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Published by Nova Kane.

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Welcome to Revv, Book Four in the Full Send series.

This series has never been only about racing.

It’s about the people who live with the throttle wide open, chasing the next rush because slowing down means feeling everything they’ve been trying to outrun. It’s about reckless choices, fierce loyalty, chosen family, and finding somewhere to belong when life has never made that easy.

Revv is a story about wanting something you refuse to name.

About secret touches, stolen moments, and insisting it means nothing when it’s already becoming everything.

It’s about the kind of attraction that burns hotter the more you fight it, and the kind of love that crashes into your life without asking permission.

This book is faster, hotter, and filled with sunshine, saltwater, race days, jealousy, laughter, and more than a little chaos. But beneath all that adrenaline is a story about letting someone see the parts of you that you keep hidden and trusting them not to walk away.

As always, please take care of yourself while reading. Step away whenever you need to and return only if and when you’re ready.

Your well-being will always matter more than finishing a book.

Thank you for trusting me with your heart, and for continuing to ride with the Speed Demons.

-Nova

For the girls who wonder if the biker rides as dirty as he talks.

He does.

Hold on tighter.

Chapter One

Cece

Tampa at night is a sweaty bitch.

The air sticks to my skin like it has attachment issues, thick with salt, gasoline, and that burnt rubber smell every biker here wears like it’s designer cologne. Music spills from the open bay doors of the garage behind me, all bass and filthy lyrics, loud enough to make the pavement buzz under my wedge heels.

Motorcycles line the lot in messy rows, chrome flashing beneath cheap string lights while their engines tick as they cool. Helmets hang from handlebars and someone revs a bike for absolutely no reason other than being born with too much audacity and not enough supervision.

Basically, a normal night with this crew.

I lean against the side of Echo’s car with a plastic cup in one hand and my phone in the other, pretending to scroll even though I haven’t read a single thing on my screen in about ten minutes. My long lavender hair is sticking to the back of my neck, my black yoga shorts are riding up just enough to be annoying, and my cute little top was a good idea when there was sunlight.

Out here?

Questionable.

Still hot, though.

Obviously.

I set my cup on the hood of Echo’s car long enough to free my hand, then hook my finger around the little gold locket resting against my chest.

It’s old, scratched, and worth more to me than anything else I’m wearing. It belonged to my abuela, and inside is a tiny picture of my baby, Guacamole, a black Sphynx cat with the face of a sleep-paralysis demon and lives exclusively for snacks, naps, and judging me from his favorite place to sleep—my warm laundry.

The crew is scattered everywhere tonight.

Talon is near the open bay doors of the garage, looking annoyed for no reason, which is honestly just his face at this point. Echo is perched on the edge of a workbench, boots swinging, watching everybody act stupid like it’s her favorite reality show.

Which is fair considering every hangout somehow turns into engines revving, someone bleeding, somebody flirting with someone they shouldn’t, and at least one person saying, “Relax, it’s fine.”

It is never fine.

Nunca.

But it is entertaining.

I take a sip of my drink and look over the lot, because honestly, this group is a mess and I’m nosy. Hot bikers, bad decisions, and way too much testosterone.

A bike rolls in near the far end of the lot, loud enough to cut through the music and make half the girls turn their heads.

Of course.

Because Revel St. Clair doesn’t just show up. He makes an entrance like the world owes him attention and, annoyingly, usually gets it.

He kills the engine, swings off the bike, and pulls his helmet free. Dark hair, his black hoodie stretched across his chest, and like trouble decided to leave a signature.

Then he grins.

The kind of grin that makes smart girls do dumb things and then blame tequila.

I don’t do dumb things.

Not anymore.

Well.

Not unless he’s really hot.

Guys like him are always comfortable. Too pretty to be ignored, too loud to be forgotten, and way too used to everyone shifting around them like they come with their own gravity.

A girl near the bikes turns her head as he passes. Then another. One of them does that little hair flip thing women swear they don’t do on purpose.

Puta, please.

We all do it on purpose.

Revel notices her too. I see the flick of his eyes, the little curve of his mouth like he knows exactly what she’s offering.

And then he looks past her.

Right at me.

My drink pauses halfway to my mouth.

Because, okay.

Fuck.

He is, indeed, really hot.

Not in a cute, harmless way either. Because why would life make it easy for me? No, Revel is hot in a stupid, inconvenient, “this is why women make bad choices” kind of way.

But I’m not about to let him know that.

So I take a sip, keep my face neutral, and look back at my phone like his eye contact didn’t just ruin my entire attitude.

The cup is still near my mouth, phone loose in my other hand, one hip pressed against Echo’s car like I’m calm, cool, and not at all affected by the six-foot-three problem walking around this lot with tattoos crawling up his neck and one whole arm blacked out like he lost a fight with the devil and won.

I am calm.

Mostly.

Revel’s eyes stay on me for another second, and then his smile changes to the kind a man gets when he finds something he wants to mess with and has absolutely no plans to behave about it.

Ay, no.

My stomach does this stupid little flip.

Rude.

I lower my drink slowly and give him one flat look, the kind that says don’t even think about it.

He thinks about it.

Obviously.

Then he stops in front of me, close enough I have to tip my chin up, which is already annoying because I don’t like being physically reminded a man is tall.

His gaze drops before he says anything.

Not subtle or even accidental.

He looks me over from my hair to my hoops, down to my shirt, my shorts, my legs, then back up so slowly my skin heats like he touched me with his hands instead of his eyes. His tongue drags across his bottom lip, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he already knows I noticed.

Cocky bastard.

“Well, shit, Mama,” he says, voice low and playful. “Don’t you look good.”

I lift my drink to my lips, taking my sweet fucking time while I look him over from head to toe. When my eyes make it back to his, I cock one hip and tip my head, giving him the same unimpressed look I give every man who thinks a pretty smile is enough to get somewhere with me.

“You better be packing more than cheesy pickup lines, papi.” My mouth curves slightly. “Because I don’t do talkers. I do finishers, and I always look good.”

His grin spreads like that answer just made things worse for him in the best way.

“Oh, I know you do.” His eyes dip again, shameless and hot, lingering on my legs before sliding back to my face. “But tonight? Fuck. So fucking good.”

My fingers tighten around my cup enough that I notice.

Hopefully not enough that he does.

But of course he does, because his smile turns even more pleased, like every tiny reaction—I don’t mean to give him—is something he plans to collect.

I lower my cup and let my gaze drag over him right back. Six-foot-three of cocky biker stands in front of me like confidence is a contact sport, and Dios mío, I hate that it works.

“Careful,” I say, tilting my head. “You’re starting to sound obsessed.”

His laugh is low and immediate, like I said exactly what he wanted me to say.

“Starting?” He leans closer, not enough to touch me, just enough that I catch the heat coming off him and the clean leather smell under the gasoline. “Mama, I’ve been obsessed with you since I first laid eyes on you. Pretty sure everybody here knows it. Including you.”

I scoff, because honestly that’s safer than smiling.

“Okay well, I’m not interested so go obsess over someone else.”

He laughs again, softer this time, eyes locked on mine like he can see right through the attitude and likes what’s underneath even more.

“Yeah, okay.” His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back up. “You say that, but we both know that’s not what you want.”

My pulse jumps which is annoying.

I lift my brows and give him my sweetest look, the one that usually makes men either back up off me in fear or make bad choices.

“You think you know what I want?”

“No.” His grin turns slow, dirty, and way too sure of itself. “But I’m dying to find out.”

For a second, neither of us moves.

The music thumps behind him. Echo says something from the workbench to Lena who’s across the lot, but I don’t catch it. All I’m aware of is him standing too close, me refusing to step back, and the fact his eyes keep dropping to my mouth like he’s already decided how this ends.

Puta madre.

He’s going to be a problem.

I take another sip of my drink, acting like I’m calm, then drop my eyes back to my phone. “Yeah well, keep dying, pretty boy.”

Revel laughs under his breath, low and pleased, like me shutting him down only made him more entertained, which is exactly why I refuse to give him anything else. I’m not intimidated by him. I’m not flustered either. I’m simply choosing not to feed wild animals. Especially six-foot-three ones with motorcycles and dangerously pretty mouths I’d like to feel—

Nope.

No, pendeja. Not going there.

“Cece,” Echo calls playfully from the bench.

I don’t even have to look to know she’s smiling, but I look anyway.

Echo is watching me with one brow lifted, boots still swinging, wearing that expression she gets right before she makes somebody’s business her personal entertainment and tonight it seems she’s chosen mine..

Revel’s gaze stays on me the whole time. No embarrassment or irritation.  Just pure fucking  amusement, like every time I try to cut him down, I’m accidentally giving him exactly what he came over here for.

That’s the annoying thing about him.

Most men get defensive when you don’t giggle and bat your lashes. They puff up, push back, try to make you smaller so they can feel tall again.

Revel doesn’t.

He just stands there, taking every sharp little thing I hand him like I’m feeding him dessert straight off my tatas.

Dangerous.

But not in the easy way.

Easy danger is simple. You see it coming, you move out of the way, done. Revel is worse than that. He’s the kind of danger that grins at you, calls you mama, and somehow makes being annoying sound hot.

Which is rude and inconvenient.

Because I’m careful.

Usually.

Mostly.

When I feel like it.

“So, do you have a reason for standing in front of me still?” I ask, lifting my cup. “Or am I that unlucky this is where your ego decided to park?”

His grin flashes, all teeth and trouble. “Wanted to check up on you.”

I blink. “Check up on me?”

“Yeah.” He inches a little closer, like personal space is a rumor he heard once and ignored. “Make sure you’re still over here looking fine and giving me shit. Highlight of my day, Mama.”

Heat crawls up my neck, but I trap it behind a bored stare and point at him with my cup.

“Call me mama again and you’re gonna need a dentist.”

His smirk deepens, slow and shameless, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Noted.”

He says it like he is absolutely not taking notes.

Before I can tell him where to shove all that confidence, Sayshen stumbles in from the side and throws an arm over Revel’s shoulders like their bromance is the main event and I’m just lucky enough to be standing near it.

Great.

A drunk man-shaped distraction.

Finally, something useful.

“There he is,” Sayshen slurs, grinning way too wide. “Our pretty little menace. You done harassing Cece yet, or are we all pretending this time it's actually going to work?”

Revel shifts with the added weight, one hand coming up to steady Sayshen without ever taking his eyes off me.

“Oh, it’s working.”

I scoff. “In your dreams.”

His grin goes filthy so fast I almost regret handing him the opening.

“Definitely in my dreams,” he says, voice dropping just enough to make the words feel like fingers. “But you’re usually a lot sweeter there.”

My face gets hot.

Sayshen laughs, loud and drunk, then leans harder into him. “Bro, you’re down bad.”

I smile sweetly “And that’s my cue.”

Revel’s brows lift. “Running away already?”

“Running?” I glance over my shoulder, letting my eyes drag over him just enough to make it daring. “No, Papi. I’m just done with my community service for the night.”

His mouth twitches. “Community service?”

“Yeah.” I lift my cup in a tiny toast. “Entertaining men with oversized egos and a tragic inability to accept no. Very generous of me.”

Sayshen makes a wounded noise against Revel’s shoulder. “Damn.”

Revel laughs, low and warm, like I just made him want to chase harder.

“You say that like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Ay, cabrón, please.” I keep walking before my smile sells me out. “Don’t confuse charity with interest.”

I don’t look back.

Mostly because I have self-respect.

Also because if I look back and he’s still watching me, I might trip, and I refuse to give that man a physical manifestation of my poor judgment.

The garage sits at the back of the lot, all black-painted siding, open doors, and music leaking out like the building itself has bad habits. A couple of the girls are already heading that way, laughing with their drinks in hand, and I fall into step behind them like I am a normal woman making normal choices.

I am not.

Because my body, apparently, missed the entire conversation where I told it Revel is not happening.

My skin still feels too warm from the way he looked at me. My neck. My thighs. My mouth, because of course the man kept looking there like he had plans and no shame. Tall as fuck, stupid grin, stupid voice, stupid everything.

Goddamn.

He’s hot.

Deeply inconveniently hot.

Like, makes you forget your own point in the middle of an argument kinda hot.

And that is exactly the fucking problem.

Men like Revel are trouble. Not the kind you flirt with once, regret for a week, and move on from with a new playlist and better standards. He is the kind of trouble that knows he is trouble. The worst possible kind. With pretty eyes, a filthy mouth, and enough sex appeal to make every red flag plastered on him look like a goddamn accessory.

I know men like that.

I was raised on what men like that leave behind.

My dad chased my mom for years. Years. Flowers, cheesy songs outside her window, big promises, all that romantic novella bullshit women eat up when they want to believe being wanted means being loved.

It finally worked. She gave my dad everything she had, then she got pregnant.

And suddenly the same man who couldn’t live without her figured out how to disappear just fine.

Dropped her like she was nothing. Like we were nothing and all that chasing had just been about proving he could catch her, not keeping her once he did.

So no, I do not trust men who make wanting look easy.

I do not trust pretty faces with too much confidence, or men who smile like every no is just a challenge they haven’t won yet.

And I definitely do not trust the way my body is still humming from three minutes of Revel standing too close and running his stupidly tempting mouth.

I step inside the garage behind the girls, lifting my drink to my lips as if that can wash away the heat sitting low in my stomach.

Trouble like Revel is not something I need.

Or want.

Obviously.

I’m just walking away very fast because I’m mature, emotionally stable, and deeply committed to making healthy choices.

So naturally, I’m probably fucked.

Chapter Two

Revel

She fucking wants me. Bad.

And I ain’t being cocky. Not this time.

Cece can walk off with all that attitude swinging behind her and act like I’m a problem she’s already handled, but her pretty little body sold her out before her mouth could try and clean up the mess. I saw her eyes hit my mouth. The way her grip tightened around that cup when I got close. And every smartass comeback tonight took just a beat too long, like part of her wanted to see what I’d do before she remembered she was supposed to shut me down.

That’s not nothing.

That’s a woman talking herself out of showing just how much she’s affected.

I watch her cross the lot toward the garage, hair moving down her back. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of a side-eye.

Mean.

Annoying as fuck, but hot.

She’s doing it on purpose too. That’s what really gets me.

Cece knows ignoring me hits harder than flirting would, and I hate that it fucking works. I hate that I’m standing here grinning at her back like some dumbass who just found a new bad habit and already knows he’s keeping it.

And yeah, there are plenty of other girls here I could chase instead of the one acting like wanting me would ruin her whole life.

But that’s the problem.

They’d be too easy.

The sweet ones are fun. The flirty ones are easy as hell to get into bed. But a woman who looks me dead in the face and treats me like a warning label she already skimmed and decided to ignore?

Yeah.

That’ll fuck with a man.

In all the best and worst ways.

I drag my tongue over my bottom lip and watch her disappear through the garage doors. Probably still smiling because she thinks her walking away means she won.

Fuck, maybe she did win.

For now.

But that’s the thing about running from a man who likes speed.

It doesn’t scare him off.

It makes him wonder what it’ll take to catch you.

“Don’t,” Talon says from behind me as he approaches.

I keep my eyes on the garage while Sayshen pulls his arm off my shoulders, shaking his head like he has any room to judge before wandering after Bexley.

Like he’s not just as bad.

“Don’t what?” I ask, turning my attention to Talon.

“That.”

“Bro, I’m not doing shit. I’m just standing here.”

“You’re staring.”

“I mean, I’ve got eyes,” I say. “And with an ass like that, not staring would be a fucking crime.”

Thorne snorts as he wanders over, catching enough of the conversation to make himself a problem.

“Mate, that’s fuckin’ tragic. She’s swerved you since the day your ass rolled into town, and you’re still stood there cheesin’ like every no is a bloody love letter. If she was into you, she’d have thrown you a bone by now. Common sense, innit?”

Talon is leaning against his bike with his arms crossed, looking too amused for someone who should mind his business. Thorne has a beer in one hand and that smug little expression he gets when he thinks he’s about to witness a disaster and has front-row seats.

“Bold of you to assume I have common sense.”

“Fair,” Talon adds with a shrug.

Cece is gone now, swallowed by black-painted walls, dim lights, and bass, but my eyes keep dragging back to the doors like if I stare long enough, she’ll feel it and come back out just to tell me to fuck off again.

Which would be pathetic.

Also, kind of hot.

“Fuck me,” I say, rubbing my thumb over my bottom lip. “She’s so fucking mean.”

Talon’s mouth twitches. “And?”

“And it gets me going, dude.” I glance back at the doors, still grinning like I’ve got no damn sense. “Like she opens her mouth and insults me, and my brain goes, yeah, let’s make that worse.”

Talon laughs under his breath. “That is not healthy, dude.”

“Never said it was healthy. But it’s fucking fun.”

“Fun? Man your face says something else.”

I glance at him. “What’s my face saying?”

“That you should probably apologize to God before bed for whatever nasty shit is happening in your head right now.”

