Page 55 of Forsaken Oath

I’ve been doing this shit for years, since I was barely old enough to reach the pedals. Racing is in my blood, the thrill of it singing through my veins like a drug I can’t quit.

But there’s a new addiction forming, one that scares the fuck out of me. It’s not the rush of the race or the high of the win. It’s something softer, yet infinitely more dangerous.

Eloise.

Her name whispers through my mind like a siren’s call, tempting me to crash upon the rocks of my own desire. I can’t get her out of my head. The silk of her hair slipping through my fingers, the honey-gold of her eyes in the glow of the streetlights, the breathy catch in her voice when I touched her.

This can’t possibly be normal, right?

Nah, there’s something wrong with me. Maybe it’s one of those brain-eating amoebas or something, making me hallucinate.

It doesn’t seem reasonable to obsess over one woman so much.

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of Eloise from my brain. I need to focus, get my head back in the game. The Gauntlet waits for no man, and it sure as hell doesn't care about my bullshit feelings.

Popping the hood of my car, I prop it open and lean over the engine block. The sharp, familiar scent of motor oil and gasoline fills my nostrils, grounding me in the present moment. This, atleast, makes sense. The inner workings of an engine, the delicate balance of power and precision.

I check the oil, the amber liquid coating the dipstick. It’s a routine I’ve done a thousand times, but there’s a strange comfort in the ritual of it.

I lose myself in the mechanics, tweaking and tuning, my mind narrowing to the task at hand. It’s a welcome distraction from the tempest of thoughts swirling in my head.

The sun beats down on the back of my neck as I work; the heat sinking into my skin from the open garage door. A trickle of sweat runs between my shoulder blades, the humidity wrapping its sticky fist around my throat.

Time stretches and warps, minutes blending into hours until the sky bleeds into shades of orange and pink. The light slants long across the garage floor, and I think about pausing to grab something to eat.

His thunderous footfalls give him away every time. Even over the bass reverberating through the custom sound system, I hear Graham’s angry gait storming down the hallway that leads to my garage.

Graham and I share a block of three maisonette apartments. We each have our own three-story maisonette, and the one in the middle is a shared space. If we ever have family over, it’s in the middle one. It’s not uncommon for us to meander into each other’s spaces, but he usually calls me first.

“Three, two, one,” I murmur, pointing toward the door without lifting my head from under the hood.

The door swings open, and right on cue: “What the fuck, Beau?”

I wipe the grease from my fingers, tossing the rag over my shoulder as I straighten and face him. I flash him the Carter smile. Well, come to think of it, I’m the only one in the family who has this smile. So I guess it’s not the fuckingCartersmileafter all, is it? Damn, guess today is the day for all kinds of revelations.

“Brother! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble garage this fine evening?”

“Cut the shit. Want to tell me why the hell your name’s on the Gauntlet list?”

“Ah, about that.”

Graham crosses his arms over his chest, his long dark hair tied back in a neat bun at the base of his neck. With his size and that sharp, assessing glare, he looks more like a modern-day Viking than my brother. I get why people are intimidated by him. It’s why everyone brings me the problems at The Alley, and he stays in the back office.

“You know, big brother,” I start, leaning casually against the Hellcat, “did anyone ever tell you that you have one of those faces?”

He huffs a sigh, already over my bullshit. “What the fuck is going on? I thought you weren’t running the Gauntlet this year.”

I shrug and close the hood. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t.”

“But you are now.”

“Looks like it, yeah.”

Exasperation radiates off him as he rubs a hand over his face. “If you were going to run, why the hell didn’t you do the pre-qualifier at The Alley?”

“Simple, man. I wasn’t planning on running back then.”

He looks to the ceiling, muttering something under his breath about patience. Good. The man needs to lighten up, anyway. It’s a good thing he has me to get him to chill out every once in a while.

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