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Chapter One
Of all the stupid, insane, idiotic, dangerous things Neil Harrison had ever done, this one definitely topped the list.
“You got the money, rich boy?”
Neil handed over the bulging envelope to the goon standing in front of him. While the man flipped through the one hundred twenty dollar bills, quickly counting the payment, Neil looked over to the man in charge. Hector Diaz. The premier illegal street racing promoter in the city.
“I didn’t think you’d show up,” Hector said. He staggered a little closer. The half-dressed woman on his arm eyed him like he was her next meal.
“I told you. I want in the race.”
Diaz obviously didn’t like the idea of Neil hanging around. Too much exposure. As if he’d rat. Diaz would just have to get used to the idea because he wasn’t going anywhere. He was here to ride.
It had taken a few months, but Neil had finally made contact with a rider who knew a guy who knew a guy who’d vouch for him. It took another couple of weeks, showing up at the races, sitting on the sidelines of the hidden roadways, before Diaz would even look in his direction. He’d been racing on his own, through deserted country side roads and picking up races with other riders on the street also looking for some action. He’d wrecked more than a handful of bikes just being careless. But he was lucky. He’d come out unscathed, save for a minor scrape here and there. Unlike some of the other riders he’d heard about—or even witnessed—who braved broken legs, concussions, and sometimes, much worse.
But this was the big time. Diaz controlled all of the illegal races in the city. All it took was a two thousand dollar buy in—plus the willingness to risk life and limb. But for Neil, it wasn’t about the money. He had more than enough to last three lifetimes. It was the rush. The danger. The feeling of letting go of everything and everyone, even if for a brief moment.
The goon finished counting the money, glanced at Hector and gave him a nod. “It’s all here.”
“Afraid I’m going to stiff you, Diaz?”
Hector laughed. “Take your spot, pretty boy. Let’s see what you got.”
Neil smirked and walked his bike to the start line. Two other racers—one to his left, one to his right—were already in position and obviously didn’t give him enough credit. They grinned at each other when he pulled up. One of them even chuckled.
A woman in tight, barely there clothing walked by. The smell of her cheap perfume wafted through the open visor on his helmet and attacked his nostrils. Based on the sway of her hips she thought highly of herself and the two other men seemed to agree. But Neil was no fool. She was Hector’s woman, one of them at least, and he wasn’t going to even look for fear of his retaliation. Most of the casualties on the racing circuit had to do with man hitting the pavement, but it was no secret that some of the injury was human inflicted. Diaz and his crew were dangerous and they needed little provocation. Which was why he counted the money in his envelope six times before he’d left his condo.
Twenty feet from the start line she stopped and turned, pulling a green scarf from her cleavage. The bikes beside him roared to life and Neil followed suit. The rumble of the engine got his heart racing. The vibration between his legs never failed to give him a half-stiffy. He smacked down his visor, putting his world into perspective. For some reason, everything made better sense through the dark tint of his helmet.
But he was distracted when a commotion in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A rider in black approached Diaz, getting in his face. When they made to walk on to the track, Diaz held out his arm to stop him. The dude had balls to question the boss. Maybe he was new to the scene.
The rider still had his helmet on, the visor lifted just enough to let out his words, but not far enough to show his face. Most riders took their helmets off when congregating on the line, but this guy didn’t. With a small build, the fragile looking man flailed his arms. It was obvious expletives were being thrown. What did he want with Diaz? Was he trying to stop the race?
Hector made a weak attempt to keep the guy in place. After a few more exchanges, the rider finally broke free of Hector’s grip and vaulted to his bike, a blue Honda VFR. The 2012 model. A sweet ride.
But as he lifted his leg to mount, what became even sweeter than the bike was the familiar, tight, female bottom that taunted Neil through the dust kicking up from the spinning tires as she took off. It was a very familiar behind. A behind he’d seen every day at his new restaurant’s construction site for the last year. A behind he dreamt about every night.
He shook his head. It couldn’t be the person he was thinking. She rode a Ducati.
The rider stopped hard in front of him, blocking the start line. The thicker back wheel spun out and his suspicions were confirmed the second she whipped off her helmet and black hair cascaded down in lush waves.
Carson Kelly. His architect. Here. In the flesh.
Shit! He was at an illegal street race and she was witness to his actions. Finding out his secret definitely diminished his credibility as an employer, not to mention the fallout he’d face if his family found out. The business contract they’d signed didn’t include a confidentiality clause when it came to Neil’s extra-curricular activities. As he watched her anger flare and the pulse pound at the base of her neck, he knew she couldn’t be trusted. He was screwed.
“Are you insane?” she yelled. She fit her helmet between the bike and her body and kicked out the stand.
Yep, that was her. All bark…and no flirt.
Neil took off his own helmet. Shock wasn’t strong enough a word to describe his feelings about Carson being here.
“Actually, I take that back.” She lifted her leg, getting off the bike with the ease and grace he had seen her do so many times before at the construction site. “You are insane. It would explain why you’re here trying to kill yourself.”
Neil lifted the visor on his helmet so he could respond. “I’m not trying to kill myself.”
