Page 51 of Axle
“Not wrong,” Emily sang from behind me.
I didn’t need to turn—I could picture the smirk on her face, the one my sister used when she was about to needle me in front of an audience. She stepped up beside Racer, swiping Archer out of his arms with practiced ease, and looked me over like she was measuring my sins.
“You’re not ready,” Emily said with a smirk, like she’d read my mind.
“Good thing I’m not the one pushing the kid out.” Ashlynn elbowed me in the ribs for that, which only made Emily grin wider.
“But…you look good.” She drew out the last word in a way that made it sound like an accusation. “Domestic, even. Is that a clean shirt? Without grease?”
“It’s a barbecue. Not a rebuild. I can keep a shirt clean for a few hours.”
“Uh-huh,” she drawled, clearly unconvinced. “And how’s Ashlynn holding up? You treating her like a queen or making her put up with your crap?”
Ashlynn opened her mouth, but I cut her off with, “She’s fine.”
A stubborn glint entered her eyes, but I gave her my best puppy dog eyes. I could tell she was debating whether to give my sister more ammunition or save me from the headache. Finally, she just giggled and winked, then mouthed,you owe me.
I was more than fine with that considering how she liked to be paid.
Emily’s expression softened. “You know she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, right?”
I gave her a look that said she was late to the party. “Every day.”
Racer chuckled. “And here I thought I was the romantic one.”
“You’re not,” Emily and I said at the same time, which made Archer giggle like he knew we’d just roasted his dad.
We got up and drifted toward the food tables, where Drift was manning the grill with a focus that made it seem like he was qualifying for something. Plates of ribs, burgers, and corn were already stacked in foil, and the line was starting to form.
Kane was halfway down the table, nursing a beer, in the middle of talking with Edge when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, answered, and leaned back in his chair. His voice dropped low, just enough to make the conversation unreadable over the clatter and chatter of the barbecue.
He hung up after a minute, shaking his head with a laugh.
“What?” I asked.
He grinned, all slow and knowing. “That was Nitro.”
Drift raised a brow. “Club business?”
“No.” Kane drew it out, amusement in every syllable. “But I think I’m gonna need to order another vest.”
The table laughed, and I just sat back with a knowing grin between me and Kane. If Nitro had just found himself tangled up with a woman of his own, then things around here were about to get really interesting.
I tightened my arm around Ashlynn’s waist, breathing her in, the noise of the yard fading until all I felt was her warmth against me and the steady beat of her heart. Whatever came next—chaos, calm, or something in between—it’d be perfect, as long as she was in it.
EPILOGUE
ASHLYNN
The hum of voices filled the converted warehouse, blending with the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. String lights looped from beam to beam overhead, casting a warm glow over the tables lined with auction items. This felt more like a family event than one for charity. That was what so many people here had become to me over the past three years. My giant, rowdy Redline Kings family.
And this event wasn’t just an auction. It was a celebration.
Savannah had been the one to suggest combining our worlds—my art and Mason’s racing—for the annual Crossbend Children’s Fundraiser. A few sketches of vintage muscle cars had turned into a full illustrated series. Sleek lines and roaring engines frozen mid-motion, each paired with a short story written by kids in the program. The moment Mason heard the idea, he’d been all in. Same with Kane.
Now those framed illustrations hung along the far wall, each one with a bid sheet already half full. I still couldn’t believe people were willing to pay real money for my work, let alone that it was for something good.
“Quit starin’ like you don’t belong here,” Mason’s low voice rumbled beside me. His arm was slung casually around my waist. Our squirming two-year-old was in his other arm, doing his best to grab at the shiny auction paddles stacked on the table.
