Page 89 of Forsaken Oath

I damn near had a heart attack when some Camaro fuck tried to edge Peach off the road last night. So I did what any man would do when his woman was threatened: I edged him off the road instead. He’s definitely one of the ten not advancing to the semifinals.

I’m not sure if I should feel some kind of remorse about it, but my tolerance for motherfuckers is at an all-time low. The Gauntlet brings that out in me.

So when I see Seven Pines Garage on my way to surprise Peach at her house, my foot hovers over the brake. Last night’s race flashes through my mind, the Camaro’s swerve burned intomy brain. Word on the street is that the driver, Trent Wallis, is Seven Pines.

It begs the question: What does Seven Pines gain by knocking Peach out of the Gauntlet?

I don’t have the answer to that yet, but Nate Thomas will. Seven Pines has their fingers in a lot of pies, and none of them are clean.

Fuck, I don’t even know how deep my girl is embedded in Seven Pines, but that’s a conversation for another day.

And if Thomas happens to get the message that Eloise is mine now, then two birds, one stone. I saw the way he looked at her in Echo Ridge. And I fucking get it.

She’s a goddamn vision, too good for me, for sure. But now that I have her, I’ll never let her go.

I pull into Seven Pines Garage, parking in one of the available spaces. My truck looks too shiny, too new parked next to a half-stack of rusted out heaps of metal.

I’ve learned a long time ago not to judge a book by its cover. Though I can admit that I’ve already judged him before I even pulled up. But that has nothing to do with this garage and everything to do with a certain peach-haired goddess.

The building itself is a sagging rectangle, paint peeling from its weather-beaten walls. A couple of guys in greasy coveralls mill around, eyeing the Hellcat as I park.

I cut the engine, leaving the donuts behind, and step out. The air smells like oil and bad impulses, but I push past it. I’m not here for Nate’s bullshit—just answers. If Seven Pines has someone playing dirty in the Gauntlet, that’s information I need to know.

Inside, the garage is dim and cluttered, classic rock music blaring into the air from the four open garage bays. Three figures huddle over the opened hood of the only car, heads bent low, and a pair of legs sticking out from underneath it.

I stop next to the feet and rap my knuckles on the wall. I know better than to surprise a man when he’s underneath a car like that. That’s how accidents happen. And when I bloody this asshole today, it’s going to be on purpose.

A dark-haired guy pops his head out from underneath the hood of a truck. He tips his chin up and says, “Drop the keys in the office.”

“Nate Thomas here?”

“Nah, check the office,” he calls over his shoulder as he continues working.

I tip my chin in acknowledgment and walk outside toward the glass door in the corner of the building. I push open the office door, the hinges creaking in protest. The smell of stale cigarettes assaults my nose as I step inside the cramped space. An ancient metal desk sits in the corner, littered with greasy invoices and empty beer bottles.

A man sits behind the desk, back to me and boots propped up on the desk. “Keys go outside,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Lookin’ for Nate. He around?”

“Who’s askin’?” The man drops his boots to the concrete floor, slowly spinning around in his chair.

Levi fucking Walker. Owner of this garage and head of the Seven Pines Crew. I don’t think we’ve ever met, or if we have, it was unmemorable for me.

“You’re on the wrong side of town, Carter,” he says with a grin too feral to be polite.

My brows arch with surprise. Apparently, my reputation precedes me. Good. that should make this easier then.

“Where’s Thomas at?”

Levi shrugs and leans back, kicking up his boots to the desk once more. He drags a hand over his beard. It’s a patchwork of color with dark blond, gray, and reddish hues.

“Working, I suspect.”

I sigh internally. “I was just in the garage. He’s not there.”

Levi flashes a grin, somehow managing to make dimples look menacing. “Not that job, Carter.”

So, Seven Pines shit, then.

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