I grin. “God blocked me. And who said my thoughts are nasty?”

Talon tips his bottle toward the garage. “Dude, you were watching her walk away like you were imagining her yelling at you naked.”

A couple guys near the bikes glance over.

My head snaps toward him. “Bro, lower your fucking voice.”

Talon laughs harder. “What? Am I wrong?”

“First of all, yes.” I point at him. “Second of all, don’t talk about my girl naked unless you want me standing in this parking lot with a full chub and zero shame.”

Talon stares at me. “Your girl?”

I shrug, eyes drifting back to the garage. “Working on it.”

Thorne nearly spits into his beer. “Bloody Christ, bruv.”

“What?”

“Nothin’ about this twat is respectful.” Thorne shakes his head, laughing like he’s genuinely embarrassed to be near me. “Girl tells you to piss off once and you start actin’ like it’s foreplay. Tells you twice and suddenly you’re pickin’ baby names.”

“I’m not picking baby names.”

They both stare at me.

I shrug. “Not out loud.”

“Jesus Christ,” Talon mutters.

“What?” I look back at the garage doors, a grin tugging at my mouth before I can stop it. “You saw her. She’s all attitude and legs and that little look like she wants to stab me just to see if I’ll smile through it. Fuck, that’s the shit I live for. Can’t blame a man for having vision.”

Thorne points his beer at me. “Vision? Bruv, that’s not vision. That’s a whole fuckin’ problem.”

“Yeah,” Talon says. “A clinical one.”

I lift both hands. “Relax. I’m behaving.”

“Dude,” Talon says, “you just threatened to get hard in public.”

“Didn’t threaten.” I grin. “Warned.”

Thorne laughs into his cup. “You’re down bad.”

I run my hands down my face, still smiling like an idiot. “No shit. Keep up.”

“And would you?” Talon asks. “Smile through her stabbing you?”

I grin. “Shit, probably. Depends where she stabs me.”

Thorne groans. “You need puttin’ down.”

“I need a drink of water and maybe five more minutes of her being mean to me.”

“You’re calling that flirting?” Talon asks.

“No.” I tilt my head, “I’m calling it jerk-off material for later.”

Talon chokes on a laugh. “Dude.”

“What?”

Thorne snorts into his beer. “Mate, didn’t I hear she referred to you as community service?”

“That means she thinks I’m worth saving.” I grin. “Or helping, at least. Either way—progress.”

“And she threatened your teeth,” Talon says. “Again”

“Just means she was looking at my mouth.”

Thorne shakes his head. “You could turn a restraining order into encouragement, couldn’t you?”

“Only from the right woman.”

Talon laughs, dragging a hand over his jaw. “Jesus fuck, you’re actually insane.”

“No. I’m fucking motivated.”

I say it like a joke, and the guys take it like one, because that’s how this shit works. I run my mouth, they run theirs, everybody laughs, and nobody looks too hard at the fact I’m still standing there with my nerves lit up like I need to be doing something super fucking stupid.

Moving.

Riding.

Picking a fight.

Anything but standing still.

That restless shit under my skin doesn’t settle. It never really has.

People think it’s just personality. Loud mouth. Big ego. No survival instincts. The asshole who hits the throttle harder because he’s too cocky to believe the road can bite back.

They’re not completely wrong.

But they don’t know what the quiet does to a kid who grew up waiting for the next door to slam, the next bag to get packed, the next adult to decide he was too much fucking work.

Stillness gives my head too much room, and my head is a shitty place to be alone.

That’s why engines make sense.

Wind makes sense.

A hard lean into a turn makes sense, because at that speed, there’s no room for ghosts. No room for old houses, old caseworkers, old beds that were never really yours. No room for the kind of memories you turn into jokes because nobody knows what the fuck to do when you hand them the truth.

Lena knew.

She was the first person I met who looked at all that ugly shit and didn’t flinch. Same system. Same kind of damage. Different scars.

But I’m not thinking about that tonight.

I’m thinking about Cece.

About the way she looks at me like I’m trouble she has no intention of needing, while every little reaction she tries to hide says she’s curious what kind. About that mouth. That attitude. That locked-up, don’t-touch-me energy that makes me want to get close enough to find out what happens when she runs out of insults.

She feels like danger too.

Just not the kind I can outride.

And that’s probably the fucking problem.

I already want another hit.

****

By the time the night starts bleeding out, most of the lot has cleared.

The music inside the garage is lower now, bass muffled through the black-painted walls instead of shaking the pavement. A few people linger near the bay doors, finishing drinks and dragging out goodbyes, but the chaos is thinning. Engines start one by one. Kickstands scrape up. Headlights cutting across the lot before swinging toward the street.

The air has cooled just enough to make the heat rolling off the bikes noticeable, all warm metal, rubber, and gasoline. Usually, that’s my cue to get the fuck out before the quiet gets too comfortable.

I swing a leg over my bike and settle onto the seat, gloves dangling from one hand, helmet resting against my thigh.

Across the lot, Bexley pulls Cece into a quick hug and says something that makes her laugh.

Really laugh,

Cece tips her head back, hair slipping over her shoulder, phone loose in one hand, and that sound hits me in the chest like it has any fucking right to.

Fuck me.

That laugh is goddamn hazardous.

Bex squeezes her arm once more, then cuts across the lot and climbs into Talon’s passenger seat, still leaning out long enough to wave. Cece lifts her phone back at her, some silent girl-code promise to text when she gets home.

Talon pulls out a second later, taillights washing red over the pavement, and Sayshen follows on his bike, engine loud as fuck because the man can’t leave anywhere without announcing it.

Then they’re gone and the lot goes quiet.

I stay on my bike, helmet hanging off one handlebar, pulling my gloves on slow like I’m leaving, but my eyes go right back to Cece.

She’s already moving toward her car by the time I get the second glove on.

Bare legs, fast steps, the cool ocean air rolls through the lot and makes her hurry without trying to look like she’s hurrying.

Adorable.

She reaches her car and fumbles with her keys for half a second before getting the door unlocked. Even alone in a half-empty parking lot, she’s got that little attitude in the way she stands, like she’s ready to argue with somebody just for breathing wrong.

Probably me.

Hopefully me.

Cece pulls the driver’s door open, tosses her phone onto the passenger seat, and slides behind the wheel. The dome light catches her face for one quick second and I pick up my helmet and slide it over my head.

She turns the key.

Click.

I pause.

She tries again.

Nothing.

My mouth starts to curve.

She goes still behind the wheel, and I can practically feel her trying not to look over at me.

Then she turns the key one more time.

The engine gives one sad little cough and quits like it’s got no interest in helping her escape me tonight.

I flex my fingers inside my gloves and grin to myself.

Yeah.

I’m not going anywhere yet.

Cece’s head slowly turns toward me through the windshield, and even from here, I can feel the glare.

Beautiful.

I take my helmet back off and hang it from the handlebar before getting off the bike.

“Need help?”

Cece gets out of the car and points at me before I’m even halfway across the lot. “From you? I’d rather die.”

I lift both hands and glance around. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got a whole lot of options, Mama. Lucky for you, I’m still here.”

Her eyes narrow. “Do not start.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,”

“You were smiling.”

“I have a nice smile.”

“You have a punchable smile.”

“Yeah?” My grin pulls wider. “Still got you looking at it.”

Her eyes narrow. “Ay, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. That ship sailed years ago.”

“Clearly.” She shuts the door harder than necessary and steps aside when I reach her car. “It’s probably just being dramatic.”

“The car or you?”

Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“What? I’m asking for diagnostic purposes.”

“Diagnose this, pendejo.” She flips me off, then points at the hood. “Fix the damn car before I change my mind and make you useful for something else.”

My grin pulls wider. “Careful, Mama. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“That was a threat.”

“From you?” I lean closer, just enough to watch her chin lift. “Same thing.”

Her cheeks flush, but her stare doesn’t budge. “Keep talking and I’ll leave you with matching dents in your bike and your ego.”

“See, that’s the shit I’m talking about.” I laugh, reaching for the hood. “Goddamn entertaining.”

“Revel.”

I hold up both hands. “All right, all right. Pop the hood.”

Cece opens her mouth like she wants to argue just on principle, then rolls her eyes and reaches inside the car through her window. The hood releases with a dull click, and I step in front of it, close enough that when she moves beside me, her shoulder brushes my arm.

Not much.

Enough.

She smells like warm skin, something sweet in her hair, and the leftover bite of the night air. My hand stills on the hood for half a second too long.

She narrows her eyes. “You know cars?”

“I know a lot of shit, Mama. There’s more to me than hard abs, bad decisions, and a mouth that gets me in trouble.”

“Right.” Her gaze drags over me, slow enough to be insulting and not nearly slow enough to be innocent. “That sounds exactly like something a man says right before he makes everything worse.”

“I’m wounded.”

“Qué pena. You’ll survive.”

“For you? I’ll try.”

Her mouth twitches.

Barely.

A quick little betrayal she kills almost as fast as it shows up. I almost point it out just to be an asshole, but I don’t, because apparently I’m growing as a person.

Probably.

I lean in over the open hood and check the battery again, feeling her standing way too close beside me. Not touching. She’s near enough that I notice every little movement without trying. The shift of her shoulder beside mine, the heat coming off her skin, that sweet fucking scent that seems to follow her everywhere and makes concentrating way harder than it should be.

My hand stills on the battery cable.

“When’s the last time you had this looked at?”

She crosses her arms. “Define ‘looked at.’”

“Jesus Christ.”

“My mechanic said it had character.”

“Your mechanic hates you.”

“My mechanic is my cousin.”

“Yeah? Then whatever family beef you two have, he’s taking it out on your battery.” I mess with the cable, then nod toward the driver’s seat. “Try it again.”

She slides in and turns the key.

Click.

Nothing.

I try not to smile and fail.

She climbs back out, sees my face, and points at me again. “I swear to God.”

“What? I’m not laughing.”

“You’re spiritually laughing.”

“Can’t control my spirit.”

She blows out a breath and looks toward the street, like maybe if she stares hard enough, a responsible adult will materialize with jumper cables and no personality.

No one does.

Lucky me.

I let the hood drop with a heavy thunk. “Battery’s probably done.”

“Great. Love that for me.”

“Looks like you need a ride.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let the offer breathe.”

“You’re right. I recognized it as a bad idea and killed it quickly.”

“Dramatic. It might not be your version of ‘ideal’ but it beats sitting in an empty lot at night by yourself.”

“I can call Bexley. Get them to come back and grab me.”

“You could”—I tilt my head—“but then you’d have to explain why you didn’t take the ride already standing in front of you.”

Her lips press together.

I grin because I can see the exact second she realizes I’m right, and she hates it. Hates it so much I can practically hear her grinding her teeth.

“How much did you drink?” she asks.

“Water? Alot.”

She blinks. “What? Idiot. I meant beer.”

“I only had water,” I repeat.

“At a party?”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze sweeps over me, suspicious. “You don’t drink?”

“Not much.”

“Why?”

I could make a joke. I almost do. It’s sitting right there on my tongue, easy and stupid, the kind of answer that keeps things light.

But she’s watching me too closely.

So I shrug. “Don’t like shit messing with my head.”

That shuts her up for a second.

Not long, but long enough.

Her eyes flick over my face like she’s trying to decide whether there’s something real under the bullshit. There is. I just don’t usually hand it out in parking lots to women who threaten my dental work.

Then she lifts her chin. “You expect me to believe the walking midlife crisis with a motorcycle has a responsible streak?”

“My bike doesn’t mess with my head.” I push off her car. “It clears it.”

She looks toward my bike, then back at me, still unsure.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ve got a spare helmet inside.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“Nah, but you’re about to.”

“Cocky.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

She gives me a look and I give it right back.

The breeze moves through the lot, tugging at her hair, and she rubs a hand over her arm before she catches herself doing it. My eyes drop to the movement and I pull my black hoodie over my head.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Yes, you are.” I smirk, running my eyes up and down her body while shrugging it off my arms. “But you’re also cold.”

“I’m not. I’m—”

“Mama, your nipples could literally cut glass.”

Her mouth drops open. “Revel.”

“What? I’m observant.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m also warm,” I add, tugging the hoodie over her head.

Cece stares at me like she wants to argue, but another breeze slips between us, cool off the water, and her shoulders tighten before she can hide it.

“Fine,” she mutters, yanking the hoodie the rest of the way down. “But don’t get weird.”

Too fucking late.

The second it settles on her, I regret every decision that led to this moment.

Because fuck me.

The hoodie swallows her a little, sleeves falling over her hands, hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Her hair spills over the black fabric, and that little gold locket at her throat catches the light.

Something in my chest goes stupid tight.

Cece catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring again.”

“Yeah.” My mouth curves before I can stop it. “Can’t help that you look good in my shit.”

Her cheeks shift with a reaction

I see it and she knows I do.

And just like that, the dead car, the empty lot, and the ride home stop feeling like an inconvenience.

They feel like trouble.

My favorite fucking kind.

She follows me into the garage, which is mostly empty now, the floor sticky, lights low, music softer through the speakers.

I grab the spare helmet from behind the counter and turn back. “Come here.”

“I can put it on myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you holding it like that?”

“Because I want to.”

“Ay, qué pesado,” she mutters, but she steps closer anyway.

The second she’s in front of me, the air shifts. She’s close enough that I catch the sweet edge of her perfume, close enough that I can see the little warning in her eyes telling me not to enjoy this too much.

Bad news for her.

I’m already enjoying it.

I slide the helmet over her head carefully, making sure it sits right, then reach beneath her chin for the strap.

She goes still when my fingers brush her skin.

I take my time fastening it, because she hasn’t told me to stop and I’m not a fucking saint.

Her throat moves when she swallows.

Yeah.

I see it.

“Comfortable?” I ask, looking down at her through the open visor.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I asked a safety question.”

“You asked it with bedroom eyes.”

I laugh, letting my gaze darken on purpose as I lean in just enough to make her notice. “You think these are bedroom eyes?”

Her chin lifts. “Don’t get cute.”

“Can’t help it. Natural talent, but that was all you.” My smirk grows. “But I’ll happily finish it, because now I’m curious why you’re thinking about me and bedroom eyes in the first place.”

“Dios mío.” She huffs, annoyed, but she doesn’t step back. “Forget it. Can we go?”

Progress.

Though, one day she’s gonna punch me for real, and it’s gonna be the hottest moment of my fucking life.

I try not to look too pleased about that, but knowing me, I fail, probably.

My fingers linger near the strap for one second longer than they should before I finally drop my hands. “Sure thing, Mama.”

The ride starts with Cece acting like touching me might give her a disease.

She sits behind me stiff as hell, hands barely at my sides, thighs hovering like that inch of space is saving her from something.

I give her maybe thirty seconds of that pride before I pull out of the lot and hit the street. The bike rumbles under us, smooth and low, and the second I give it a little more gas, her arms snap around my waist.

There she is.

I smile into the night.

Tampa stretches out around us, all humid air, palm shadows, glowing signs, and warm pavement. I don’t ride crazy with her on the back. Fast enough to make her hold on, yeah, but not fast enough to scare her. People love calling me reckless because they don’t know the difference between taking a risk and being a dumbass.

I know my bike.

I know the road.

And right now, I know exactly how close she’s pressed against my back.

At first, she’s tense. Fighting it. Fighting me and the fact that every turn makes her grip tighten. But little by little, she settles. Her chest warms my back. Her helmet bumps my shoulder when she looks around. Her hands stop clutching like she’s trying not to die and start holding like maybe, just maybe, she trusts me not to kill her.

That shit hits harder than it should.

At a red light, her fingers flex against my stomach.

I look down.

My hoodie sleeves swallow her hands, and something possessive kicks hard in my chest.

Mine looks good on her.

I ride through it before it can get worse.

When we hit her street, she taps my side and points. I pull up in front of a small house with warm porch lights and flowers near the steps. Soft and sweet. Way too cute for a woman who threatened my teeth and called me community service.

I kill the engine.

For a second, neither of us moves.

I don’t point it out.

See? Growth.

Instead, I climb off first, pull my gloves off with my teeth, then tug my helmet free and hang it on the handlebar. The night air hits my face, warm and damp, but Cece stays right where she is, sitting on my bike like she belongs there and hates that I might notice.

I notice.

Obviously.

I step in front of her and reach for her helmet. “Let me get that.”

She huffs, but she doesn’t stop me when I undo the strap beneath her chin. My knuckles brush her throat, and her whole body goes still for half a second.

There it is.

I take the helmet off slowly, and her hair falls loose around her face, messy from the ride. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are parted. Her eyes are too bright.

Fuck.

She looks good like this.

A little wild and pissed off, but a lot like trouble.

I take half a step back and hold out a hand. “Come on. I’ll help you down.”

She looks at my hand like I offered her a curse. “I can get off a fucking bike, Revel.”

“You’re wearing heels.”

“And you’re wearing my patience thin.”

I laugh. “Fine. Go ahead, Mama.”

