Chapter 3

/MAYA/

It was two in the morning when I got to the abandoned warehouse but the massive, hollowed-out shipping terminal was buzzing. Dozens of modified headlights sliced through the dark like floodlights. When was the last time I'd come here? 

 I kicked my matte-black bike into neutral and kept my visor down, blocking out the glare of the neon strip lights the organizers had taped to the concrete pillars.

A hand smacked my shoulder, making me jump.

"Didn't think I'd see you back in this dump," a voice growled.

I flipped up my visor. Carter—the guy everyone called the Underground King—was leaning over my handlebars. He had a clipboard in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lip. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the bruised skin on my wrist.

"I need the money, Carter," I said flatly. "Is the fifty-grand pot real or am I wasting my time?"

"Oh, it's real," Carter said, blowing a stream of smoke away from my face. "But the crowd tonight is nasty, Maya. And that new guy I told you about on the phone? He’s already at the starting line.”

“Is he new?” I asked.

“Eh, give or take,” he shrugged. “He's been in a lot of races so I wouldn't say he's all that new but I guess he is. Nobody knows where he came from, but he’s got an expensive imported bike and it's quite obvious he isn't here for the cash. He’s just rolling over people for fun like some psycho."

I looked past Carter, down the long, oil-stained straightaway of the warehouse floor.

At the far end, parked right on the painted white line, was a machine that made my chest tighten. It was a flawless, custom-tuned racing bike, completely blacked out with carbon-fiber framing. Sitting on it was a rider draped in expensive leather gear. He sat perfectly still, not revving his engine, not looking at the cheering crowd around him. He just stared straight ahead at the obstacle-filled track.

The air around him literally felt different and I knew he would be trouble just from looking at him.

"I don't care if he was dropped from the sky or whatnot. I came here to win," I told Carter, pulling my visor back down. "Just give me my lane."

"Good luck, kid," he muttered, stepping back and waving me forward.

I rolled my bike up to the line, pulling up right next to the stranger. Up close, the size difference was obvious. He was tall and had a good build, though I knew he didn't belong here in the slums.

I kept my eyes fixed ahead, gripping the throttles, but I could feel his hidden gaze shift. Through the black glass of his visor, I knew he was looking at me.

A girl in a cropped shirt stepped between our bikes, raising a bright red flag.

I tried to steady my rapid heart beat. Fifty thousand dollars was on the line, my mom's life was on the line and even my dad's shop. Everything I had was in the line, so I couldn't lose. Not even if it kills me.

The flag dropped.

We took off at the exact same second, the roar of our engines exploding off the metal walls of the warehouse.

The tracks were nothing to look forward to. The organizers had set it up through the ruins of the old terminal—tight corners around rusted shipping containers, sudden drops over broken concrete ramps, and narrow gaps between steel pillars. If anything, the course looked more like a quick way to die.

I pushed my engine to the absolute breaking point, taking a dangerous, tight angle around the first shipping container. I expected to pull ahead—it was a street-smart shortcut only local riders knew. But as I leaned into the turn, a black shadow mirrored me perfectly. Jax was right there, his front tire practically scraping my exhaust pipe.

I thought I wouldn't be bothered by this guy but he was really beginning to get on my damn nerves.

“Fuck off,” I gave him the finger as we continued the race.

Every time I tried to break away, he blocked my line and when I accelerated down a narrow alley between two rows of crates, he swerved right into my space, forcing me to either hit the brakes or risk crashing into the metal wall.

"Screw you," I hissed inside my helmet, twisting the throttle even harder.

We hit the final stretch—a long, straight run through the center of the main warehouse toward the exit gates. It was a pure test of speed. I tucked my chin down against the tank, squeezing every ounce of power out of my bike. Jax pulled up right beside me and for three agonizing seconds, we were dead even, flying through the dark at eighty miles an hour, our handlebars inches apart.

We crossed the finish line in a blur of neon light and screaming crowds.

I slammed on the brakes, my rear tire skidding sideways across the slick concrete before I finally brought the bike to a halt. My breath came in ragged gasps, my forearms were shaking from the tension.

I ripped my helmet off, letting my tangled hair fall around my face, and turned around to see who won.

Carter was standing by the judges' table, staring at the digital timer. He looked up at us, shaking his head in disbelief. "It's a dead heat! Exactly identical times down to the millisecond!"

The crowd went wild, but I didn't care about them. I kicked my kickstand down and marched right over to the stranger, my anger boiling over the top of my fear. I could tell he had nothing to lose but this race was important to me.

"What the hell is your problem?" I demanded, stopping a foot away from his bike. "You almost pushed me into a steel pillar back there! This isn't a video game."

Jax didn't answer right away. He casually swung his leg off the machine like I wasn't talking to him. He took his time pulling his helmet off. He was such a prick.

When his face was finally revealed under the dim warehouse lights, my voice caught in my throat. He was easily the most striking guy I’d ever seen. Pale skin, grey eyes, pitch black hair and the look of aristocracy.

"You're fast," he said, and I couldn't tell if he was complimenting me or belittling me.

“Well, I'm faster than some trust-fund ghost who has to buy his skills," I snapped, trying to hide the slight tremble in my chin. I shoved my finger toward his chest. "We’re splitting that pot. I’m taking my half and I’m leaving."

He looked down at my finger, then back up to my eyes. A tiny, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips.

"The money means nothing to me," he said quietly, his gray eyes locking onto mine with a grip I couldn't break. "Keep it all, Little Mechanic. I think you're exactly what I've been looking for.”