Page 4 of Ride Me Reckless
"Tessa," I muttered under my breath. "Still knows how to knock the breath outta me without sayin' a word."
My hat sat low on my brow, but I tipped it down tighter like it might shield me from the truth that was gnawing in my gut.
I'd told myself I wasn't coming here for her.
But the truth was—it wasn't just the race that had pulled me here.
It was her. Always had been. And maybe some part of the universe had brought her back to test what was left of me.
Chapter Two
Hard to Handle
Tessa
The crowd was still roaring when I killed the engine and climbed out ofReckless.
My boots hit the pavement, and the air hit me like a wall—exhaust, rubber, dust, and the sweet, sharp tang of adrenaline still buzzed through my veins. My fire suit clung to my skin, hot and damp, but I couldn't pull it off yet—not with the way they were looking at me, so I unzipped it down to my waist to get some fresh air.
The fans were pressed up against the barricades, waving ball caps, phones, and programs. Someone yelled my name, then another.
"Tessa Walker!"
"Recklessrules!"
"Queen of the damn track!"
I smiled on cue—gritty, crooked, the kind of grin that said I'd do it all over again without blinking. That's what they came for. The attitude. The edge. Tessa "Reckless" Walker didn't blink,break, or flinch just because a few men with souped-up dragsters thought they had something to prove.
I signed a few ballcaps, posed for selfies I knew would be on Instagram before sundown, and gave a solid quote to a kid with a notepad and braces.
"No such thing as luck," I told him, voice steady. "Just grip, guts, and knowing when to hit the gas." He looked like I'd handed him the keys to a rocket ship.
The second wave came harder—an older guy wanted a picture with me "for his daughter," two teen girls wanted a video shoutout, and some big-time car blogger I vaguely recognized asked for a quick interview. I gave them all just enough. Just like always.
But as I moved through the crowd, that buzzing, hyped-up energy I usually brushed off? It started to twist inside me. A slow churn at the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with racing.
Because I’d seen him somewhere out there—behind the stands or just past the bleachers.
Colt.
I didn't expect him to come. Thought maybe he'd moved on, married some small-town sweetheart, or buried himself so deep in ranch life that the world couldn't reach him anymore. But the second I saw that silhouette—hat low, boots planted wide, arms crossed over that infuriatingly broad chest—I knew.
It was him.
And worse—I'd looked straight at Colt. Or maybe I hadn't. Maybe it just felt that way. The moment passed too fast to be sure, but something in my gut had turned to liquid.
That man had no business looking at me like he still remembered what I tasted like at two in the morning. No business showing up at my track, breathing my air, stirringup pieces of me I'd buried in five states and four sponsorship contracts ago.
Or like he still wondered what else I might’ve taken with me when I left. I used to lie awake wondering the same thing—what if I’d stayed? What if I’d told him?
But the truth?
I’d been relieved when it ended early.
Relieved... and ashamed I felt that way.
I cut through the last stretch of spectators with a nod and a quick wave, then made a beeline for the trailer. My fire suit felt like it was shrink-wrapped to my body. I didn’t dare stop to fully unzip it—not until I could shut the world out.
