Page 30 of Ride Me Reckless
I set my mug down and pulled on my boots, the laces worn and frayed. Everything we owned was either patched, rusted, or barely holding together.
Callie still wore hope like a badge. But me?
All I felt was the clock ticking. Borrowed parts. Borrowed time.
The sun beat down on the blacktop like it wanted to melt every last ounce of resolve out of me. I crouched beside the dragster, tightening the last lug nut with a growl of frustration that had nothing to do with the wrench in my hand.
"You'd better hold, baby," I muttered to the machine, brushing a hand along the polished fender. The paint was scuffed, the decals from three seasons ago peeling at the edges, but she still looked like a beast ready to bite.
This car knew all my secrets. She knew what it was like to start from nothing and scrape your way into someone'sspotlight. She also knew what it felt like to fall hard and fast, leaving scorch marks behind.
"Miss Walker?"
I looked up to see a man in a crisp white polo and mirrored sunglasses strolling toward me. The temp sponsor rep. Hale Performance something-or-other. He had a clipboard and the kind of handshake that told you he'd never held a wrench in his life.
"We just wanted to confirm you'll be in lane four for the 2:15 heat," he said, glancing over his shoulder like I was a formality. "And remember—this partnership hinges on visibility. We're looking for grit, but we're also looking for podiums. Our branding package goes further if your car crosses the finish line first."
I offered him a tight smile. "So, no pressure."
He chuckled like I was joking, then walked off with a nod that felt more like a warning.
I exhaled, wiping sweat from my brow. Across the pit wall, a cowboy in faded jeans and a hat leaned against the rail, arms folded. Something about his posture, the way his jaw set—it sent my heart shuttering. For one gut-shot second, I thought?—
But no. It wasn't Colt.
Just another shadow wearing the wrong boots.
I cursed under my breath and turned back to the dragster. Focus, Tessa.
Callie was off hustling God-knows-what with the other teams, trying to secure extra dollars from small donations. The noise of the track ramped up—announcers, engines, the pulsing crowd. It was all white-hot adrenaline.
I reached for my helmet, fingers closing around the edge.
That's when my phone rang.
I frowned. Only a few people ever called me on race day. I dug it out of my back pocket, my gut already sinking.
Mom.
I hesitated for half a second before answering. "Hey, Mama."
She didn't respond right away.
Then came her soft, uncertain voice. "Marge? Honey, is that you?"
My chest tightened. "No, Mama… it's Tessa."
A pause. Then a shaky breath.
"Oh… of course it is," she said, but her voice sounded far away. "You just sounded like your Aunt Marge for a minute. Isn't that funny?"
Funny wasn't the word I'd use.
"Mama," I said gently, ducking behind the trailer for a sliver of privacy. "Are you okay?"
"I can't find my Sunday shoes," she said, her voice wobbling. "And I told your daddy we'd be late for the potluck."
I closed my eyes.
