When the helmet goes on, I’m supposed to stop being Caleb Thornton.

Out here, I’m Shane Lander—twenty-three, no family drama, just a guy who rides fast and pays his debts on time.

The converted airstrip stretches before me, cracked asphalt disappearing into darkness beyond the floodlights. Weeds push through fissures in the concrete. Rust bleeds from abandoned hangars at the perimeter.

Every weekend, the underground circuit transforms this forgotten place into a battlefield of engines and desperate men.

Shane—the real Shane—slaps my shoulder as I straddle the bike, his calloused palm warm through my leather jacket. He’s built like a boxer gone soft: broad shoulders, thick neck, a jaw that’s been broken twice and healed crooked both times.

“Three more races after tonight, and you’re clear, kid.” His grin reveals a chipped front tooth. “How does that feel?”

“Like I might actually sleep again.” I adjust my gloves with practiced precision. “It’s been a long two years.”

Two years since I stood in our kitchen watching my mother cry over bills my father left behind. Summer job money covered groceries, but it didn’t touch the debt collectors circling like vultures.

Shane offered me an out. His name is on the registry, since riders must be twenty-one. My skills on the track.

“You’ve earned it, man.” He checks something on his clipboard, pen scratching against paper. “Fastest rider I’ve ever let borrow my name.”

My mother still thinks I work late shifts at a café. She’d rather work herself to death than let Richard help—pride runs deep in our blood. This marriage is my mother’s second chance at happiness and I won’t let my father’s ghost poison that too.

And if it doesn’t last, someone needs to be the man.

The engine beneath me roars to life, vibrating through my thighs, my chest, my teeth. Despite everything, freedom floods through my veins. This is the part I’ll miss when the debt clears.

Out here, I’m not the boy whose father beat him. Not the stepbrother she despises.

Just speed and instinct and the road ahead.

“Lander, position four,” the starter calls, his voice crackling through mounted speakers. “One minute to lineup.”

I roll forward into the grid, settling beside riders whose faces I’ve memorized but whose names don’t matter. We don’t make friends here. Exhaust fumes curl through the night air, mixing with the smell of motor oil and sweat.

That’s when I see them.

No. No fucking way.

Serena and Lucas, walking through the crowd like tourists in a war zone. His arm draped over her shoulders with that casual ownership that makes me want to put my fist through his perfect teeth.

She really agreed to come here with him?

She really came here. To this oil-stained hellscape and men with criminal records. It’s blood money and broken rules. Spectators press against chain-link fencing, faces lit orange by cigarette embers, passing cash and bottles in brown paper bags.

It’s everything perfect princess Serena Lakin should never touch.

What the fuck is Lucas thinking?

She looks wrong here—too clean, too bright, like someone photoshopped an angel into a meth lab.

The overhead lights catch her hair, turning it gold against all this grime. She’s wearing jeans that actually fit and a top that shows she has a body under all those hoodies. And every guy within fifty feet is looking at her like fresh meat.

If I took her on a date, I’d choose somewhere quiet.

That bookstore café downtown with the leather chairs and the smell of old paper. She’d pretend not to be impressed, but her eyes would light up at the first editions behind glass—

I catch myself. Crush the thought before it grows roots.

“Hey, Lander.” The rider beside me gestures at my grip. “You good?”

“Just focused,” I managed through clenched teeth.

The starting signal flares red, then green.

First lap, I’m in the lead.

The world narrows to the road ahead—every crack in the asphalt, every degree of the curve. Wind screams past my helmet, drowning everything but my own heartbeat.

Mistake. Huge fucking mistake.

Don’t look. Focus on the—

She avoided it. She didn’t want him to kiss her.

She knows it’s me.

One second I’m flying. The next, the bike slides out from under me like the ground itself has betrayed me. Asphalt rushes up to meet my body. Metal screams against concrete, the world becoming a kaleidoscope of lights and asphalt and oh fuck this is going to hurt.

She’s running. Actually running toward the track, toward me. Shoving past spectators, ducking under barrier tape. Her face is white as paper. Her mouth is moving—probably screaming something—but my ears are ringing too loud to hear.

Now she runs to me. Now she’s finally…

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