Her eyes narrow at the challenge. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“There she is,” I say, grinning.

“Do not ‘there she is me.’” Cece shifts, swinging one leg over the bike with way too much confidence and not nearly enough balance. “And don’t grin at me like you’re proud of yourself, because I swear to God, Revel, if you call me mama one more—”

Her wedge catches on the passenger foot peg.

Her whole body tips mid-threat.

I catch her before she can hit the ground, one arm locking around her waist, the other catching her hip.

For half a second, all that fire goes quiet.

Then her hands slam against my chest, fingers curling into my shirt.

I look down at her. “You were saying?”

Her eyes drop to my lips.

Then back up.

My grip tightens without meaning to.

“Careful,” I say, my voice dropping before I can stop it. “You almost fell for me.”

Her breath catches.

Fuck.

That tiny little crack in all that attitude, and God help me, I want to shove my fingers into it and pull until she stops pretending.

Her chin lifts, stubborn as hell, but her hands stay fisted in my shirt. She’s close enough that her mouth is right there. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her breath and see the way her eyes keep trying not to drop to my lips.

They drop anyway.

My grip tightens at her waist.

I should let her go.

I don’t.

Because she’s looking at me like she wants to tell me off and climb me at the same time, and fuck, she is hot when she’s fighting herself.

“Cece,” I murmur.

That does it.

She kisses me.

Hard.

No warning. No sweet little lead-in. Just her mouth on mine, pissed off and hungry, like she’s mad she wants it and decided I’m the one who should suffer for it.

A groan tears out of me, rough and low, because holy shit.

She tastes even better than I imagined.

And I imagined a lot.

Fuck, yes.

I kiss her back, one hand sliding into her hair, the other dropping lower, gripping her ass as I lift her onto the seat of my bike. She gasps against my mouth when I set her there, her knees opening enough for me to step between them, and then her hands are on me again, dragging me closer like she hates I was even an inch away.

The kiss gets messy fast.

Teeth catching lips. Tongue sliding against tongue. Her nails scraping up my chest while mine grip her hips, her waist, the bare strip of skin where my hoodie has ridden up. She bites my bottom lip, and I groan into her mouth, pressing closer until there’s nowhere for either of us to pretend this is accidental.

“Fuck,” I breathe against her lips.

She pulls back just enough to glare at me. “We can’t do this.”

“You kissed me first.”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“It has everything to do with everything.”

“Shut up.”

She grabs my shirt and kisses me again.

And yeah.

I shut the fuck up.

For about three seconds.

Then my hands slide over her thighs, thumbs pressing into warm skin as I pull her closer on the bike. She melts into it before she remembers she’s supposed to be fighting me, her body softening, mouth opening, breath turning shaky when I drag my lips from her mouth to the corner of her jaw.

“Revel,” she whispers, and fuck me, hearing my name like that nearly ends me.

I kiss her throat once.

Just once.

Enough to feel her pulse jump under my mouth and make her fingers tighten in my hair.

Then she freezes.

The wall comes back so fast I almost feel it slam between us.

Cece shoves at my chest, slipping off the bike before I can decide whether to help or get slapped for trying. Her cheeks are flushed, mouth swollen, hair a mess, and she looks furious.

Mostly at herself.

But fuck me if it still doesn’t get my cock twitching.

“That never happened.”

I blink at her.

Then my grin spreads all on its own. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Mama. A lot just happened.”

Her eyes flash. “No. Nothing happened. There was no kiss. There was no”—she gestures wildly between us, like the air itself betrayed her—“whatever that was.”

“That was you climbing me in your driveway.”

“I did not climb you.”

“Well, shit.” I lean back against the bike, grin pulling wide before I can stop it. “What do you wanna call it then? Overtime community service?”

Her eyes flash. “Mentira.”

“You kissed me like you were trying to resuscitate the needy.”

“You’re fucking delusional.”

“Maybe.” I drag my thumb over my bottom lip, still feeling her there. “But your mouth was real committed to saving me.”

“Dios mío, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” My gaze drops to her swollen lips, then lifts back to her eyes. “That’s kinda the problem.”

“You are impossible.”

“And you’re so fucking cute when you panic.”

She points at me as she backs toward her house. “This never happened.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it, Revel.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Can’t.”

“Try harder.”

“No.”

She mutters something in Spanish that sounds like a threat and storms up the walkway, tugging my hoodie tighter around herself like she has no intention of giving it back.

Good.

At the door, she turns, still flushed and glaring, looking like the best bad decision I’ve made in a long fucking time.

“And don’t text me about this.”

I tilt my head. “So you want me to text you about something else?”

Her mouth opens and closes as her glare gets hotter. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Mama.”

She flips me off before disappearing inside.

The door shuts, and I stand there beside my bike with my mouth still tingling and my hands still remembering exactly how she felt.

Never happened.

Sure.

She can lie to herself all she wants.

I’ll remember enough for both of us.

Chapter Three

Cece

I wake up still wearing Revel’s hoodie, with Guacamole plastered to my side like a naked little heating pad with abandonment issues. One wrinkly paw shoved into my ribs and his judgmental demon face way too close to mine.

The second I open my eyes, he blinks.

Slow.

Accusing.

“Oh, don’t start,” I mumble, voice rough from sleep. “You don’t know anything.”

Guacamole blinks again.

I roll onto my back and drag the blanket over my face. “Nothing happened.”

He makes a tiny offended noise.

“Okay, rude.” I peek out at him. “One thing happened. Maybe two things. Depending on how technical you want to get.”

He steps onto my chest like my shame is his throne, all warm, bony feet and unnecessary attitude.

“Ow. Guac.” I huff, grabbing him under his little armpits and moving him slightly to the side. “You’re not my priest. Stop judging me.”

He settles right back against me, purring like an evil little engine.

I stare at the ceiling.

My brain—because it hates me—immediately replays Revel’s hands on my waist. His mouth on mine. The way he lifted me onto his bike like I weighed nothing. The way his lips dragged to my throat. The way I kissed him first.

First.

Like some desperate woman with no survival instincts and a thing for bad decisions with an addiction to danger.

I groan and press both hands over my face. “I’m never speaking to a man again.”

Guacamole yawns.

“Don’t look so relieved,” I tell him. “You’re still not the man of the house. You don’t pay bills.”

He bumps his head against my chin, probably because he loves me, but more likely because breakfast has not magically appeared yet.

“Fine,” I mutter, pushing myself up. “We get up. We eat. We work. We do not think about Revel St. Clair’s mouth.”

Guacamole meows.

I point at him. “Exactly. Growth.”

I regret saying that thirty minutes later when I’m standing in my kitchen wearing an oversized shirt, one sock, and Revel’s stupid hoodie. Well, not wearing it, holding it.

To smell it.

For scientific reasons, obviously.

“Don’t,” I warn Guacamole, who is sitting on the counter like he pays rent. “I know what this looks like.”

He stares at me.

“It’s laundry analysis.”

He licks his paw.

“Exactly. Thank you.”

Except it smells like him.

Clean laundry, leather, night air, and that faint bite of gasoline that should not be attractive, but apparently my standards packed up and moved out sometime between getting on his bike and letting him put his tongue in my mouth.

I toss the hoodie into the laundry basket like distance will fix whatever it’s doing to my head.

Then I immediately take it back out.

“Nope,” I say, pointing at it. “I’m returning this. That’s all. We are not becoming sentimental over stolen fabric.”

Guacamole meows.

“Borrowed fabric,” I correct. “Don’t make me sound like a criminal.”

He hops down from the counter with all the grace of a raw rotisserie chicken and trots toward his food bowl, tail high, clearly done with my emotional crisis now that it no longer involves him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Breakfast.”

The second I open his food, he starts yelling like I’ve been starving him for years instead of six hours.

“Ay, Dios mío, calm down,” I tell him, scooping his food into the bowl while he screams at my feet. “You are so dramatic. Mira, look. Food. You survived another tragedy.”

Guacamole is bald, wrinkly, and built like a tiny old man who knows everyone’s secrets, but he’s my baby, so of course I let him act like I personally betrayed him by not serving breakfast fast enough.

I set the bowl down, and he dives in like he just came home from war.

“You’re welcome, mi amor,” I tell him. “Ungrateful little demon.”

He dives in like the bowl owes him money.

Cute, but ungrateful. Typical male.

I make coffee, but it’s trash because I’m out of the good stuff.

I take one sip and immediately regret it.

“Nope.”

I set the mug down and stare at it like it betrayed me.

Guacamole keeps eating.

“Yeah, must be nice having no standards.

Trash coffee is still coffee, and I have a set to finish.

My little work corner is tucked near the window in my bedroom, half music equipment, half controlled chaos. Laptop, controller, headphones, a notebook full of track lists and messy timing notes, one dying plant I keep forgetting exists, and a tiny framed picture of me behind the booth at one of my first real gigs.

I was nineteen in that picture. Eyeliner too thick. Smile too big.

Terrified, but acting like I wasn’t.

I kind of miss that girl.

She thought getting behind a booth at some packed bar downtown was the biggest thing that would ever happen to her.

She had no idea how hard it would be to make people take her seriously.

Men called her cute before they called her good. Promoters gave better slots to guys who barely knew their own equipment. People acted surprised when she knew what she was doing, like a girl behind the booth was supposed to be decoration first and talented second.

I had to work twice as hard for half the respect.

But I loved it.

That part never changed.

I put my headphones on, open the mix for Friday night, and stare at the waveform for a few seconds, trying to figure out where the hell it stopped working.

Neon Tide gave me midnight.

Fucking midnight.

Not the early slot where people are still ordering food and pretending they came to talk. Midnight means the room is already warm. Drinks are flowing. Bodies are moving. People are loose enough to stop caring how they look.

That’s when I like them best.

I don’t want to beg the room for attention. I want to take it.

Build the beat slow. Let them feel it in their chest. Make them wait a little, just enough to get hungry for it, then drop it hard enough that everybody forgets they were ever standing still.

That’s why I started. Not because I wanted attention.

I mean, okay, sure, attention is nice.

I’m not dead.

Music was the first thing that ever listened to me. Back then, when home felt heavy and everyone’s mood could ruin the whole house, I could put on my headphones and make something work.

The beat did what I told it to.

The drop hit where I wanted it.

All that noise turned into something I could control.

And yeah, maybe that sounds dramatic, but whatever. It mattered.

Still does.

Which is why it’s really pissing me off I can’t get this transition right, because every dirty bassline keeps making me think about Revel’s bike between my thighs.

Ay, Dios mío.

Focus, Cece.

I pause the track.

“Nope.”

Guacamole lifts his head from his little cat bed in the middle of the floor.

“Not you. Go back to being unemployed.”

He blinks, fully unbothered, then tucks himself back into the blankets.

I start the track again.

The first part works. It’s smooth, a little sexy, with a Latin house beat sitting under this darker vocal that comes in soft before the whole thing turns dirty. The second drop still isn’t right, though. I want it to hit like a bad decision. The kind you know is a bad decision before you make it, but you do it anyway because it feels too good to stop.

Which is, unfortunately, very Revel-coded.

Dark hair.

Big hands, and don’t even get me started on that stupid mouth.

The way he looked at me last night when I said nothing happened, like he knew I was lying and was cocky enough to let me.

I stop the track and yank one headphone off.

“Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.”

My phone buzzes.

I look down, and my stomach does this annoying little twist before I even see the name.

Ay, of course.

Him.

Revel: Morning, community service queen.

I stare at it.

Then at the ceiling.

Then back at the phone.

“No.”

Guacamole’s ear twitches.

“I’m not answering.”

I answer.

Me: Lose my number.

His reply comes fast.

Revel: Can’t. You stole my hoodie.

I glance toward the laundry basket, where the hoodie is half hanging out like a guilty secret.

Me: Borrowed.

Revel: You slept in it, didn’t you?

Heat creeps into my cheeks, which is rude as hell because yes.

Obviously, I did.

Me: No. I used it as a blanket for my cat.

Revel: That’s a lie, but I’ll pretend. What a lucky cat.

Me: Don’t flirt with Guacamole. He has standards.

Revel: Higher than yours?

My mouth drops open.

“Oh, he’s bold today.”

Guacamole snores from his bed, completely unbothered.

Me: Wow. One kiss and suddenly your balls dropped, huh?

Revel: Two, actually. But I love that even after “nothing happened,” you’re over there thinking about my balls.

I hate him.

I hate that I laugh more.

It slips out before I can stop it, small and stupid, and Guacamole lifts his head just enough to look at me from the bed.

I press my lips together.

“What?” I say. “He’s not funny.”

Guacamole blinks.

“Okay, he’s a little funny. Don’t make it a thing.”

Me: Nothing happened, and trust me, your balls never cross my mind. Nothing about you does, besides annoyance.

There.

Mature. Firm. Clear.

Revel: Sure, mama.

I narrow my eyes.

Me: So how’s the team’s dental insurance? Just making sure you’re covered for when I see you again.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Then nothing.

I smile despite myself.

Finally got him.

Then my phone buzzes.

Revel: You’re already planning to see me again? Cute. Do me a favor, go out to your porch.

I frown.

“My porch?” I say out loud.

Guacamole lifts his head again.

“Don’t get up. I’ll handle it. Since I’m the only adult in this house.”

He immediately gets up and follows me.

“Chismoso,” I mutter.

He trots behind me anyway, tiny claws clicking against the floor like he’s part of the investigation team.

I unlock the front door, already irritated, confused, and preparing to text Revel something mean enough to make myself feel balanced again.

Then I open the door and stop.

There is a brand-new car battery sitting on my porch.

Beside it is a drink tray with coffee, and a paper bag from Taco Veloz.

My brain short-circuits so hard I just stand there in the doorway, one hand on the knob, hair probably insane, shirt falling off one shoulder, and my sock half sliding down my foot.

Because absolutely fucking not.

This is cute.

Fuck.

Flowers, I can hate. Flowers die, smell weird after two days, and leave sad little crumbs all over the counter. Big romantic gestures, I can roll my eyes at. Men love doing shit with an audience so everyone can clap because, wow, look, he remembered women like attention.

But a battery?

Coffee?

Tacos?

My fucking tacos?

All left on my porch with no one around to watch him do it. Not even me.

No credit. No grin. No “look what I did, Mama.”

Just useful shit I actually needed.

“That little shit,” I whisper.

Guacamole squeezes past my ankle and tries to shove his whole bald head into the bag.

“No.” I scoop him up with one arm while he fights me like a gremlin being exorcised. “These are not for you.”

He makes a broken little squeak.

“Don’t make that sound. You are so emotionally manipulative.”

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Revel: You alive?

I look at the battery again.

Then the coffee and tacos.

And my stupid traitor heart, starts doing something soft and unnecessary in my chest.

I text him back.

Me: What the hell is this?

Revel: Uh not gonna lie I kinda figured it was obvious. Battery. Coffee. Tacos. Try to keep up, mama.

Me: I know what objects are, pendejo.

Revel: Aw okay good. So proud of you.

I bite my bottom lip. I am not smiling.

Absolutely not.

Me: Why are they on my porch?

Revel: ur car’s dead, so I got you a battery

Revel: I’ll swing by after training and put it in, because no offense to your cousin-slash-mechanic, but I’d rather eat pavement than let that man near your car again

Revel: Had it towed from the garage too. Should be at your place in like twenty minutes

Revel: Coffee’s for the big show prep ur working on today, Lena told me about it. And the tacos are because no offence mama, but you’re mean when you’re hungry.

Revel: And after our hot as fuck kiss lastnight, I already know you’re waking up extra mean.

Me: I hate you.

Revel: Eat first. Hate me after.

I carry everything inside in two trips, because the battery is so much heavier than it looks. I set the coffee and tacos on the counter, then stand there staring at them like they might start speaking.

Guacamole immediately jumps up beside the bag and shoves his face into the paper anyway.

“Guac.”

He freezes.

I point at him. “I love you, but I will body-check you over these tacos.”

He blinks.

I sigh and tear off the tiniest piece of tortilla. “Fine. But this is between us.”

He snatches it like a feral little goblin and runs.

I unwrap the tacos slowly.

Egg, potato, cheese, salsa Verde on the side.

My exact order.

The coffee is my exact order too. Iced cinnamon latte, oat milk, extra shot, light ice.

I hate that more than anything.

I take a sip and close my eyes before I can stop myself.

Ugh, so perfect.

“Fuck.”

I set it down fast, like that will undo the reaction, but of course it doesn’t.

The warmth in my chest gets worse.

I grab my phone.

Me: How did you know my order?

A beat passes.

Revel: Because I pay attention.

I pause.

That should not hit the way it does.

Me: Stop paying attention to me.

The reply doesn’t come right away.

Good.

Maybe I finally got him to shut up.

Then my phone buzzes.

Revel: Why? We both know you like it, mama.

My stomach flips.

Stupid. Dramatic. Traitor.

I lock my phone and set it face down on the counter.

“So done.”

