Page 3 of Axle
I shoved through the door, sprinted the few yards to the bike, and swung a leg over the seat. I snagged the leather jacket off the handlebar and put it on. It was too big for me, but at least the sturdy material would offer some protection if I crashed. Then I grabbed the helmet from the other side and slammed it on my head.
My hands shook as I gripped the bars, jamming the key forward.
The engine roared to life, loud enough to draw every set of eyes my way.
Desperation coursing through my veins, I twisted the throttle and lurched forward, the sudden surge nearly throwing me off the seat. I overcorrected, swerved hard, then straightened out with my teeth clenched. The duffel thumped against my hip.
Shouts rang out behind me. Another round of gunfire snapped through the air, one bullet pinging off the dumpster I’d just passed.
“C’mon. Go, go, go,” I mumbled as I gunned the engine.
Every bump in the asphalt jolted up my spine. The lot blurred past me, and my focus narrowed to the road ahead while I held on to the handlebars for dear life.
I had no plan. Nowhere safe to go. My mind was pure adrenaline and panic.
As I made an awkward turn onto the road, the instructions from the job posting popped into my head.
Redline Speedway was public. Crowded on race days. And nearby enough that if these guys really wanted me dead, they’d have to try it in front of hundreds of people.
I leaned forward, the wind clawing at the leather jacket I’d put on as I twisted the throttle harder. My only shot was to lose them in the noise and chaos of the track before they caught me.
With them on my tail, I blew through the speedway’s security barrier, the splintered arm of the gate smacking the pavement behind me. Shouts erupted, but I didn’t slow. The track loomed ahead, cars slicing by in a deadly blur I was about to ride straight into.
2
AXLE
The world blurred to a single thread of movement and sound. The roar of the crowd, the hum of power vibrating through the wheel, and the track beneath my tires eating up every inch of space I gave it. The turn was tight. Slick. Pushed my grip to the edge. But that’s where I lived—on life’s edge, between control and chaos.
My body moved on instinct, every adjustment tuned so deep into muscle memory I didn’t have to think. This was what I was born to do. I didn’t just drive my machine—I was part of it. Even my breathing didn’t change when I passed the fucker trying to ride my draft and left him eating my dust through the straightaway.
There was nowhere I’d rather be. This was my place. My fucking church.
The final lap was approaching, and I planned to glide effortlessly across that finish line. Then everything went to hell.
The crowd’s roar shifted, becoming sharp and panicked. Tires squealed but not from the track.
A blur of chrome and black leather shot past the barrier, crashing through a folding security gate and slamming onto the dirt of turn three.
“What the fuck?” I growled.
My eyes tracked the shape automatically—small, off-balance. Clearly not comfortable on a bike. It slid across the dirt like a skipping stone until the rider hit the ground hard and rolled, launching a duffel bag off the motorcycle, arcing through the air before it thudded just a few yards in front of them.
“Shit!” I snarled, wrenching the wheel hard as my boot slammed the brake pedal. Tires shrieked, rubber biting asphalt as my car jerked to the side and cut a line through the edge of the track. I missed the body by inches. My car came to a hard, shuddering stop, the engine growling under the hood like it was pissed at me for stopping the chase.
The cars around me screamed in protest as the drivers shifted course to keep from running over the bastard who clearly had a fucking death wish.
Who the fuck rides a bike straight onto a live speedway?
Especially one owned by Kane Beckett, the president of my motorcycle club, the Redline Kings. When people said his name, it was with respect. Or fear. Usually both.
My door flew open before the car fully halted, my boots hitting the dirt, and I sprinted toward the downed rider. Adrenaline and fury roared hotter than any race had ever burned through me.
“Have you lost your fucking mind, man?” I bellowed, eyes locked onto the figure crumpled in the dirt as my brow furrowed deeper.
The man was small, and despite the oversized bomber jacket, I could tell he was lean. Almost…willowy. Not the kind of guy you’d normally see on a machine that size.
He was still, but breathing.
