I’m surprised she even heard me over whatever the fuck her and Jagger have been giggling about for the last ten minutes.

I chuckle. “Maybe, but am I wrong, though?” It feels good to talk a little harmless shit with my sister, have her here at the Alley. Hawke doesn’t give up so easily, it seems. He leans in closer to the woman, likely so she can hear him over the crowd yelling. He pulls back just in time for me to watch her flash him a look that I can only interpret as hungry. But not in the hot way. More like she’s gonna chew him up and spit him back out kind of way. And from Hawke’s reputation, I’d bet he’d say thank you afterward.

I can’t help but laugh as he saunters back over to us a minute later. I whistle low. “Struck out, Reaper?”

He grins and takes a healthy swallow of his beer. “Nah, it’s all part of the plan, man. I’m working the long game.”

“I don’t know, Hawke. She looks a little young for you,” Cora muses, her gaze cutting to the woman in question.

Hawke grins, this sly little smirk. “You worried about me, Carter?”

Cora stutters out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

Jagger jerks his chin toward the track. “You’re gonna miss it, man.”

“Yeah, yeah. This is my good side anyway,” Hawke muses, facing the track once more.

The air crackles with the energy of the Alley tonight, the crowd’s roars blending with the rumble of engines and the squeal of tires. It’s the kind of atmosphere that sinks into your bones, gets your heart beating in time with every lap around the track. I lean against the railing separating the stands from the oval track. The familiar excitement builds lap by lap, like some kind of Lego creation nestled underneath my chest. There’s a part of me—a big fucking part—that itches to be out there instead of on the sidelines.

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