Guacamole is on the floor, one paw hooked in the sleeve of Revel’s hoodie where it hangs out of the hamper. He chews his tiny piece of tortilla like he’s minding his business, which he is absolutely not.

“No,” I tell him. “We don’t like him.”

He keeps chewing.

“He’s annoying. Cocky. Way too pretty for his own good.”

Guacamole pauses.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t judge me, señor wrinkles. You’re bald and built like an uncooked chicken.”

He goes back to chewing.

“Exactly. Worry about yourself.”

I sit at the counter and eat because I’m not wasting good tacos just because they came with feelings attached.

That would be dramatic, and I am not dramatic.

I’m a grown-ass woman eating breakfast. Calmly. Normally. Like the man who sent it didn’t have his mouth on my throat last night while I stood there pretending I had even a little bit of self-control.

Totally fucking normal.

The problem is, the longer I sit there, the harder it is to stay mad.

The coffee is so good. The tacos are literally perfect. And the battery sitting by my door is proof that he noticed a problem and fixed it without making me ask.

Ay, Dios mío.

Why does he have to be annoying in a useful way?

I pick up my phone again, because, apparently, peace is not something I’m interested in today.

Me: You didn’t have to do all that.

He answers almost right away.

Revel: I know

I stare at the words.

Simple. No joke. No dirty little comment. No cocky bullshit wrapped around it.

Just ‘I know.’

Me: I could’ve handled it.

Revel: Never said you couldn’t, mama, but maybe I like taking care of shit for you

My throat tightens a little, and I put the phone down. Pick it back up. Put it down again. “See?” I tell Guacamole. “This is manipulation.” He is licking salsa off the floor.

“It is literal emotional manipulation. With tacos.”

He looks up.

“Yes, I’m still eating them.”

I take another bite because principles are important, but so is breakfast.

By the time I finish, my mood is messed up, my stomach is full, and my brain is a disaster. I go back to my desk with the coffee and try to work like I have not been personally attacked by basic consideration.

The mix is still waiting.

I put my headphones on, roll my shoulders, and restart the track from the top.

The opening breathes better now. I bring in the first vocal lower, almost buried under the percussion, letting it haunt the track instead of sitting on top of it. Then I cut the kick for half a second before I bring the beat back harder.

I nod to myself.

“Okay. There you are.”

I loop the next section and work the transition again.

The Latin rhythm is good, but the bassline is too clean. Too polite.

Neon Tide on a Friday night is not polite.

That room wants sweat, bad decisions, and music loud enough to make people forget they have jobs in the morning.

So I dirty it up.

More grit under the synth. More bite in the snare. I pull the vocal back a little so it feels less pretty and more dangerous.

I play it again.

Better.

I close my eyes and picture the room at midnight. Purple-blue lights, drinks sweating on tables, girls dancing like they came to ruin somebody’s life, guys watching like they have a chance.

Ay, pobrecitos.

The bass climbs, low and heavy, and I let it sit there for a second before the drop hits.

That’s my job.

Catch the room.

Hold it.

Make them wait just long enough to want it bad.

Hold them there.

Make them forget whoever they walked in as.

That’s the part I love most.

For an hour, maybe two if I’m lucky, nobody in that room belongs to their problems. They belong to the beat. And I get to drive.

I adjust the timing on the drop by a fraction.

There.

The second it lands right, chills lift over my arms.

“Yes,” I whisper.

That is the feeling. The click. The lock. The tiny rush when sound becomes exactly what I wanted it to be.

Not almost.

Exactly.

My phone buzzes on my desk but I ignore it.

The track keeps going, and I finally start moving with it.

My fingers slide over the knobs, easing the bass down, letting the vocal sit for a second before I bring the beat back in. Not too fast. Not too much.

That’s the trick.

You can’t throw everything at the crowd right away. New DJs do that shit all the time. They panic if people aren’t screaming in the first two minutes.

I learned better.

Attention is easy, but control is better.

You make the room curious first. Make them wait. Then, when the drop finally hits, they feel it everywhere.

That’s the part I love.

By the time I get the middle of the set right, my shoulders hurt, my coffee is watered down, and the mix finally has that bite I wanted.

Sexy.

A little mean and very me.

“Gracias a Dios,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair. “Finally.”

Then my phone buzzes.

Again, and I glance over. “Okay, damn.”

I grab it, expecting Revel, but instead it’s the group chat.

Echo: Beach later. No excuses.

Bexley: Fine, but someone else is in charge of snacks. I’m still traumatized by whatever Thorne brought last time.

Sayshen: Supposed to be a sick swell coming in too. We should hit the water.

Talon: Right before the first race of the season? Andre’s going to love that. You people need supervision.

Echo: Cece, did you finish your track?

Me: I’m working on it.

Bexley: You’ve been working on it all day. Come outside, Draculara. The sun misses you.

Me: Outside has men.

Echo: So does your phone, apparently.

Me: What does that even mean?

Echo: Revel’s been staring at his screen and grinning like an idiot all practice. Just assumed you were responsible.

Bexley: Wear the black bikini from last summer’s fashion project. The one from my Bitches & Beaches line.

Me: Why?

Echo: Because it’s hot, obviously.

Revel: I vote black bikini. Respectfully.

I stare at his name in the chat.

Of course.

Me: Revel, I will drown you.

Revel: Worth it if it gets you to the beach in that bikini, mama

Before I can answer, the group chat name changes.

Talon changed the group name to Demons Telenovela.

I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my own brain.

Me: You are not funny, Big Shaw.

Draygon: I dunno, I found it pretty funny.

Echo: Anyways. Cece, I can pick you up if you need a ride.

Revel: She’s good. I’ll have her car running by then.

I blink at the screen.

The fucking audacity.

The way he says it like it’s already handled, like he didn’t just invite himself further into my day and make it impossible for me to pretend that last night didn’t happen.

Me: Nobody asked you to be useful.

Revel: You didn’t ask if you could kiss me last night either, mama, but here we are 😉

The second I see everyone start typing, panic hits first.

“Oh, fuck no.” I close the chat so fast my thumb almost slips. “Nope. Absolutely not. We are not doing this.”

My heart kicks like I just got caught doing something illegal, which is ridiculous because I didn’t do anything.

Except kiss Revel. Twice.

Puta madre.

I lock my phone and toss it onto the bed, mad at him, mad at them, and mad at myself.

Mostly mad that I’m still smiling.

Guacamole lifts his head.

I point at him. “Save it. He’s still annoying.”

I glance at the laundry basket.

Then at the hoodie.

Guacamole stretches one wrinkly leg into the air and starts cleaning himself.

“Disgusting, dude.”

I turn back to my laptop and shove my headphones over my ears before I get dumb enough to open the chat again.

Whatever they’re saying, I don’t need to know.

Revel is probably grinning at his phone like the cocky little shit he is right now.

He knows exactly what he did.

I restart the track from the middle and force myself to focus. The bass rolls in low and dirty, the vocal slipping under it smooth enough to make my shoulders loosen. I count the beat under my breath.

My fingers move over the controller, adjusting the bass, sharpening the percussion, dragging the tension out a little longer. The mix starts to shift into something hotter. Meaner. The kind of track that makes you move before you decide to.

Very inconveniently like last night.

His hands on my thighs and his mouth on my throat.

That stupid grin when I told him nothing happened.

I adjust the next drop harder than I planned, and it works.

The beat cuts out for one sharp second.

Then slams back in.

A slow smile pulls at my mouth. “Finally.”

Guacamole meows from the bed.

“Not you,” I tell him.

He settles back down, useless and loved.

I save the mix twice, then play it again from the top.

The group chat stays unopened.

My phone stays facedown, and Revel stays exactly where I do not want him.

In my head.

On my mouth and under my skin.

Ay, Dios mío.

I lean back in my chair, listening to the bass hit just right, and try not to think about the questions I’m going to get the second the girls see my face. I can already hear them giving me shit. And Revel? He better not say one damn word.

The drop hits again, filthy and perfect.

I close my eyes. “Liar,” I mutter.

Chapter Four

Revel

“Dude, she fucking kissed you?”

Sayshen’s voice cuts through the garage the second I walk in.

I stop just inside the bay with my helmet under my arm and look over at him. He’s standing by the workbench with his phone in his hand, the group chat still open on the screen. Talon is beside one of the bikes, Echo is on her stool with a wrench in her hand, and Draygon is leaning against the tool chest.

All of them are staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You kissed Cece and didn’t tell us?” Sayshen says, like I’ve personally offended him.

“I did tell you.”

“Nah man, you dropped it in the chat this morning and disappeared.”

“I was fucking riding.”

“That is not an excuse.”

Talon wipes his hands on a rag and looks at Sayshen. “Shit, at least he was smart enough not to ride and text. More than I can say for you, bro.”

Then he turns and whips the rag at my head.

I catch it before it hits me.

“However,” he adds, pointing at me, “that is important group intel, and we should’ve been informed the second it happened.”

“Yeah, well, I had other shit going on.” I smirk and snap the rag back at him before setting my helmet on the workbench.

Echo points her wrench at me. “Clearly.”

“You all need fucking lives.”

“We have lives,” Sayshen says. “This is part of them now. We’re all tuned in to the Speed Demons telenovela.”

“I thought you were about to fucking die when you did that shit, I’m not gonna lie,” I say, unzipping my leathers and peeling the top half down around my waist.

Draygon folds his arms. “Okay, but did she actually kiss you, or are you making it sound better than it was?”

I grin. “Oh, she fucking kissed me.”

“First?” Talon asks.

“Yeah.”

That gets all of them going again.

Sayshen throws his free hand in the air. “She kissed you first?”

“She grabbed my shirt and pulled me in, but that’s all you’re getting. I’m not kissing and telling.”

“Bit fucking late for that,” Echo says. “Still rude as hell to keep the good details to yourself.”

She turns back to the bike in front of her, one hand braced against the frame while she adjusts the rear suspension with the other. Her laptop sits open on the rolling cart beside her, covered in graphs and numbers from the last test run.

Sayshen moves closer. “Okay, but what happened after?”

“I kissed her back.”

“No shit.”

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Details.”

I lean against the bench and pull out my phone.

Still no reply from Cece.

“She kissed me, I kissed her back, then she told me it never fucking happened.”

“That sounds more like her.”

Thorne’s voice comes from the side door.

I look over as he walks in with Reign behind him. Reign pulls his earbuds out while both of them carry coffees, slowing when they see everyone crowded around me instead of working.

Reign glances between us. “What happened?”

“Cece kissed Revel,” Sayshen says immediately.

Reign looks at me, then at everyone else. “And nobody told me?”

“That’s what we’re mad about,” Sayshen says.

“I put it in the damn chat.” I slide my phone back into my pocket and look around at all of them. “Since when is my romantic life everybody’s fucking business anyway?”

Thorne takes a slow drink of his coffee and looks me over. “Since you’ve spent the last week banging on about her like a proper lovesick prick, mate.”

“I have not.”

“You have,” he says, deadpan. “It’s been tragic to watch.”

Echo snorts without looking up from the bike. “He’s right.”

Thorne jerks his chin toward my pocket. “And now you’re standing there checking your mobile every thirty seconds like she’s binned you off already.”

“She hasn’t binned me off.”

“Not yet.”

The main garage door rattles as it rolls the rest of the way open.

Andre walks in carrying a clipboard under one arm, sunglasses pushed onto his head. He makes it three steps before taking in all of us standing around, Thorne still beside Echo, Sayshen eating, and not one bike moving.

“Morning,” he says. “Nice to see everyone’s working so fucking hard.”

“We were discussing team morale,” I tell him.

Andre looks at Thorne and Echo. “That what we’re calling it now?”

Thorne picks up his coffee. “Keeps the crew happy.”

“It’ll keep you slow if you don’t get your ass outside.” Andre glances at the clock, then around the garage. “You’ve got a race next weekend, and none of you are fast enough to spend the morning fucking around.”

“I’m fast enough,” I say.

He points the clipboard at me. “You went through a fence three weeks ago.”

“The fence was in a bad spot.”

“It was outside of the fucking track.”

“Exactly.”

Andre doesn’t even bother answering that. He turns toward Talon instead. “Get the warmers off and take the BMW M 1000 RR out first. That thing tops out around one-ninety-five, so I want clean laps, not you two trying to fucking kill each other before the tires are hot.”

Talon nods toward me. “He started it.”

“The fuck I did. I barely made it through the door before you nosy assholes jumped me.”

Andre points toward the track. “Save the bullshit for later. Both of you, outside,” he adds before turning his attention to Echo, who’s already wiping her hands on a rag.

“We got three sponsor bikes dropped off this morning. Two Ducati Panigale V4 Rs and a BMW M 1000 RR. I need you to check the forks before anyone touches them. The front end on one of the Ducati’s felt too soft when they unloaded it, and the BMW’s sitting uneven.”

Echo frowns and looks toward the covered bikes lined up near the far bay. “They came set up like that?”

“Apparently.”

“That’s fucking comforting.”

“I want the suspension checked, the ride height measured, and every setting written down before anyone takes them near the track.”

Andre turns toward the rest of us and points at the doors with his clipboard. “The rest of you idiots, get out there. Twenty laps, timed. Lowest lap time gets to skip tomorrow’s conditioning session.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

Sayshen lowers his coffee. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“You don’t stand a fucking chance, you’re hungover,” Talon says.

“Still faster than you.”

“Prove it,” he adds, grabbing his suit from the rack with a cocky grin.

Andre claps the clipboard against his palm. “Save it for the track. Echo, finish up here and join them when you’re done.”

“I won’t be long,” she says, tossing the rag onto her cart.

Talon heads for the tire warmers while Reign downs the rest of his coffee and drops the cup into the bin. Sayshen mutters something about winning through adversity but starts toward his bike anyway.

Thorne hangs back long enough to lean toward Echo again, but she plants a greasy palm against his crisp white tee before he can kiss her.

“Track.”

He laughs, catches her wrist, and kisses the inside of it instead. “Bossy little thing.”

“Move, Thorne.”

He backs away with a grin and heads for the doors. “See you out there, love.”

I grab my helmet from the bench and walk past him towards my locker. “That was embarrassing.”

“Says the mug checking his phone again.”

I glance down at the screen in my hand.

Still nothing from Cece, but I grin anyway and slide it into my locker. “She’ll answer.”

Thorne pulls on his gloves and gives me a knowing look. “Course she will, mate. Any minute now.”

His tone says the complete opposite.

The garage is loud behind us, music playing near Echo’s toolbox while tools hit metal and engines warm up across the bays. Tires are stacked against the wall, spare fairings hang overhead, and setup sheets are clipped beside every bike.

Same shit we do before every race.

Everyone gets louder, Andre gets more pissed off, and Echo threatens to kill anyone who touches a setting after she’s finished with it. Next weekend’s packed with practice, qualifying, and races, but none of that is new.

The waiting is the part I hate.

The days before the race when everything is ready, but we still have to test it again. And again. Then stand around pretending we aren’t counting down until the lights go out.

I grab my gloves and head toward my bike while Thorne moves toward his. Talon and Reign are already pulling off their tire warmers, and Sayshen is bent over his tank with one hand pressed to his forehead.

I stop beside him and give him a once-over. “Looking sharp.”

“Fuck off.”

“How the fuck did you even ride home that drunk?”

“I wasn’t drunk when I rode home.” He pushes his sunglasses up. “It was after me, Talon, and Bex got back. We kept the party going.”

I glance over at Talon, who suddenly looks real busy with his gloves. “Yeah? Kept it going how?”

Sayshen smirks. “Drank more. Did other shit. Didn’t sleep.”

“Got it.”

“You sure you’re good to ride, or should we strap a bucket to the front of your bike?”

He turns his head slowly, glaring at me through his sunglasses before pulling them off and tossing them onto the workbench. “I’m beating your time now just for that,” he says, dragging his helmet down over his head.

I grin and clap him on the shoulder. “There he is.”

“Fucker.”

Andre’s voice comes through my earpiece before I’ve even swung onto the bike.

“Comms check.”

“Unfortunately, I can hear you,” I say.

Andre ignores me. “Talon?”

“Good.”

“Reign?”

“Clear.”

“Thorne?”

“Yeah, mate.”

“Sayshen?”

There’s a pause.

Then, “The inside of my helmet is too loud.”

Talon laughs over the comms. “That’s your brain trying to escape.”

“Shut up.”

I grin and settle onto the bike, planting both feet while the engine idles beneath me. The sound rolls through my chest, familiar enough to settle everything else.

Andre keeps talking while we line up near the pit exit.

“Twenty laps. All timed. I want clean braking, no stupid passes, and no one treating lap one like qualifying.”

“Who would do that?” I ask.

“You.”

“Unfair.”

“You nearly took Talon’s front wheel off last week.”

“He left the door open.”

“There was no fucking door,” Talon says.

“There was enough room.”

Andre’s voice comes back sharper. “Can everyone shut the fuck up for ten seconds?”

