Page 1 of Jax
1
JAX
Torque Ridge was only one of the raceways owned by Kane, the president of my MC, the Redline Kings. It was alive the way it always was before a race. Loud as sin, hot under the floodlights, engines tuned so tight you could feel the vibration in your teeth. The scent of burned rubber and hot metal was thick in the air. Pit crews moved like ants, hauling gas cans and toolboxes and cussing at each other over the noise—the soundtrack of our lives.
Damn, it was hot.August in Florida was like walking on the fucking sun in the rain.
I strolled past my VP’s car, tablet balanced in my hand, glasses catching the light. With a grin I couldn’t resist tugging at my mouth, I gave him a lazy two-finger salute, then flipped my ball cap around backward. “Try not to kill anyone out there, Edge. I don’t feel like spending my night wiping you off the asphalt.”
His eyes narrowed, green flashing under the glare, but I caught the corner of his mouth twitching before he looked away.
Kane stepped into my path like a brick wall with a red beard, shoving a sheet of paper into my chest. “Background check. New hire.”
I caught it against my tablet with a grunt, thumb already waking the screen as I scanned the name. My fingers tapped on instinct, calling up the basics while I walked. This was routine. I’d done it a hundred times.
Three steps later, my brain stopped processing the noise around me.
The picture loaded.
Dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail, a pair of big eyes that were soft and sharp at the same time. Light brown, warm, like they’d see right through you and not apologize for it. Full mouth that wasn’t smiling but looked like it might if you gave her half a reason.
Something inside me snapped tight, like a switch being thrown. My body recognized her before my brain had time to name the feeling. Heat shot straight south, hard and fast. I nearly stumbled, covering it with a shift of my grip on the tablet, jaw clenching while my cock pressed hard against my jeans.
What the fuck.
It had been years since I reacted to a woman. Lust wasn’t new, but this was instant, overwhelming, and bone deep. Actually, I’dneverhad a reaction quite like this before. It was annoying and unwelcome. Something I didn’t have fucking time for.
I stopped mid-step, head jerking back up, my eyes cutting to Kane. Holding up the screen, I kept my voice flat because anything else would’ve given me away. “This is your new hire?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Of course not.
“Fuck.” It came out twisted and low, my mouth curling like the word tasted worse than it was. I snapped the tablet shut andstalked off without saying anything else, heat still burning under my skin, pissed at myself for letting a photo hit me that hard.
The noise of Torque Ridge fell away as I cut back across the pits. Engines revved and metal clanged. Edge barked something smart-assed to Drift, and Kane stood like the storm he always was, arms crossed, eyes tracking every moving piece like a chessboard only he understood. I barely noticed any of it. My brain was still on the picture.
Herpicture.
By the time I reached my bike, my tablet was tucked under my arm, and my jaw was tight enough to crack teeth. My cock was still half hard, and that pissed me off more than anything. I fired the Harley up and took the long way back, letting the night air slap at me. Hoping it would knock some fucking sense into me.
Crossbend blurred past, dark stores, neon bleeding against black sky as I drove past The Burnout—a bar owned by the MC. Laughter and bass beats spilled out onto the cracked sidewalks. Not in the mood for anything except solitude, I didn’t stop.
The compound waited a few blocks off the main drag, the clubhouse a slab of brick and steel surrounded by the familiar sprawl of bikes under security lights. The compound always smelled faintly of smoke, oil, and whatever someone was cooking to keep the brothers’ stomachs full.
Inside, the noise shifted from the chaos of race night to the deeper hum of home. A few voices drifted from the common room—laughter, cards slapping wood, and a low curse at a bad hand. I didn’t pause. Didn’t give the guys a chance to look too close at my face.
My office was down the hall from the side entrance. I liked it there—out of the way. It was far enough up and tucked away that most people didn’t bother me, but close enough to hear if trouble came through the door.
The industrial fan clicked as it turned, stirring warm air over rows of monitors that bathed the walls in a blue-white light. Wires coiled like snakes, routers blinked, and the hum of cooling fans filled the silence.
I tossed the paper Kane had given me on the desk, dropped onto the chair, and tapped a button to wake up my system. My fingers moved without thought—pure muscle memory, instinct, and addiction. I’d built this setup from the ground up. Three towers lashed together into one brain, a wall of screens that could bend the world with the right command, with even more monitors perched on my desk.
Her file came up in seconds. Lark Whittaker. Twenty-two. Assistant Event Coordinator at Brake Point Run. Some education after high school that appeared fine on the surface, a couple of references that checked out on first glance, and a credit score sitting right in the middle. Average.
Exactly average.
I leaned back, adjusting my glasses on my nose as I stared at the screen. Most people had clutter in their lives—late-night Amazon binges, old email addresses that never died, three or four forgotten social accounts that still carried embarrassing selfies from high school. People’s lives were messy as shit. Digital footprints were even worse.
Lark had none of that.
