Page 43 of Ignition

“Could you open it up for me?”

A pause stretched on the line between us.

The muscles on the back of my neck stiffened.

“Only if you tell me what this is about.”

I snapped my mouth open to bark it was nothing.

“Sometime, over a drink,” he chuckled and hung up, giving me no chance to deny anything.

Infuriating old man.

I’d met Michele on the track one overcast day, not even knowing he owned it. A few races later and a coffee break spent geeking over bikes, we were the best of friends, much like it happened in kindergarten, when you found somebody else who also liked blue.

Since then, when I needed a ride, it was here I thought of first.

More often than not, he’d keep me company—and give me shit about taking corners too fast. If I ever called on nights like these, he always found a way to let me in.

And though I complained about his prodding and lecturing, the warmth in my chest screamed I cared about the bastard deep down—one of the few friends who had no clue who I was and didn’t give a shit about my parents.

How he managed to send a technician there in the time it took me to arrive, I’d never know. Bike inspected and the all clear given, I eased onto the small lane opening up to the track, excitement surging in my veins.

My blood raced alongside the bike, which responded instantly to every gravity shift, to every input from my gloves, to every satisfying click as I shifted gears.

As I sped up, the engine screamed in a way that sounded almost human—furious, alive, desperate—and the wind mirrored it, howling past my helmet, tearing at my leather jacket and pressing against me like the unbeatable force it was.

Knee dragging on asphalt, I took a corner a little faster than I should, and my stomach dipped.

Even so, slowing down was the last thing on my mind.

My brain was finally, mercifully, quiet.

My whole world narrowed to the purr of the engine, to my knees gripping the gas tank, and to the dark, gritty track beneath me—so close, I felt it whizzing under my feet.

Adrenaline rose to a roar in my blood, drowning everything else, and for once, I wasn’t thinking about her, about the way she’d spun on that dance floor—

Fuck.

I braked hard at the end of the stretch, and tires bit into tarmac, the comforting smell of burnt rubber assaulting my nostrils, mingling with gasoline and the salt of my sweat.

I killed the engine, but the silence screamed.

At once, thoughts rushed to fill the void. Somewhere out there, Liam was still smiling and cracking jokes to make her laugh, and she was looking at him—

Michele greeted me at the exit, bringing my mind to a screeching halt. The stocky, middle-aged man looked a little grumpy, like he’d dragged himself out from warm covers, but the kind glimmer in his eye won out. With a sigh that drained the lingering tension from my shoulders, I took off my helmet and gave him a tight hug.

“What’s got you out of bed, vecchiotto2?” I chuckled in lieu of a greeting, his stubble grazing my cheek as he pulled back.

“I had to see what ghosts you were chasing at this hour.” He scrubbed a hand through salt-and-pepper hair, and his piercing gaze shot through me, as if he saw everything. “Whatever it is, the track can’t fix it.”

I huffed out a dry laugh.

“You sound like a therapist.”

“Nah. Just an old man who’s wrecked enough engines to know when something’s running too hot.”

The glint in his warm brown eyes sharpened, despite the crinkles around them.