Nobody says anything.

Seven seconds pass.

Sayshen clears his throat. “Are we counting these ten seconds, or—”

“Go.”

The pit light changes.

Reign launches first, with Talon, Thorne, Sayshen, and me right behind him. We roll onto the track and build through the first lap, letting the tires come up before anyone starts pushing.

The front feels solid beneath me. The rear shifts slightly when I open the throttle out of turn three, but it settles fast.

Then I hit the straight.

I tuck behind the screen and open it up, the bike surging forward as the engine climbs. The wind presses against my shoulders, the track narrowing in front of me as the speed builds.

This is the part I fucking live for.

Everything in my head goes quiet. Just the bike beneath me, the next braking marker, and Reign already pulling away ahead.

I hold the throttle until the marker comes fast, brake hard, and drop two gears before tipping into the corner.

Talon’s voice crackles through the comms. “Of course Revel went deep.”

“I made it, didn't I.”

“Barely.”

“Barely still counts.”

Andre cuts in. “You missed the marker by half a bike.”

“I was testing the brakes.”

“You were testing my fucking patience.”

I laugh once, then shut up and focus.

The track doesn’t give us much time to relax. One corner runs straight into the next, and fucking up the first throws off the whole section. I move early, keep the bike settled beneath me, and feed the throttle in clean instead of grabbing too much.

Reign is still ahead, but I’m closing the gap.

Nobody talks for the next few corners. We all want the fastest lap too badly to waste breath.

Echo’s voice finally comes through my earpiece.

“Revel, the rear looks better. Don’t get greedy.”

I pass the pit wall and catch her standing beside Andre with her headset on, watching the timing screen.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“That’ll be a first.”

I grin inside my helmet but keep my eyes on Reign as I drop into the next turn.

“Your sector two is slow,” she adds.

“Not for long.”

I drop a gear and push harder into the next corner.

The front tire bites cleanly. I drag my knee close to the ground, hold the line, then get back on the throttle early enough to feel the rear squirm beneath me.

Echo notices immediately.

“Easy.”

“I’ve got it.”

“You always say that right before I have to order new fairings.”

“I’m still upright.”

Andre’s voice comes over hers. “And keep it that way.”

I close the gap to Reign over the next two laps.

He catches me coming and blocks the inside before I’m close enough to try anything.

“Scared?” I ask.

“No.”

“You moved.”

“I took my line.”

“You took mine.”

“Then find another one.”

I sweep around the outside through the next turn and carry enough speed to pull alongside him on the exit.

He looks over.

I give him a quick wave.

“Fucking prick,” he says.

I pull ahead before the braking zone.

Andre’s voice cuts through the comms. “What did I say about stupid passes?”

“That one was clean.”

“It was unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary is probably right, but from back here, it was bloody beautiful,” Thorne chirps in.

“Thank you.”

“It was shit,” Talon says.

“You’re just mad it worked.”

“Still a fucking show-off.”

“That’s because I give the people what they want.”

Sayshen groans over the comms. “Can everyone stop talking? My skull is vibrating.”

“You’re on a race bike,” Draygon says. “That might be part of it.”

“I hate all of you.”

By lap eight, everyone has settled into their own pace.

The jokes slow down, and the track takes over.

I stop thinking about Cece’s unanswered text.

Mostly.

I hit my braking marker clean, turn in, and feel the bike settle exactly where I want it. The next few laps come easy. Nothing forced or fighting me. Just smooth throttle, clean lines, and the engine answering every time I ask for more.

Andre calls the times as we cross.

“Reign, twenty four point three.”

“Not bad,” I say.

“Revel, twenty four point five”

“Bullshit.”

“Timing doesn’t lie,” Andre snaps.

“Told you,” Echo says.

“Talon, twenty five point eight. Thorne, twenty six on the dot. Draygon, twenty six point three. Sayshen, twenty nine point four.”

Sayshen lets out a tired laugh. “Shit, least I'm alive.”

I push harder on the next lap.

Reign is still ahead, but not by much now. I can see him through the final sequence, clean and controlled, never wasting movement.

It’s irritating.

I brake later into the first corner and gain time through the middle, keeping the bike tighter than before. The rear slides slightly on the exit, but I stay on it and carry the speed down the straight.

“Getting close.”

Reign answers before Andre can. “Still behind.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

I catch Reign three laps later.

Not enough to pass him, but enough to stay on him through the technical section. He doesn’t make a mistake. Doesn’t rush. Just holds the line and makes me work for every inch.

“Move,” I tell him.

“No.”

“Thought I’d ask.”

“Try passing.”

Andre cuts in. “Do not turn this into a race St. Clair.”

“It is literally timed, and there is a reward for the fastest time, Coach. You made it a race,” I say.

“That doesn’t mean take each other out.”

Reign stays smooth through the next corner, but I get a better exit and pull beside him down the straight.

For half a second, we’re even.

Then he brakes later.

The asshole holds it, tips in, and takes the corner clean.

I have to fall back behind him.

His laugh comes through the comms.

“Not enough.”

“Next lap.”

“Sure.”

I try again.

And again.

By lap seventeen, my arms are starting to feel it. Not enough to slow me down, but enough that every mistake costs more. Sweat collects at the base of my neck, and my breathing is louder inside the helmet.

“Three laps left,” Echo says through the comms. “Stop riding Reign’s ass and focus on your fucking line.”

“I am focused.”

“You’re staring at the back of him harder than you were staring at Cece’s ass last night.”

Reign laughs. “Can’t blame him. It’s a good view.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “You’re just in my fucking way.”

I push harder through the next lap and finally nail the sequence. Late apex through the first turn, tight through the middle, then back on the throttle early without letting the rear break loose.

It feels fast.

Andre confirms it when I cross the line.

I grin. “That put me ahead?”

“No. Session’s over. Final times—Reign takes it with a Twenty one point two. Revel, Twenty one point three.”

Reign beat me by a literal second.

“Fuck right off,” I mutter.

His laugh comes through the comms. “Thursday conditioning’s looking real good from here.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Lucky I’m faster.”

****

We roll back into the garage a few minutes later, engines cutting out one after another as everyone pulls into their bays.

Reign is still grinning when he takes off his helmet.

I swing off my bike and point at him. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I plan to.” He hooks his helmet on the bar. “Might sleep in Thursday. Have a killer morning sex session with my girl followed by some breakfast in bed.”

Talon pulls in beside us and kills his engine. “Nobody likes a sore winner.”

Reign looks at him. “You’d have to win something to know.”

“That was harsh,” Sayshen mutters as he parks farther down, moving a little slower than the rest of us.

Thorne climbs off his bike and pulls his gloves free with his teeth. “He’s earned it, mate. Let him have his little moment.”

“Little?” Reign asks.

“Half a second isn’t exactly domination.”

“Still beat all of you.”

I unzip my leathers and peel the top half down, sweat cooling against my skin as I head toward the lockers. My phone is sitting where I left it, screen dark.

The second I pick it up, it lights with a message from Cece.

She ignored everything I said about the hoodie.

Of course she did.

Cece: Tow truck just dropped off my car.

I grin and type back.

Me: Alright. I’ll be there in a few to change the battery.

Three dots appear, then disappear and a little thumbs up emoji appears on my message.

I grab my shirt from the locker and pull it on.

Grinning, I pocket the phone and grab my keys.

Thorne catches me heading for the door. “Where you off to?”

“Cece’s car needs a battery.”

He looks toward the beach bags piled near Echo’s cart, then back at me. “Thought we were going to the beach.”

“We are.”

“After you play mechanic?”

I grin and keep walking. “Exactly.”

Behind me, Reign laughs. “One kiss and he’s already a fucking lapdog.”

“He was a lapdog long before that. Let’s be so fucking for real,” Draygon adds, heading over to Echo’s workstation and pulling her against him long enough to press a kiss to the top of her head.

I lift a hand without turning around. “First of all, it was two kisses. Second, you can all fuck off.”

The heat hits me the second I step outside.

I slide my sunglasses on and head for my bike, their laughter following me out of the garage.

Fuck what they say. If being Cece’s lapdog means showing up when she needs me, fixing her car, and letting her mouth off while I do it, then fine. I’ll wear the fucking collar.

Doesn’t mean she’s getting away with pretending last night didn’t happen though.

I swing onto the bike and start the engine, already grinning at the thought of seeing her again and watching her act like she doesn’t still feel my hands on her.

Chapter Five

Cece

Revel shows up twenty minutes after my text like he was waiting for an excuse.

I hear the bike before I see him, the low growl rolling up the street until it cuts off in front of my house.

Guacamole lifts his head from the back of the couch and looks toward the window.

“I’ll be back,” I tell him, grabbing my keys from the counter. “And I am definitely not kissing him.”

He blinks at me once, completely unimpressed.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

I head outside and pull the door shut behind me. By the time I reach the driveway, Revel is swinging off his bike beside the curb.

He plants one boot on the pavement, pulls off his gloves, then lifts his helmet free. His hair is still a little damp beneath it, pushed back messily as he hooks the helmet over the handlebar. Black swim trunks sit low on his hips, and a fitted black muscle shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders, showing off the full blackout sleeve covering his left arm.

Then he looks at me.

And stops.

Actually stops.

His eyes move slowly from my bare legs to the cream crochet wrap tied around my waist, the one Lena lent me a few weeks ago. The loose weave does absolutely nothing to hide the black bikini underneath, especially the structured top with its thin straps and low-cut center.

My hair is straight for once, falling straight over my shoulders in thick lavender lengths, and the way he stares makes heat crawl up my neck before I can stop it.

For the first time since I met him, Revel looks like he forgot how to run his mouth.

I fold my arms, mostly so he can’t see how much I like that. “You planning on standing there all day, or are you going to fix my car?”

His gaze finally reaches my face. A slow grin pulls at his mouth, but there’s still something almost stunned behind it.

“Well, fuck me, Mama.”

“Sorry, not on the schedule.”

“Give it time.” He picks up the tool bag from beside his bike, still looking me over like he can’t help himself. “You didn’t say you were coming outside dressed like that.”

“It’s a bikini. We’re going to the beach.”

“I know what it is.” His eyes dip again. “I’m just appreciating the fine as fuck details.”

I lean against the car and lift my chin. “You’re late.”

“I got here in twenty minutes.”

“Nineteen would’ve been better.”

“Could’ve been here in ten if you sent me a picture first.”

“And give you time to crash into something? No thanks.”

He laughs, but his stare stays heavy on me as he walks closer. “Aw, so she does care about me.”

“More like I worry about the people you could injure with your distracted driving.” I fold my arms, keeping my tone sweet even as I lift a brow. “Or objects. Didn’t you take out a fence a few days ago?”

“That fence had it coming.”

“Of course it did.”

He steps closer, eyes dragging over me without even trying to hide it.

His gaze finally settles on my mouth.

Puta madre.

Last night hits me all over again when he plants one hand on the hood above my head and crowds into my space. My back presses against the car, his body close enough to make the heat between us feel worse, and then he dips his head until his mouth is barely an inch from mine.

I clear my throat and point toward the engine. “Battery.”

“Right.” His grin says he knows exactly where my mind went. “Wouldn’t want to keep the princess waiting.”

“Call me princess again and I’ll slam the hood on your hands.”

He glances down at them, then back at me. “And ruin the same hands you were so into last night?”

I scoff, even though heat pools low in my stomach. “Please. I barely noticed them.”

“Liar.”

“Delusional.”

He laughs under his breath and finally steps away, opening the tool bag before leaning over the engine. The black muscle shirt pulls tight across his back and shoulders as he reaches in, and I catch myself watching the muscles shift beneath the fabric.

I look away fast.

Ay, coño. It’s a battery. Nothing sexy is happening here.

A regular battery being removed by an extremely annoying man with a very nice back.

And arms.

Never mind.

I pull out my phone and pretend to check the group chat.

There are already twenty-seven new messages.

Most are from Sayshen, complaining about his head pounding yet being stoked to hit the waves. Reign bragging about not having to do conditioning on Thursday and Lena and Thorne having a chat about the newest Swift song that just came out and how Lena loves it but Thorne thinks it’s a rip off of an old ninety eight degrees song.

I smile before I can stop myself.

Revel glances over. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing involving you, pretty boy.”

“Yet.”

“Do you ever get tired?”

“Of you?” He loosens the battery terminal, then looks at me over his shoulder with that smug-ass grin. “Fuck no.”

“Of chasing something that’s never going to happen.”

He snorts. “Nah, Mami. It’ll happen.”

“Keep dreaming, pretty boy.”

“I do. You’re usually in less clothes.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to my phone before he catches the smile trying to break through.

“You can roll your eyes all you want, mama.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “We both know they’ll make their way back to me.”

“Keep dreaming, papi.”

He laughs under his breath and gets back to work.

Annoyingly, he’s fast. I was fully prepared to stand here and criticize everything he did whilepretending I knew a single fucking thing about changing a battery, but the old one is out, the new one is in, and a few minutes later he’s tightening the last connection like he’s done this shit a hundred times.

“You done already?”

He straightens and wipes his hands on a rag. “Why? Disappointed?”

“Surprised. You usually drag everything out.”

“Only the fun shit.” His eyes move over me again, slow and shameless. “This? Boring as fuck. You on the beach in that bikini, though?” His grin turns filthy. “Yeah, that’s gonna be fun.”

“Ay, por favor. Try not to drool on my engine.”

“Can’t promise shit looking at you like that.”

His eyes drop to my mouth again.

The air changes before I can stop it.

He takes one step closer.

Then another.

I stay where I am, because moving would make it look like I’m affected, and I’m not giving him that satisfaction.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back. The heat from his body mixes with the heavy afternoon air, and I catch the clean smell of soap beneath gasoline and salt.

His fingers catch one of the loose ties of the crochet wrap at my waist, brushing over it without actually touching my skin.

Close enough.

“So, you planning on keeping my hoodie forever?” he asks. “Or do I get it back?”

“Maybe I burned it.”

“You definitely didn’t.”

His hand slides from the tie to my hip, settling over the bare strip of skin above my bikini bottoms.

The touch is light, almost testing, but my body reacts like he grabbed me hard. Heat spreads beneath his palm, and my stomach pulls tight before I can stop it.

His eyes lower.

“Cece.”

My name sounds different in his mouth when he says it quietly.

I hate that.

I hate the way it makes me want to lean in.

His thumb brushes against my skin again softly and I see the exact second he decides he’s going to kiss me.

I step back.

His hand falls away.

The smugness doesn’t disappear, but something sharper flashes beneath it.

I button the bottom of my shirt. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Push it,”

His head tilts. “Thought we started last night.”

“Last night didn’t mean anything.”

“Sure didn’t feel like nothing.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Twice?”

I grab the hood and slam it closed harder than necessary. “Yes, twice, okay?”

He watches me for a second, then glances at the car.

“Right, well, battery’s in.”

“Good.”

“Go on and test it.”

I leave him standing by the car and hurry back inside. Guacamole barely looks up when I grab my beach bag from the chair, snatch Revel’s hoodie from the laundry basket, and head straight back out.

He’s still beside the open hood when I walk up and shove the hoodie into his chest.

“There. Happy?”

His hands close around the hoodie, and without breaking eye contact, he lifts it to his nose and breathes me in.

The look in his eyes shifts instantly—darker, heavier, and ay, coño, if it doesn’t send something hot and stupid straight through me.

I shove that shit down fast and pull my usual resting bitch face back into place.

“Knew you didn’t burn it,” he says, smug as ever.

“Cállate.” I snatch my keys from my bag. “Before I change my mind and set it on fire right in front of you.”

I pop the hood closed, open the driver’s door, and slide into the seat before he can say anything worse. Then I turn the key.

The engine starts immediately.

Revel leans down toward the open window, both forearms resting along the frame. “Well, would you look at that. Useful and pretty.”

“You want a sticker, carajo?”

“I’d rather have another kiss.”

“You’re not getting one.”

He grins like I just challenged him instead of shutting him down. “We’ll see.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Keep dreaming, pendejo.”

“Already do, Mama.”

“About yourself, probably.”

“Nah, mostly about you.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” I put the car in reverse. “Move before I put this new battery to use by running your ass over.”

He laughs and pushes away from the door. “There’s my girl.”

“I am not your girl.”

“Not yet.”

“Qué pesado. You think this is a game.”

“I think you like me.”

“I think you have brain damage.”

“Could be both.”

I put the car in reverse. “Move.”

He steps back, still smiling like I didn’t just shut him down for the hundredth time.

Maybe that’s what annoys me most.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or thrown off. He just lets me pull away because, in his head, this is all part of the chase. Like no matter how many times I shut him down, he already knows exactly how this ends.

I roll my eyes, pull out of the driveway, and leave him there packing his tools back into the compartment beneath his bike seat.

By the time I reach the first intersection, he’s caught up.

Of course he has.

He pulls in beside me at the red light, gloves back on, helmet down, one hand loose on the throttle like he didn’t just race to catch me. I glance over, and even through the visor, I know he’s grinning.

