Page 6 of Forsaken Oath

Maybe it’s because I’m not racing this year. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been sitting on a secret for over a year now. It’s the kind of truth that changes everything.

These were easy decisions, but both of them left me feeling like I’m half-alive, craving that rush while stuck in neutral.

“Carter, you good?” A deep voice across the table cuts through the noise, drawing every eye to me.

My brother, Graham, sits to my left and gives me a look that’s half-smirk, half-checking in. Older by fourteen months, he’s always been my biggest protector and never missed an opportunity to call me on my shit.

Business partners and best friends, we reclaimed the previously abandoned Avalon Falls Alley Speedway race track together years ago. Combining Graham’s business savvy with my talent behind the wheel, we turned our love for racing into a semi-legitimate business on the outskirts of town. We’ve poured our blood, sweat, and tears into making the Alley a success. Our seats in the coalition are a testament to that success.

I nod a few times and flash my trademark confidence. “We’re all set,” I lean forward, elbows on the table and catch Hammond’s approving nod.

Curtis Hammond, with his gray stubble and hands that bear the permanent stains of engine grease, looks pleased. “Good. I don’t need to remind you that hosting a pre-qualifier is no small thing, boys. Make sure it’s got legs, especially since we won’t get the usualCarter crowd.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks at the mention of the “Carter crowd,” the group of drivers and thrill-seekers who used to follow the Gauntlet like roadies.

Some were rivals, others were hang-arounds, affectionately calling themselves cheetahs, but they all came for the same reason: to watch the chaos and maybe get a taste of it.

The Alley receives a share of the driver buy-in for hosting the pre-qualifier, so the more drivers that enter the Gauntlet, the more money we make. And that’s not even taking into account the profits from the actual event day sales and bets.

But after my temporaryretirement,there has been some chatter of a decline. The only thing people love more than an underdog is to band together to take out the top dog.

Graham, ever the tactician, cuts in with a level voice. “We’ll handle it. You just make sure Clearwater’s ready for their share.” That’s the thing about my brother—he’s got a knack for sounding calm when there’s a storm brewing. I wish I could borrow some of that tonight. Instead, I settle for the amiable smile that’s always come naturally to me, hiding the gnawing frustration underneath.

There’s a collective grunt of agreement before the conversation shifts again, and I let my gaze wander. The hum of the room fades into background noise as I scan the faces, familiar and otherwise. Across the table, fuckingSlick RickGannon throws me a smirk. He’s always had an opinion about me, mostly because he can’t beat me and he fucking hates me for it.

“You worried about handing over your crown to me this year?” Rick’s voice cuts through the noise, drawing a laugh from a few others.

I smirk, tilting my head just enough to meet his eyes. “I could still beat you with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back,Slick Rick.”

The laughter that follows is louder this time, and I let it wash over me like the tide. It’s easier to play the part, to let the familiar banter fill the silence that’s been creeping in lately.

Rick clenches his fist, his eyes narrowing on me as he mutters, “Prove it.”

Before I can reply, Graham shifts beside me, his fingers drumming against the table as he steers the conversation back to logistics, leaving the jokes behind.

The meeting wraps up with the usual handshake deals and knowing nods. We’re in the middle of nowhere, which is ideal when holding a meeting about an illegal street racing tournament. But the threat is always there. And if we all get swept up together, then we’re all likely to go down for something. That’s one of the biggest reasons we only meet once a year.

I push back my chair, stretching out the tension that’s settled between my shoulder blades. Around me, the coalition members disperse, and I take a slow breath. The room feels lighter now, the stakes set, the countdown started.

“Beau Carter,” a syrupy voice coos. I turn, meeting the calculated smile of Callie Sharpe, one of the coalition’s sharpest minds and most dangerous players. She’s a fucking shark with the kind of ambition that eats people alive just for the fuck of it.

“Sharpe,” I reply, keeping my expression neutral.

She leans in, the scent of her perfume—floral and heavy—wafting between us. “How about a drink to discuss your plans for the Alley? I’d love to hear how you’re going to outdo yourself this year.”

I force my smile to stay easy. Callie’s been playing this game for years, and I’ve grown tired of it just as long. “Wish I could, but I’ve got plans with Graham.”

Her eyes narrow before she recovers, the smile returning as if it never slipped. “Another time, then.”

Hard fucking pass.

“Sure,” I lie smoothly, knowing full well there won’t be another time.Fucking neveris what I wanted to say.

I watch her retreat into the throng of coalition members and feel the familiar itch of escape. These meetings are a necessary evil, but they always leave me feeling restless, like I’ve outgrown a skin that used to fit just right.

“How many years do you think you’ve got left before she corners you with an offer you can’t refuse?” Graham mutters as we step outside.

I flip my baseball cap around, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sunlight. “How long has it been?”

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