As they walked away, a low-grade friction sparked in my chest—the kind of annoying, persistent hum you get from a bearing that’s just starting to go bad. I didn’t want him. I didn't even like the way he breathed. But watching Sienna’s fingers dig into theexpensive fabric of his jacket made my focus slip just enough to be irritating.
It was an unwelcome distraction, like a pebble caught in a tire tread—small, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore once you noticed it.
“What does that mean?” I asked, distancing myself from that weird, internal interference. “A slot.”
Luka’s grin spread. “It means you’ve never seen the fun side of this place. Better if I show you.”
Ten minutes later, we were at the beach. It wasn't a shoreline; it was a battleground. Engines snarled in a half-moon around a starting line carved into damp sand. Rigs stripped to the bone, tires thick enough to swallow ruts, lights mounted like impatient suns.
Dominic was already there, ripping across the sand as he finished a solo warm-up. He moved with precision, but I saw the hesitation in his turn radius—a slight compensation that told me he was fighting the terrain instead of dancing with it.
“You could race him,” Luka said, leaning against the side of a parked rig with a look that was far too innocent to be trusted.
My pulse rose—a stupid reaction to a stupid idea. But watching Dominic command the night made something inside me burn. He was currently idling near the start line, leaning out of his rig to let some female take a photo. He looked bored by the adoration, wearing that heavy-is-the-crown expression that made me want to scream.
I watched Dominic flick a dismissive, playful hand at another fan, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like he was the lead actor in a movie he’d already seen a thousand times.
“He thinks he’s the only one who knows how to read the tide,” I muttered, my fingers itching for a steering wheel just to break the static in my veins.
“He thinks he’s the only one worth watching,” Luka countered. He didn't sound angry; he sounded like a guy who had spent years watching his brother win and was finally bored of the script. He shot me a sharp, conspiratorial grin. “But I’ve seen you under a hood. You don’t just fix things; you understand why they break. Dom’s spent so much time at the front of the pack he’s forgotten what it’s like to actually fight for a win.”
I looked at Dominic again. He was now revving his engine—a loud, arrogant sound that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. It was a taunt disguised as a warm-up.
“He needs a wake-up call,” I said, the words feeling like a physical weight in my throat.
“He needs to realize that the sand doesn't care about his last name,” Luka corrected, his eyes bright with the kind of mischief only a younger brother can weaponize. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and flicked them at a marshal with a flourish. “Slot six! She’s in!”
The marshal grunted and tossed a battered helmet toward us. Luka caught it and held it out to me like he was handing me a loaded weapon.
“Wipe that look off his face,” Luka murmured, his voice humming with anticipation. “I love the guy, but he’s spent too long believing he’s the only lion on the beach. Do me a favor and give him a reason to actually check his mirrors for once.”
“I don’t just want to rattle him,” I said, tightening the strap of the helmet until it felt like a part of my own skull. “I want him to remember he’s mortal.”
Luka’s laugh was bright and reckless, lost in the roar of the engines as I climbed into the rig. It was rough, stripped down, and smelled of old oil—it felt like home. Two lanes over, Dominic was still adjusting his gloves, completely unaware that his own brother had just lit the fuse on his perfect night.
The marshal raised the flag. I gripped the wheel with a crushing force, breathing through nerves that tasted like salt and pure, unadulterated defiance.
Go.
Sand exploded. I didn’t chase him; I stalked. Every weight shift mattered. The rig wanted to buck, so I gave it a firm hand and a promise of speed. Dominic took the lead with textbook elegance, but he braked too soon at the first pinch. I dropped low, cutting along a ribbon of compact sand where the tide had receded.
Water splashed the frame, icy and sharp. I coaxed the machine through with quiet violence.
Halfway through the dunes, Dominic accelerated aggressively, but the sand dragged at his tires. He hit a dip wrong and the rear end kicked. A flaw. Small, but real.
I claimed the momentum. The moon lit the grains of sand like stars beneath me. For a moment, it felt like flying.
Dominic finally looked.
Our headlights locked for a split second across the dunes, and even behind the glare of his visor, I felt the moment the realization hit him. I saw his chassis jerk—a physical manifestation of shock—before fury ignited his precision. He didn't just want to win now; he wanted to bury me in the sand.
He gunned it, the engine screaming a vicious, high-octane demand for more. Now he was actually racing.
We hit the final straight neck and neck. He went wide, opting for the flashy, high-side arc that played to the crowd. I stayed low, where the sand was dark and packed hard enough to break a bone. I was going to beat him. I could feel the victory vibrating through the steering wheel. He realized it a heartbeat too late.
In a desperate, final strike, he forced a burst of speed the machine had no right to give, his rig lurching dangerously as he clipped the finish line a breath before mine.
He barely won. He barely deserved it.