I lift my middle finger.

He stays with me the whole way to the beach, never getting too far in front, slowing whenever traffic separates us, like he’s making sure I’m still there.

Annoying.

Cocky.

And, apparently, not letting me out of his sight.

By the time we reach the beach, the parking lot is overflowing. Cars are wedged into every space, music spills from open trunks, and people cross between traffic carrying chairs, umbrellas, coolers, and enough inflatable shit to open a store.

Revel finds a spot for his bike near Echo’s car.

I have to circle twice before I see someone pulling out.

When I finally park, he’s already waiting beside my door.

“You took your time.”

“I was parking a car, pendejo. In case you haven’t noticed, this place is packed.”

“You could’ve ridden with me.”

“I’d rather walk barefoot over hot asphalt.”

He grins. “Didn’t seem to hate being pressed up against me last night.”

“That was temporary insanity.”

“Felt pretty fucking sane from where I was sitting.”

I roll my eyes, waving him off before heading down to the beach.

The sand is hot enough to burn through my sandals. The air smells like salt, sunscreen, coconut oil, and food from the stand near the boardwalk. Music gets louder as we reach the crew, mixed with waves breaking and people yelling across the beach.

They’ve taken over a spot close to the water, towels and chairs spread all over the sand like nobody else was planning on using the beach.

Bexley’s lying under the umbrella in a red bikini, sunglasses on, while Echo digs through one of the bags beside her. Thorne is standing behind them trying to open a bottle with a key instead of just asking someone for an opener.

The volleyball net is crooked, and Draygon and Talon are already arguing over who set it up wrong. Reign and Sayshen are heading toward the water with the boards while everyone else talks over the music.

I drop onto the towel beside Echo, pop open a can of Mango Loco Monster, and pour it into my tumbler. Then I add a generous splash of Tequila, give it a quick stir with the straw, and take a drink.

This is why I came. The girls, the beach, the sun.

Not Revel.

Except he’s standing near the water with a surfboard under one arm, laughing at something Sayshen says, and he’s impossible not to notice. The sun catches on his tattoos, his shorts sit low on his hips, and when he tips his head back, a few women nearby look over.

Of course they do.

He looks like every bad decision I’ve ever been warned about, and he knows it.

Echo follows my gaze. “You know staring doesn’t count as ignoring him.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You’ve been looking at him for a full minute.”

“I’m looking at the ocean.”

Bexley adjusts her sunglasses. “The ocean has tattoos now?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs and rolls onto her back.

The next hour passes in a blur of noise, drinks, and people yelling about rules no one follows.

Talon and Draygon challenge Thorne and Reign to volleyball. Sayshen joins halfway through, even though no one invited him, and starts playing both sides depending on where the ball lands.

Revel spends most of the game making everything worse.

He jumps the net to argue a point, steals the ball from Draygon, and gets tackled into the sand for it. When he comes up laughing, covered in sand from shoulder to hip, he looks over at me.

Always me.

Like the whole beach disappears whenever he finds me.

I look away first.

By the time the game ends, I’m halfway through my fifth drink despite saying I’d have only one.

The sun is lower now, less brutal, turning the water bright orange along the horizon. Bexley and Echo are talking beside me about plans for guys race next weekend, while I nod in the right places and try not to pay attention to Revel.

It works until a girl in a tiny green bikini walks over to him.

She’s pretty. Tall. Tan. Long dark hair that looks too perfect for someone standing in wind and saltwater.

Revel is holding his board upright, talking to Reign, when she steps between them.

I can’t hear what she says, but I can see her hand though.

She touches the side of his board, fingers sliding along the edge while she smiles up at him, then she laughs and touches his arm.

My jaw tightens.

Bexley stops talking.

Echo looks over.

Neither says anything.

Smart girls.

Revel doesn’t touch her back. He says something that makes Reign laugh, then shifts the board slightly.

The girl follows it.

Her hand goes back to the board and I finish my drink, setting the tumbler down.

Bexley watches me stand. “Where are you going?”

“To save him.”

Echo’s mouth twitches. “From what?”

“Bad decisions.”

“What decisions?”

I push myself up, and dust the sand from the back of my thighs. “Any involving that puta.”

I hear Bexley and Echo laughing behind me, but I keep going.

The girl is still touching Revel’s board when I get close enough to hear her.

“So, do you give lessons?”

“Sorry,” I cut in before he can answer. “He’s already got a student.”

She looks between us. “Oh. Okay. Maybe another time?”

“Nah.” I give her a sweet smile. “You should probably find a different teacher.”

Her face tightens as she pulls her hand off the board, muttering, “Whatever,” and walks off toward her friends looking properly pissed.

Reign barks out a laugh beside him.

I smack his arm as I pass. “Shut up.”

“What?” He throws a hand up, still laughing. “Bro, that’s not fair. Revel, get your girl.”

Before I can hit him again, he takes off toward the water with his board tucked under one arm.

“Coward,” I call after him.

Revel is still standing there, grinning like this is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

I point at him. “Do not look at me like that.”

“Like you just scared off a girl and claimed me as your surf teacher.”

“I didn’t claim anything.”

“Sure, Mama.”

I fold my arms. “I was helping you.”

“From the scary woman asking about surfing?”

“She was asking about more than surfing.”

“That bother you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not even at all.”

He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe a word of it, then shifts the board under one arm. “Yeah, alright. I’ll play along. We getting out there or what?”

I glance toward the water. “Out where?”

“The ocean. You did just tell her I’m your surf teacher.”

“That was an excuse.”

“Sounded like your idea.”

“It wasn’t.”

He reaches for my hand before I can step back, hooks his fingers through mine, and starts tugging me toward the water.

“I don’t surf.”

“That’s why you need a lesson.”

“I hate you,” I tell him, digging my heels into the sand even though I’m still letting him pull me.

He looks back over his shoulder, grinning. “Yeah, well, you can hate me out there.”

“I’m not going in.”

He turns, walking backward now, still holding my hand. “Scared?”

“Of drowning? No. Sharks? Very fucking much.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. “You really think I’d let a shark take a bite out of you before I get the chance to?”

Ay, coño.

The way he says it—low, filthy, like he isn’t talking about teeth at all sends heat straight between my thighs.

I yank on his hand, trying to pull mine free, but he only tightens his grip and tugs me against him.

“You’re disgusting.”

By the time we’re waist-deep, I’m already questioning every decision that brought me here.

The water moves harder this far out, pushing against my hips in steady pulls that make the sand shift under my feet. The board rocks beneath me as we move farther out, and I grab Revel’s shoulder when a bigger wave lifts us.

He looks at my hand, then at me. “Thought you weren’t scared.”

“I’m not. I’m keeping you close in case a shark shows up.”

His brows lift. “So you can hide behind me?”

“So I can shove you at it and swim back.”

He laughs, one hand still gripping the side of the board to keep me steady. “Cold, Mama.”

“Survival. Plus, I am too cute to die.”

Another wave rolls under us. I wobble, and his free hand closes around my thigh before I can slide off.

The grin drops from his face.

“Easy,” he says, steadying the board. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” His thumb presses lightly into my skin, his eyes holding mine. “Being scared of the ocean is honestly pretty fucking valid. It deserves your respect. Shit can turn dangerous fast if you get careless.”

I glance toward shore. It looks farther away now, the crew smaller beneath the orange light.

“I don’t like not being able to touch the bottom.”

“Yeah, I get that.” His voice stays calm. “But I’m right here. You’re not going anywhere.”

A wave catches the side of the board before I can answer. I lose my balance and slide toward the edge.

Revel moves fast, catching me beneath the arms and lifting me before I hit the water. He sets me back in the middle of the board, hands firm at my waist until I’m steady.

“See?” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”

The sun hangs low behind him, throwing gold across the water. He stays beside the board, chest against the edge, his arms draped over it while his hands settle near my thighs.

“You can let go now.”

“I could.”

His fingers brush the side of my leg.

“But then you might fall again.”

“That was one time.”

I narrow my eyes, but he only grins and drags his thumb slowly along my wet skin.

The touch is light.

Still, my breath catches.

His eyes drop to my thigh, then lift back to mine.

“That doesn’t look like fear.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not.” He shifts closer, the water lifting him against the board. “Your body’s doing it for me.”

Ay, coño.

I grip the board behind me. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re still sitting here letting me touch you.”

His fingers slide a little higher before stopping.

The teasing leaves his face, but the heat doesn’t.

“When are you gonna stop fighting it, Mami?”

“I’m not fighting anything.”

His thumb moves once more over the inside of my thigh.

My knees pull in before I can stop them and I know immediately by the way his pretty mouth pulls into a smirk that he noticed.

“Your mouth can keep lying, Mama,” he says, voice low. “But your body’s fucking terrible at it.”

He smiles and runs his hand over his head. Saltwater trails down his face and neck, catching in the stubble along his jaw.

My eyes drop, following the tiny droplets of water, dragging my teeth across my lip.

His chest is half beneath the water, tattoos dark against wet skin.

When I look back up, he’s watching me.

I look away toward the horizon.

“Like what you see, Mama?”

“Yeah, the sunset is beautiful tonight.”

“Pretty sure it wasn't the pretty sunset that had you biting your lip like that.”

A wave rolls under us, stronger than the others.

The board tips.

I grab for balance, but my weight shifts too far.

Revel catches my thigh with one hand and the edge of the board with the other, steadying me before I slide off.

My breath catches, but his hand stays on me.

I should move it, but I don’t.

When he looks back up, the laughter is gone, replaced by that same heavy look from my driveway.

His thumb brushes closer to the edge of my bikini and I inhale sharply.

“Revel.”

“Tell me to stop.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re saying my name.”

His fingers slide down my thigh, not up, but the slow drag makes my whole body react.

I hate him for noticing.

I hate myself more for wanting him to do it again.

He turns his head.

Before I understand what he’s doing, his mouth touches the inside of my thigh.

Just above my knee.

The contact is quick, warm against wet skin.

Then his tongue drags over the saltwater there.

I gasp and jerk my leg back.

The board rocks hard beneath me.

Revel catches it immediately, one arm bracing across the front while I grip the sides.

“Jesus Christ.”

His grin returns, slow and wicked.

“You’re fucking insane.”

“Little bit.”

“You can’t just lick people.”

“Not people, but I can lick you.”

“No, you cannot.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He smirks knowingly.

I push at his shoulder with my foot, and he catches my ankle before I can knock him away.

“Let go.”

“You’re going to tip yourself over.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will when you hit the water.”

“It’s late.”

He glances toward the sunset. “It’s not that late.”

“Take me back.”

His expression shifts slightly. Not hurt or angry, just more careful as he watches my face.

“You sure?” he asks, voice lower now.

“Yes.”

He holds my gaze for another second, like he’s making sure I mean it, then let’s go of my ankle and moves behind the board.

“Lie down.”

“I can sit.”

“You’ll fall.”

“I haven’t yet.”

“You almost did thirty seconds ago.”

“That was because you distracted me.”

His grin flashes, quick and cocky, as he braces one hand on the back of the board and gives it a small push toward shore. “Good to know.”

I narrow my eyes at him, “Revel.”

“Lie down, Mama.”

I mutter something in Spanish under my breath but turn onto my stomach, arms stretched along the board.

He pushes us back toward shore.

The closer we get, the louder everything becomes again. Music. The crew yelling. Someone cheering when Talon dives into the water fully clothed.

By the time we reach the shallows, my head is clearer.

Not clear, clear .

Just enough to know I let Revel lick my thigh in the middle of the ocean.

He holds the board steady while I slide off.

My feet hit the sand, and water pushes around my hips.

Revel stays close behind me.

Too close.

“So, you gonna pretend that didn’t happen too?” His mouth brushes close to my ear, voice low enough to send another stupid shiver through me. “Pretend you’re not still aching for me to finish what we started?”

I turn and plant a finger against his chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He laughs, all smug and satisfied, then lifts the board and tucks it under one arm. “Course you don’t, Mama.”

I walk toward the beach without looking back, but I can hear him following through the shallows, close enough that I can feel him there anyway.

The crew spots us the second we reach the towels.

Bexley pushes herself up on one elbow. “How was the lesson?”

“I learned nothing.”

Revel drops the board beside Reign’s. “She’s a difficult student.”

I flip him off without breaking stride, and everyone starts laughing.

I grab my towel, wrap it tight around my waist, and head for my bag before anyone can look too closely at my face.

This is why men like Revel are dangerous.

Not because they’re loud, cocky, and born knowing exactly how to get under your skin.

Because they make every bad idea feel fun. Easy. Worth it.

Right up until you’re walking away, trying to remember why saying no ever felt like the smart choice.

And the worst part?

I can still feel his mouth on my thigh.

Chapter Six

Revel

Cece has barely spoken to me since the beach, which I’m choosing to take as a good sign.

If she really didn’t care, she’d answer like normal. She’d call me annoying, threaten to run me over, maybe send one of those little skull emojis she likes whenever I say something she doesn’t want to admit is funny.

Instead, she’s been careful.

Short replies in the group chat. Nothing directly to me unless I push hard enough to get a reaction. She ignored the picture I sent of my breakfast, told me nobody wanted to see my eggs, then somehow knew there were mushrooms under them.

Which means she looked at the picture long enough to inspect my food.

And in my books, that fucking counts.

Yesterday, I sent her a selfie from the garage and asked if she missed my face. She answered with a close-up of Guacamole’s ass.

But again, still counts.

I’m not worried. I know what happened on that board. I know how she looked when I had my hands on her thighs, and I definitely haven’t forgotten the sound she made when I put my mouth on her.

Fucking hell.

She can hide behind all the attitude she wants. I’ve got time, and Cece is worth it.

Qualifying and the heats are already done, so now we’re all in the pit, prepping for the race. Reign took pole. I’m starting second. Ajax Sawyer from the Diablos is right behind us, Echo’s fourth, and the rest of the grid is packed close enough that the first corner is going to be a mess.

Which, is exactly how I fucking like it.

The bikes are lined up near the pit exit, slicks hot under the warmers, engines already barking as crews make the last checks. Echo moves between us, checking pressures and giving each bike one final look before we all roll out.

She stops in front of mine and points at me. “Revel. For the love of god, don’t do anything stupid today.”

“Define stupid.”

“Literally anything your big ass head is likely already thinking about.”

“That’s very fucking broad.”

“Yeah well, with you, it needs to be.”

I grin and pull my helmet down over my head. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

“That sentence from your mouth has never made me feel better.”

Andre walks up behind her. “Second on the grid. Reign’s got the inside. Ajax is behind you and he’s been aggressive all day, so don’t give him room to turn one.”

“I won’t.”

Reign swings onto his bike beside me and drops his visor. “Let’s kick some ass,”

“For sure.” We bump knuckles, then I pull my gloves on and swing onto the bike.

The second the engine settles beneath me, the rest of the paddock disappears.

We roll toward the grid.

Floodlights glare against the track. The late afternoon air is cooler now, but the asphalt is still holding heat from the day. Crew members clear out after the warmers come off, and the whole grid tightens as everyone settles in.

I look toward the barrier and spot the girls with the crew. Bexley is talking to Lena. Cece stands beside them, arms folded, trying to look like she doesn’t care but even from here I can tell she’s watching.

Good.

The marshal steps away.

Red lights come on one by one, and my hand tightens around the throttle.

When they go dark, I launch hard.

Reign gets the better start, but I stay on him into turn one, holding my line while Ajax tries to force his way through behind me. The pack bunches up fast, bikes stacked so tight that one stupid move could take out half the grid.

Reign leads us through the opening section, smooth as ever, while I sit close enough to watch every shift of his weight and every twitch of his rear tire.

“Ajax is right on you,” Echo says through the comms.

“I know.”

“Then stop leaving the door open.”

“I’m not.”

Ajax shows a wheel on the inside anyway.

Reign’s laugh crackles through my earpiece. “Looks open from up here.”

“Worry about yourself, dickhead.”

Echo is a few places back, boxed in behind another rider, and Andre cuts in before the shit-talking can keep going.

“Keep it clean. Revel, protect the braking zone. Reign, hold your pace.”

By lap five, the field starts stretching out. Reign and I pull a small gap through the technical section, but Ajax refuses to fuck off. He’s strongest at the end of the straight, and every lap he gets a little closer under braking.

Echo catches it too. “He’s setting you up for the inside again.”

“Let him.”

“Don’t get cute.”

“I’m always cute.”

“Revel,” Andre warns.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.”

Lap seven, Ajax dives inside.

Too fast.

I stay wide and let him carry the speed past the apex, ready to cut underneath him on the exit.

Except he somehow keeps it together.

The bike twitches, his rear steps out, but he catches it and drives through before I can shut the door. Reign gets forced wide trying to avoid him, and Ajax slips past both of us.

“Fuck,” Reign says.

Andre’s voice comes sharp through the comms. “Settle the fuck down. Don’t chase him into a mistake.”

