Page 121 of Law Maker
“We should get some sleep before you take me back,” she said, yawning. “You can’t race without sleep.”
She could barely keep her eyes open. I held her as we settled into the backseat; moonlight landed on the delicate skin of her neck. I kissed the mark I’d left and she smiled, content.
In a few hours she’d be back at Willowbrook, far from me. My chest tightened at the thought. I hugged her like I could keep goodbye from coming.
***
Tarmac blurred under my bike’s wheels. Everything narrowed to this lap—the last one before the finish. The final curve rushed at me like a living thing.
Another rider loomed, closing fast.
Focus. I couldn’t afford to lose a fraction of a second rounding that corner. I opened the throttle. As the curve hit, I trail-braked and began to lean; my knee puck kissed the pavement and sparks flicked where leather scraped tarmac.
Eyes on the apex, I feathered the throttle. The front tire clipped it, then I was upright and hauling for the line. I blocked out wind, vibration, the riders behind me—only the finish mattered. It stretched ahead with the promise of another victory. When my front wheel crossed, I pressed two fingers to my heart and then to my helmeted mouth. Then I raised my hand. It was for her—Kaia—even if she couldn’t see. And for Dad, who I hopedwatched from above.
I rode into Parc Fermé to the roar of the crowd, half-turning to the screaming fans as I raised my hands. As soon as I swung off and yanked my helmet free, the team was on me.
Dawson hugged me first. “That was your best timing yet.” He squeezed my shoulder, his gaze soft. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I was still breathless. After the usual slaps on the back and handshakes, I threaded through a knot of journalists who angled microphones my way.
A middle-aged reporter with a gray ponytail offered his mic. “Garry Reed from Racing Today. Congrats on the win. That looked a bit too easy.”
I ran a hand through sweat-slick hair. “You should try it next time and see.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t mind you as a teacher. You’ve been using your father’s technique in the corners. Is it safer than inventing your own?”
Heat scorched the back of my neck. Had I ridden like Dad without thinking? I’d watched his races until they’d become muscle memory. “I’m his son. Guess some things are in my blood.”
“Hopefully that helps you win the season.”
“Fingers crossed,” I said. Nothing sharper came to mind. I fielded a few more questions, then joined the other two winners on the podium. We shook hands; I stood on the top step as the anthem played and the mayor of Dorware handed me a trophy.
The trophy felt heavy in my hands, but not nearly as heavy as the weight of other people’s expectations. Still, I raised it and drank the applause—Garry’s words dulled for a few perfect seconds. I twisted a champagne bottle; foam geysered, soaking the guys beside me. From the corner of my eye I spotted Ale talking to Dawson.
Then I saw Russell. My chest tightened. I hadn’t expected him here. I threaded through the crowd after the ceremony.
“Felicidades, mi niño.” Ale pulled me into a tight hug. “Great race. I was biting my nails.”
I smirked. “Garry what’s-his-face said it looked easy.”
“Pues que lo haga él,” Ale said.He can do it himself, then.
“That’s what she said,” Dawson cut in.
Ale raised a brow. “I didn’t know you were there when she did.”
I laughed. Ale tapped his neck, smug. “Did you celebrate before actually winning? Love the confidence. Maybe I should lend you my car more.”
Fuck. Kaia’s mark. The memory of her lips on my skin warmed me. I glanced toward Russell, and Ale chuckled. “I don’t think he’ll know,” he whispered.
As if summoned, Russell approached, Ethan on his heels. Tension tightened my every muscle.
“Good race,” Russell said.
Ethan extended his hand. “Congratulations, champ.”
Was he for fucking real? He hadn’t made the top fifteen, and he hated that I did. I didn’t need his hollow congratulations. I’d be happy if he ignored me for the rest of the season.
