Page 3 of Sinful
Everything I'm supposed to be and not.
I grab my cut of the tips—Jamie splits them sixty-forty since I work the busy shifts—and shove the cash into my boot.
Three hundred and twelve dollars total.
A good night.
Almost enough to quiet the voice that says I should just go home.
Face my family. Face what I did.
Almost.
The parking lot is gravel and dust, my bike is the only one here that isn't a truck or a car held together by prayer and rust.
It's a Kawasaki Ninja, matte black, the only thing I own that's worth a damn.
Bought it with money from my first few races, back when I thought this was temporary.
That was two years ago.
Nothing's temporary anymore.
I'm pulling on my helmet when I hear footsteps behind me.
Too close. Too fast.
I spin, hand going automatically to the knife strapped to my thigh under my jeans—and slam directly into someone.
Hard chest. Leather cut.
The smell of cigarettes and something darker. "Shit, sorry—" I start, stepping back.
"Helle." The name stops me cold.
Myrealname.
Not Hell, what the racers call me.
Not Bailey, the name I gave Jack when he hired me.
Not any of the dozen fake names I rotate through.
Helle.
Pronounced Hell-uh, the Norwegian way my mother insisted on.
The name only my family uses.
I look up.
The man is maybe thirty, tall, with dark hair and darker eyes.
I don't know him.
Don't recognize anything about him—not his face, his build, the way he stands.
But he knows me. "No, I'm—I'm Bailey," I stammer, heart hammering against my ribs.