Ajax is already two bike lengths ahead.

I tuck in behind him with Reign on my rear, and for the next few laps, none of us says much.

Ajax is quick down the straight and aggressive on the brakes, but he’s rough through the middle section. He moves around too much, fights the bike, and keeps chewing up the rear every time he gets back on the throttle.

“He’s burning the tire,” Echo says.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Stay on him. He’ll come back to you.”

Reign laughs softly. “Assuming Revel can wait that long.”

“I’m patient.”

“No, the fuck you’re not.”

“Today I am.” I smirk.

Ajax starts defending with six laps left.

Earlier than he needs to, and that tells me he feels us there.

He blocks the inside into turn one, then again through four, forcing himself into tighter lines and slower exits. Reign stays close behind me, waiting for me to do something stupid enough to open the door for him too.

Andre comes through. “Five left. Ajax is losing drive. Don’t burn your rear trying to force it.”

“Copy.”

For once, I actually mean it.

I stay close without throwing the bike somewhere it doesn’t fit. Ajax keeps looking back through the corners, and every time he does, he loses another fraction.

Three laps left.

We’re still nose to tail.

Ajax runs a little wide through the fast right and has to lift before the exit. I close the gap instantly, nearly touching his rear tire before he gets the bike upright.

“Easy,” Echo warns.

“Relax, I’m good.”

Reign’s voice comes through behind me. “Dude, you’re riding his ass.”

“Yeah well he’s in my fucking way.”

“Goddammit, Revel.”

The rear is moving more now, loose on corner exit, but it’s still giving me plenty of warning. I know what I have left. Ajax doesn’t.

That’s the difference.

“Final lap.”

Andre says it once, and then the comms go quiet.

Ajax protects the inside through the technical section, expecting me to force the pass there.

I don’t.

I stay wide, carry more speed, and wait until the last heavy braking zone.

He moves across early.

Too early.

I show him the inside, then switch back out before he can close it. He reacts late and drifts toward me, trying to squeeze the space down.

There’s barely enough room.

I take it anyway.

The front starts to chatter under braking, the rear lifting just enough to get light, and for half a second the whole bike feels like it wants to throw me over the bars.

Andre shouts my name.

I hold it.

Ajax is still beside me.

I release the brake, tip in, and let the bike run all the way to the edge of the curb. His shoulder is close enough that I could reach out and touch it.

One twitch from either of us and we’re both done.

I get the bike upright first.

That’s all it takes.

I drive out harder, the rear spinning once before hooking up, and pull half a bike ahead by the time we hit the final straight.

Ajax stays on me, but he’s out of tire and out of room.

The checkered flag drops and I cross first.

Behind me, Ajax crosses less than half a second later.

The comms explode.

Echo yelling.

Reign laughing. “You crazy fucking bastard”

Andre cutting through all of it. “What the fuck was that?”

“A pass.”

He doesn’t reply, instead through the comms all I hear is the sound of him whipping his headset to the ground. I’m in shit, but you know what, worth it.

I sit up on the cooldown lap, flip up my visor and glance toward the barrier.

Cece has her eyes locked on me as I drive by, and I blow her a kiss.

She flips me off.

Yeah, that's my girl.

****

Andre waits until I’m off the bike before he starts.

The second I pull my helmet free, he’s already coming toward me with that look on his face. The one that says he’s deciding whether to yell first or throw something.

“What the fuck was that?”

I hook my helmet over the handlebar. “Uh, a win.”

“No, idiot. That was you putting your front wheel into a gap that barely fucking existed.”

“It existed enough.”

“For half a second.”

“Still counts.”

Andre stops in front of me and points toward the office. “Inside.”

I look over at the guys.

Draygon immediately looks away, Sayshen suddenly finds his gloves absolutely fascinating, and Reign has the decency to grin right at me even though I know he doesn’t approve either.

“Cowards,” I mutter.

Thorne lifts one shoulder. “You’re on your own, mate.”

Andre jerks his head toward the office again. “Now.”

I follow him in, still riding the high hard enough that even getting chewed out can’t kill it.

The office door shuts behind us.

He tosses the clipboard onto the desk and turns on me. “How many of your friends do you have to lose out there before you realize this isn’t some fucking game?” he snaps, his tone doing little to hide we all know he feels without Cruz and Wolfe. “You could’ve taken both of you out.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make what you did smart.”

“Maybe not, but it worked.”

“That’s not the point.”

“The fuck it isn’t. It’s a race, and my risky move got our team the first and third slot on the podium.”

Andre drags a hand down his face. “You had pace and the better tire. You did not need to force that goddamn pass.”

“Maybe not, but I saw the opening and I took it.”

“You made the opening.”

“Same fucking difference.”

“No, Revel, it fucking isn’t.” He steps closer, voice lower now, which is worse than the yelling. “You’re talented enough that you don’t need to ride like you’re trying to prove something every time somebody gets in front of you.”

“I wasn’t proving anything.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“Winning.”

He stares at me for a long second.

I hold the look.

Finally, he points at my chest. “You know exactly where the line is. That’s what makes this shit worse. You keep dancing on it because you think knowing where it is means it can’t fucking move. But guess what, it can and all it takes is one stupid split second.”

That lands harder than I want it to.

I look away toward the small window overlooking the paddock. “I had control.”

“And if you lost it?”

“Jesus. I know!”

“Do you?”

I look back at him.

He’s still pissed, but there’s something else under it now. The same thing I saw on Cece’s face.

Worry.

I fucking hate that more than the yelling.

“I know,” I say again, quieter this time.

Andre studies me, then lets out a long breath. “Good. Because I’m not interested in scraping you off a wall because you needed one more inch. Consider yourself suspended from the next race, and you’re lucky that’s all you’re getting. Now, get out.”

“Yep, sure thing Coach, consider me out.”

I pull the door open before he can change his mind.

The guys are already packing up when I step back into the garage. Leathers are half off, helmets tucked under arms, and everyone is moving like the place is on fire.

Sayshen sees me first. “You made it out alive?”

“Shit, barely.”

Talon zips his bag. “How bad?”

“He suspended me, so about as bad as I expected, honestly.”

Echo closes her laptop a little harder than necessary. “He’s not just pissed. He’s scared of losing another rider.”

The joking drops out of the room for half a beat.

I glance toward Andre’s closed office door, then back at her. “I get it.”

Echo holds my gaze. “Then maybe stop giving him reasons to think he might.”

I grab my keys from the bench. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fucking idiot.”

I know she’s right.

I don’t like scaring them. Don’t like the way Andre looks at me after a close call, or the way Echo gets quiet when something goes wrong. I’m not trying to make anyone worry.

But speed is the only thing I’ve ever found that shuts everything else up.

Within twenty minutes, everyone’s packing up and heading home to shower before Cece’s set. Bags get grabbed, bikes start up, and the garage clears out fast.

I hang around for maybe thirty seconds longer than everyone else. Then I’m on the bike and pulling out behind the others.

The ride home would normally clear my head, but tonight, it doesn’t.

The race is still running through my head—the pass, the rear sliding, Ajax right beside me.

But the look on Cece’s face when I crossed the line is what sticks. She looked worried as hell, even if she’ll never admit it.

I glance in my mirror at the next light and spot her car two spots behind me.

My grin hits so fast it almost hurts.

Oh, hell yeah.

I look forward again when the light changes and pull through the intersection, but I keep checking the mirror.

She stays there.

Through the next turn and the next.

Not close enough to make it obvious, but close enough that she knows I’ll spot her.

My whole mood lifts.

Maybe she’s finally done pretending.

By the time I turn into my condo lot, she’s right behind me.

I laugh inside my helmet.

Ah shit, my girl followed me home.

I pull into my spot and kill the engine, taking my time with the kickstand because I want to see how long it takes her to come to me for once.

Her car door flies open before I even get my helmet off.

Cece gets out hard, slams the door, and comes straight at me.

Her hair is loose around her face. Black boots hitting the pavement. Eyes blazing.

She looks furious.

Also fucking incredible.

I lift my helmet free and set it on the bike. “Miss me already, Mama?”

She reaches me and slaps me across the face so hard my head whips to the side.

Fuck me, that’s hot.

Hot enough to make me grin when I look back at her.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps.

I rub my cheek and laugh once. “Well shit, that’s a pretty long list.”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t.”

She shoves both hands into my chest. “But you could’ve, cabrón. That’s the fucking point. You could’ve.”

I catch her wrists before she can shove me again and step in closer.

That’s when I see the fear in her eyes is the same as it was out on the ocean when the water got too deep, only worse. Back then, she was scared of what was under her. Right now, she’s scared of what could’ve happened to me.

“I didn’t,” I say, quieter this time. “And I won.”

Her jaw tightens. “Yeah well, the entire race I was really hoping you’d lose.”

“Liar.”

“Pendejo.”

“Still lying.”

Theres that same look from the barrier, only angrier.

Hotter, and completely focused on me.

Fuck me.

She yanks at her wrists, but there’s less fight in it this time. I loosen my grip, and instead of pulling away, her hands stay between us, pressed against my chest.

Right over my heart.

Her eyes drop there for a second, feeling how fast it’s beating, then lift back to mine.

Neither of us moves.

The air changes so fast it almost knocks the breath out of me.

All that fear in her eyes twists into something else. Something darker. Hungrier.

I let one hand slide up her arm, slow enough to give her time to stop me. My fingers settle against the side of her neck, right over the pulse jumping beneath her skin.

She still doesn’t move.

My thumb drags under her jaw. Her breathing turns shallow, and I feel the exact second she leans into me.

Barely.

Enough.

“I like that you’re mad,” I say.

“Oh, I’m fucking furious.”

“Good.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no real warning in them anymore.

I lean closer until my mouth is almost on hers.

“Means you care, Mama.”

“Ay, cállate.”

The words barely leave her lips before she grabs my shirt and yanks me down and kisses me hard.

No hesitation or warning. Just heat and anger and everything she’s been trying to hold back crashing into me at once.

I catch her around the waist and pull her tight against me, kissing her back just as hard.

She bites my lip, and I groan into her mouth, her grip tightening.

Fuck.

She kisses like she’s still punishing me. Like every second she spent scared at that barrier has turned into this.

Her hands shove beneath my shirt, nails dragging over my stomach, and whatever control I had starts slipping fast.

I walk her backward until she hits the side of her car.

She doesn’t even break the kiss.

My hand slides over her hip and pulls her closer. The second she feels how hard I am, her breath catches, but instead of backing off, she rolls her hips into me.

Every thought in my head disappears.

“Mama.”

“Cállate.”

She drags me back to her mouth.

I grip the backs of her thighs and lift her as she wraps her legs around my waist instantly, like her body decided before her pride could fucking stop it.

I pin her against the car and kiss down her jaw, then her throat, feeling her pulse race under my mouth.

Her head tips back just as my name leaves her lips, low and breathless.

It nearly finishes me.

I lift my head and look at her.

Her lips are swollen and her hair is a tangled mess. The anger is still there, but now it’s buried under want.

“So you still want me to lose?” I ask.

Her eyes flash.

Then she pulls me closer with her legs.

“Shut up and take me inside.”

That’s all I need.

I kiss her again and start for the door with her still wrapped around me.

She doesn’t give me a second to think. Her mouth stays on mine, hands in my hair, nails scraping over my neck like she’s trying to drag every bit of patience out of me.

It’s working.

We make it maybe five steps before I stop and kiss her harder, because, apparently, walking like a normal person isn’t happening anymore.

By the time I get to the door, I’m breathing like I just finished another race, she’s biting my jaw, and my grip on her thighs is getting tighter by the second.

“Ay, coño. Hurry up.”

“I’m trying, Mama.”

“Try harder,” she whispers, rolling her hips against the hard length of me through my jeans while I hold her tight against my chest.

“Keep moving like that and we’re not making it inside.”

She does it again on purpose.

Fucking menace.

I finally get the door open and kick it shut behind us. Her back hits it, and I’m on her again before the lock even catches.

I try to slow the kiss down, which lasts maybe like two seconds.

Then she pulls my hair, bites my lip, and whatever control I had left fucks right off.

Her hands are everywhere—my chest, nails raking down my stomach, and straight to my belt.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe against her mouth, my grip tightening as she drags herself over me again.

Her lips brush mine when she smiles. “Problem?”

“Yeah.” I pull her harder against me, letting her feel exactly what she’s been doing to me since the second she climbed out of that car. “You took too fucking long.”

Her eyes darken.

“Too long doing what?”

“Giving in.”

She rolls her hips again, slow and deliberate, and every smart-ass answer in my head disappears.

“Careful, Mami.”

“Why?” she whispers. “You look like you can handle it.”

I laugh once, rough and breathless. “Keep doing that and you’re about to find out.”

I drag my mouth down her throat, and she arches into me so hard I nearly forget we’re still standing by the door.

There’s no fear left in her eyes now.

Just hunger.

Hot, pissed off, greedy hunger.

Exactly how I knew she’d look once she finally stopped fighting it.

I carry her down the hall with her mouth still on mine, but we only make it halfway before I put her against the wall because she keeps pulling me closer like I’m not already trying to crawl under her skin.

“So fucking needy,” she mutters.

“You’re the one wrapped around me.”

“And?”

“And I’m losing my fucking mind.”

That gets a little smile out of her right before she kisses me again.

By the time we reach the bedroom, my belt is open, her clothes are half undone, and every bit of anger she came here with has turned into something hotter.

Something that wants to be handled.

Good thing I’m fucking desperate to do it.

I set her on the edge of the bed and pull my shirt over my head.

She hooks her fingers into my waistband tugging my pants down before I can step back and pulls me between her knees.

Her eyes drag over me, slow and shameless, taking in the size of my cock through my briefs, her tongue darting out over her lips.

Then she looks up.

“Still mad?” I ask.

“Very.”

I lean down until my mouth brushes hers. “Good. Now watch me make it up to you.”

Gently I push her back on the bed and climb over her.

I don’t give her time to catch her breath.

The second her back hits the mattress, I’m over her, my mouth crashing into hers. She meets me just as hard, fingers digging into my shoulders before her nails drag down my back.

The sting pulls a groan out of me.

Fuck, she’s been holding all of this in.

Every glare and insult. Every time she looked at my mouth and pretended she hadn’t.

It’s all here now.

Her hands reach for her shirt, I help her drag it up and toss it somewhere behind me before making quick work of the rest, both of us too impatient to be careful about where anything lands.

When I look back down, she’s still wearing a thin white lace bra and matching thong.

Fuck me.

Her body shakes beneath mine, as I take her lips again, legs pulling me closer, mouth opening for me like she’s just as fucking starved as I am.

I break the kiss long enough to look at her.

Her hair spills across my pillow, her lips swollen from kissing me, and the thin white lace against her skin makes it hard to think straight. There’s still a little anger in her eyes, but most of it has turned into something hotter now.

I push her hair away from her face, and her expression shifts at the softness of it.

“Don’t get sweet on me now, Papi,” she breathes.

“Can’t help it.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “Finally got you in my bed.”

“You haven’t got shit.”

I drag my mouth down her throat, smiling against her skin. “You’re naked under me, Mama. I’ve got fucking everything,”

“Arrogant pendejo.” Her hand twists into my hair.

I smirk, and kiss down her neck, taking my time even though every part of me is screaming to rush. Her breath catches when my teeth graze her shoulder, and I do it again just to feel her body tense beneath mine.

“You have no fucking idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” I murmur against her skin.

She arches into me. “Stop talking.”

“So goddamn bossy.”

“Revel.”

The warning in my name goes straight through me.

I lift my head. “Tell me what you want then, Mama.”

Her eyes narrow. “You know what I want.”

“Still wanna hear you say it.”

She pulls me down until her mouth brushes mine.

“Fuck me before I change my mind.”

My grin comes out slow. “Mm, fuck. That's my girl.”

I grab her thighs and spread them, pushing them back as I settle between them.

Fuck.

She’s already soaked for me.

I pull her thin white thong to the side, and spit on her clit, then use two fingers to spread it through her, slow enough to make her squirm. My mouth drags along the inside of her thigh, teeth catching her skin in a light bite before I do the same to the other side.

“Revel,” she breathes, already impatient.

I grin against her. “I know, Mama.”

Then I slide those same two fingers inside her and lower my mouth to her clit. Her thighs tense around my head, fingers twisting into my hair as I curl them slowly, finding the spot that makes her hips jerk.

“So fucking wet for me,” I murmur against her. “Knew you would be.”

Her hips start moving against my mouth, chasing every flick of my tongue and every curl of my fingers. She’s so fucking responsive I can feel every little change in her—her thighs tightening, her stomach pulling in, the way her breath catches harder each time I hit the right spot.

“Ay, papi,” she gasps, fingers twisting tighter in my hair. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

Fucking hell.

I’ve imagined this more times than I’ll ever admit, but none of it came close to seeing her like this. Cece, all fire and attitude, falling apart because of me.

