Page 113 of Ace of Spades

Kick lowers the music. Doesn’t turn it off just keeps it low enough that they can hear.

"We’ve got four days left. We’re making good headwind right now, but that doesn’t mean we can coast. This build-off isn’t just about showing those assholes across the pass what we’re made of–it’s national. Livestreamed. Which means every asshole who ever said SKC was dead is gonna be watching."

Murmurs ripple through the crew.

I meet every one of their gazes.

"This is our shot to remind the world who we are. And we’re not gonna half-ass it. We’re gonna show up, show out, and we’re gonnafucking dominate."

That earns me a few whoops and hollers.

Levi’s watching me like I personally just put us back on the map. His mouth curves into a slow, private smile, the kind he saves just for me. And I feel it everywhere.

Gramps tips an imaginary hat at me. "You heard the lady. Let’s get to work."

The morning flies by in a blur of sanding, welding, measuring, cussing, and laughing.

Uptown Funkblares, and this time Gramps full-on moonwalks across the bay floor while balancing a torque wrench in one hand.

Kick doubles over laughing. Joey tries to copy him, trips, and gets a smack upside the head from Ghost for being an idiot near his workstation.

I catch Levi’s chuckle from across the garage and my heart does a stupid little somersault.

We’ve barely spoken. Too busy making sure we have everything ready. But we don’t need to. I feel what he feels.

This is what home feels like.

But good moods don't hold under pressure forever.

By early afternoon, Joey’s back at the paint booth... and things start slipping.

The base coat's uneven. The stencil's blurred. The second clear coat bubbles under the heat.

I watch from the corner of the bay as Joey rips his gloves off and slams the his mask onto the worktable.

"FUCK!" he barks out, kicking a stool halfway across the garage.

The whole shop stills.

I set down the plans I was reviewing and head toward him.

"Hey," I say quietly, crouching next to where he’s slumped against the wall.

"I’m screwing it all up," he mutters, fists clenched in his hair. "This whole build’s riding on the paint and I’m gonna tank it."

"No, you’re not," I say reassuring him. "You’re good, Joey. You’re just nervous. We all are."

He doesn’t lift his head.

I glance across the shop—the crew’s pretending not to watch, but I can feel their eyes.

Levi’s gaze pins me from where he’s helping Gramps mount and engine.

Think, Sienna.

And then it hits me. I pull out my phone and text the only person I know who can help.

Me

---