Her back lifts off the bed. Her legs start to shake. Every sound she makes goes straight through me.

I’ve spent years chasing speed, danger, anything that could shut my head up for a few seconds.

This is better.

Watching her lose control for me is better than any stupid rush I’ve ever risked my life for.

She’s right there, body tightening around my fingers, and I keep her on the edge just long enough to hear my name break from her mouth again.

Then I pull back.

Her eyes snap open, dark and furious, her chest heaving as she looks down at me.

“Revel—”

I move over her, grinning while she’s still trembling beneath me.

“Not yet, Mami.”

A thought crosses my mind, filthy and fast, as I look down at her, but I keep it to myself and reach into the nightstand instead. I grab a condom, tear the wrapper open with my teeth, and pause when I realize it’s one of the glow-in-the-dark ones Talon shoved into the box as a joke.

Cece notices too.

Her eyes drop to it, then lift back to mine. “You cannot be serious.”

I grin as I shove my briefs down and stroke myself once, twice, before rolling it on. “What? Thought you liked a little entertainment.”

“Ay, coño. Your dick does not need special effects.”

“I disagree.”

She squirms beneath me, thighs still spread, chest rising hard while she watches every move.

Goddamn.

She already looks wrecked, and I haven’t even given her what she’s been begging for.

“Impatient?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow. “Keep talking and that glowing little ego of yours can handle itself.”

That shuts me up.

I move back over her, settle between her thighs, and drag my mouth across hers as I line myself up.

Then I push into her slowly.

Her head tips back, a broken sound leaving her as her hands grab my arms. I stop for half a second, fighting for control while she tightens around me.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’ve wanted this since the second she looked at me like I was the worst decision she could make.

Turns out she wants the bad decision just as much as I want her.

“Eyes on me, Cece.”

Her gaze locks onto mine, dark and hazy, but still carrying enough attitude to make my blood run hotter.

“Mm. Stay right here with me.” I catch her jaw, keeping her focused on me as I lower my mouth close to hers. “No hiding now. I want to watch every second of you finally losing that fucking attitude for me.”

Her breath stutters, and I grin against her lips.

“I want to see exactly how pretty you look when you stop fighting what you want.”

Then I start moving, slow enough to make her feel it, and whatever control I had left disappears the second her expression breaks.

Cece meets every move with the same fire she brings to everything else, legs tight around me, nails digging into my shoulders like she still can’t get me close enough.

“Fuck, Mama.”

Her eyes stay on mine, dark and wrecked, even while that stubborn little look tries to hold on.

“Right there,” she breathes.

Like I need the fucking encouragement.

The bed shifts beneath us, the room filling with rough breaths and the sound of her losing control one piece at a time.

Every time she drags me back in, something possessive twists tighter in my chest.

She’s not fighting me now.

“You feel that?” I murmur against her ear. “That’s what you’ve been running from.”

“Cállate,” she gasps, but her body gives her away.

I laugh against her skin. “Thought so.”

Her nails bite deeper, breath breaking apart as the tension finally starts to take her.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

“Ay, coño—”

She comes apart with my name on her lips, pulling me in so tight it wipes every thought from my head.

Fuck the track.

Fuck the speed.

Nothing has ever hit me like this.

I bury my face against her neck, holding on as the last of my control goes with hers.

When it’s over, I stay there, breathing hard against her skin while her legs slowly loosen around me.

For once, Cece has nothing smart to say.

I lift my head and look down at her.

Lips swollen. Eyes half-lidded and still carrying just enough attitude to make me grin.

“Still hate me?”

Her hand slides into my hair.

“Don’t fucking ruin it, pendejo.”

I kiss her again.

“Too late.”

Chapter Seven

Cece

Three hours ago, I was naked in Revel St. Clair’s bed.

Now I’m standing behind a DJ booth in front of a packed club, pretending I can’t still feel his hands on me.

Professionally, I’m doing amazing.

Personally?

Puta madre.

The room is dark except for strips of blue and purple light cutting through the haze, flashing over sweaty bodies packed together below me. Neon Tide is full tonight, every table crowded, the bars three people deep, and the dance floor moving like one giant living thing beneath the bass.

This is usually where my brain goes quiet.

The second I put my headphones on and touch the controls, everything else disappears. There’s no room for bills, bad dates, annoying men, or whatever new emotional crisis I plan to ignore until it becomes physically impossible.

There’s only the next transition.

The next build, and the exact second I want the room to lose its mind.

Tonight, apparently, there is also Revel.

He’s standing near the front with the rest of the crew, wearing a black T-shirt that fits him in ways I absolutely do not need to notice.

Unfortunately, now I know exactly what's under it feels like. Tastes like.

Every hard line and tattoo. Every muscle that tightened beneath my hands when I—

No.

I pull one side of my headphones closer and adjust the bass.

Focus, Cece.

The track rolls into a darker Latin house beat, low and filthy under a woman’s breathy vocals. I let it build slow, holding the drop just long enough to make the whole room impatient.

Below me, Bexley has both arms in the air, dancing between Talon and Sayshen. Talon has one hand at her waist while Sayshen leans into yell something that makes her laugh, probably stupid and definitely inappropriate.

Echo is nearby with Thorne and Draygon, bouncing to the beat while Thorne looks like he’s trying very hard to pretend he knows how to dance to something that isn’t Backstreet Boys.

He does not.

Not even a little.

Reign catches my eye from farther back and raises his drink. Lena is beside him, laughing as he pulls her closer. Everyone is loose after the race, riding the high of a win that almost gave me a fucking heart attack.

And then there’s Revel.

Of course he isn’t dancing like a normal person.

He’s standing there with one hand around a bottle of water, shoulders moving slightly with the beat, staring directly at me like the people between us are irrelevant.

The second our eyes meet, his mouth curves.

Not a huge smile, but that slow, knowing little grin that says he remembers everything.

My thighs tighten before I can stop them.

Cabrón.

I look away and bring in the next track, but I can still feel his attention. It sits against my skin like another set of lights, warm and impossible to ignore.

Fuck, he knows what he’s doing.

He has known exactly what he’s doing since he dragged me against him that night I kissed him and every sensible thought in my head seemed to disappear.

Today shouldn’t have happened. I followed him to yell at him.

That was the plan.

And you know what, it was a very good, and reasonable plan.

I was going to make it clear that nearly dying for a race win was not attractive, no matter how hot he looked crossing the finish line.

Then I slapped him, he grabbed my wrists, I saw the way he looked at me, and somewhere between calling him a pendejo and telling him I was scared, my plan slipped, fell down a flight of stairs, and died.

Now I can’t forget the ache he left between my legs.

Ay, coño.

I almost miss the cue for the next transition, but recover fast, cutting the vocal at the right second and letting the percussion breathe before I slam the beat back in. The entire floor jumps with it, hands going up as the bass hits hard enough to shake the booth.

A rush moves through me.

There.

That is mine.

The crowd yelling, the lights flashing, the whole room moving because I told it to. I built this set from nothing, spent hours tearing it apart, and put it back together until every drop hit exactly where I wanted.

Revel lifts his bottle toward me in a silent toast.

I raise my middle finger without missing the next cue and his grin gets bigger.

Bexley catches the exchange and looks between us.

I immediately drop my hand.

Shit.

She narrows her eyes at me, then turns toward Revel. He says something to her, probably a lie, because she laughs and shoves his shoulder before going back to dancing.

My stomach tightens.

Nobody knows, and nobody can know.

It’s not like I’m embarrassed or anything. I am a grown ass woman and I am allowed to make terrible choices with beautiful men whenever I want.

That is feminism.

The problem is this crew has no concept of privacy. They would turn one hookup into a full investigation, complete with timelines, witness statements, and screenshots from the group chat, and I’m not ready for all that.

Especially for something that isn’t serious.

This is private.

Physical.

One time.

Simple. Physical. Done.

My traitorous body chooses that exact moment to remember Revel’s mouth between my thighs.

Ay, coño.

I turn the volume up harder than necessary, like more bass might knock the memory straight out of me.

It does not.

The set runs another forty minutes, and by the time I bring the final track down, my skin is damp, my shoulders ache, and the whole room is still moving like they’re not ready to let me go yet.

Perfect.

That’s exactly how I like to leave them.

Sweaty, a little desperate, and already wanting more.

I pull off my headphones as the lights shift, and the room erupts.

Cheers, whistles, hands in the air—the whole club still buzzing from the last track.

For a few seconds, I just stand there and let myself feel it.

Not the attention, but the proof.

Every hour I spent fixing transitions nobody else would notice. Every promoter who called me cute before he bothered calling me talented. Every man who reached for my equipment like I needed help touching the same controls I knew better than he did.

Ay, mira.

Still here and better than half of them.

This is why I kept going.

I lift one hand toward the crowd, pass the booth over to the next DJ, then start packing the few things I brought with me. Laptop into its case, headphones wrapped properly, cables checked twice because replacing shit is expensive and, unfortunately, rent does not accept vibes as payment.

I leave my equipment secured behind the booth and head downstairs through the staff entrance. The second I step into the main room, the heat closes around me. It smells like alcohol, perfume, bodies, and that weird fog machine scent every club has no matter how much money they put into the place.

The crew spots me before I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Bexley throws both hands up and screams my name. Echo joins in, Draygon whistles, and Thorne cups his hands around his mouth.

“Fuckin’ smashed it!”

I laugh, lifting a hand as I point toward the bar.

Drink first.

Friends second.

Mostly because I need one minute to get my shit together before standing near Revel in front of everyone and pretending I wasn’t naked in his bed a few hours ago.

I make my way to the bar, squeezing through the crowd until I find a little space near the service end. The bartender spots me right away. She’s gorgeous, dark hair in a high ponytail, sharp liner, tiny black top, moving fast enough to make every drunk man waving cash at her look stupid.

“Tequila soda?” she asks.

“With lime, please.”

I lean against the bar while she starts pouring. My black cutout top is doing exactly what I bought it to do, the cropped purple shrug barely covering my arms, and my baggy black track pants sit low enough on my hips to keep the whole thing from looking too planned.

Cute, comfortable, and just slutty enough.

Perfect.

A warm body slides in behind me before I even get my drink, one hand landing on my waist like, apparently, fucking once means Revel has developed ownership issues.

“Put it on mine,” he says.

Of course.

I look down at the hand on my hip, then back at him. “Ay, mira. Somebody got comfortable.”

His grin turns slow and filthy. “Thought we were past pretending you don’t like me touching you, Mama.”

“We are not past shit.”

He pulls me back against him anyway, all cocky and pleased with himself. “Could’ve fooled me a few hours ago.”

I elbow him lightly in the stomach. “Do you ever shut up?”

His grin goes filthy. “You shut me up just fine earlier. I mean, if you’re already sick of my voice, we can go again.”

Heat shoots straight up my neck.

Cocky little shit.

I glance toward the crew. They’re far enough away that the music should cover us, but Echo is already looking in our direction with that nosy little squint she gets when she thinks she’s about to catch something.

I shift closer to the bar instead, putting a little space between Revel and me before he gets too comfortable and ruins everything with his face.

The bartender sets my drink down, and I take it with a quick, “Thank you.”

I sip slowly, mostly so I don’t smile. The tequila and lime cut through the heat from the dance floor, but they do absolutely nothing for the warmth still crawling across my skin.

Revel stays beside me, close enough that I can feel him without him touching me.

Somehow, that’s worse.

A few hours ago, his hands were everywhere. Now he’s standing there behaving, and my body is apparently offended by the sudden lack of attention.

Ridiculous.

I keep my eyes on my drink. “Earlier was fun.”

His lips twitch.

“Fun?”

I cut him a look. “Do not make me regret saying that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did, cabrón.”

He smirks. “All right, so fun means good, right?”

I shift a little closer so I don’t have to yell over the music. “Yeah. It was good.”

His brows lift.

I roll my eyes. “Really good, actually.”

The teasing drops from his face just enough to make my stomach tighten.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” I take another sip because apparently admitting that sober is already too much honesty for one night. “But it was also a one-time thing.”

He just looks at me for a second.

Then he laughs.

Low. Amused and annoying as fuck.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you think you are, Mama.”

“No, I know I am.” I point at his chest with my glass. “It was physical. That’s it. We got it out of our systems, and now we move on.”

“Sure.”

“And nobody can know.”

“Fine.”

His answer comes way too easy.

I narrow my eyes. “Fine?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like this is the simplest thing in the world. “Private. Physical. Nobody’s business.”

I study him, suspicious as hell. “Why are you agreeing so easily?”

“Because I’m realistic.”

I blink. “You?”

His mouth curves as he leans a little closer. “You can keep calling it a one-time thing if that helps you sleep, but that look in your eye says you don’t believe a word of it.”

My grip tightens around the glass, and he notices.

His grin gets slower. “See?”

“Ay, cállate.”

“You’re the one trying to convince yourself, not me.”

I take another drink and look away before my face sells me out.

Cocky bastard.

The worst part is, he’s right.

I pull back enough to glare at him. “You don’t believe me.”

He takes his water from the bartender and drinks without breaking eye contact.

“Nope.”

The honesty catches me off guard.

“You are so fucking arrogant.”

“And you’re making rules three hours after climbing into my bed.” He lowers the bottle. “Feels a little early to call the game, Mama.”

“It is not a game.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he says it kills the next insult sitting on my tongue.

He’s still amused, but there’s something else in his eyes now. Something a little too serious for a conversation about this meaning nothing.

I look away first.

Bad idea.

Because my eyes land right on his mouth, and my body remembers exactly what it can do.

I wanted him before, but at least then I could pretend it was just curiosity.

Now I know better.

I know what he sounds like when the jokes stop. I know what his hands feel like when he’s done teasing. I know what it feels like when all that restless energy is focused completely on me.

Ay, coño.

The want is so much worse now.

One time was supposed to get him out of my system.

Instead, it gave my body proof how good he could make it feel.

“Amazing set.”

The new voice cuts through the moment.

I turn and find James standing beside me, smiling wide like he’s been waiting for a chance to get over here. He opens one arm, and before I can decide whether we’re hugging now, he pulls me in.

“Seriously,” he says near my ear. “You killed it.”

“Thank you.” I laugh, hugging him back quickly before stepping away. “The crowd was good tonight.”

“The crowd was good because you knew exactly what to do with them.” His hand lingers at my waist for half a second too long. “That second half especially. The Latin transition into the darker house track was fucking clean.”

A little spark of pride lights in my chest.

“Thank you. I rebuilt that transition about twenty times.”

“Worth every second.” His eyes move over me, not subtle enough to miss. “You looked good doing it too.”

Oh.

Okay.

Before I can answer, Revel shifts beside me.

I glance over, and—ay, no.

His face is calm. Too calm. The smile is gone, his jaw tight, and the look he gives James says he has already killed the man in his head and is now deciding where to hide the body.

James finally seems to notice him. “Hey, man.”

Revel steps closer and slides an arm around my waist like it belongs there.

“Revel,” he says, flashing a smile that is all teeth. “I’m the boyfriend. Nice to meet you.”

I choke on my drink.

Actually choke.

Tequila burns the back of my throat while Revel rubs my side like he didn’t just lie straight through that pretty mouth.

James looks between us. “Boyfriend?”

“Yep.” Revel pulls me tighter against him. “And her biggest fan, obviously.”

I stare up at him.

He does not look at me.

Cocky, jealous bastard.

James’s smile slips for half a second before he recovers. “Right. Lucky guy.”

“The fuckin’ luckiest.”

His thumb moves slowly over my hip, possessive as hell, while he keeps smiling at James like this is a normal introduction and not some weird little territorial battle beside the bar.

James clears his throat and turns his attention back to me. “Anyway, that second build was probably my favorite part of the whole set.”

“Thanks, James,”

“Shit, I knew she’d kick ass,” Revel cuts in. “That build is fucking epic. Perfect song to fuck to, if you know what I mean.”

His hand tightens and pulls me flush against his side, making it painfully obvious he is not speaking hypothetically.

James’s eyes flick between us. “Right.”

“Yeah.” Revel’s grin turns smug as hell. “Holds up real good on repeat too.”

I nearly choke again.

“Revel,” I warn under my breath.

He finally looks down at me, the filthy curve of his mouth making it clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“What?” he asks. “I’m complimenting your work.”

I should correct him.

I should shove his arm off and tell James the truth.

Instead, I smile sweetly and lean into Revel’s side, because, apparently, I am just as bad.

James clears his throat and looks back at me. “Anyway, I actually came over because I wanted to offer you something.”

My stomach flips. “Okay…”

“I’m helping organize Sol Fuego next weekend. One of our higher-lineup DJs pulled out, and after tonight, I want you in the slot. I think you’d be perfect for it.”

For a second, I just stare at him.

“In Miami?”

“That’s where Sol Fuego is.”

“Ay, sorry.” I press my fingers to my forehead. “You’re offering me a spot at Sol Fuego?”

“A head-line slot,” he says. “Saturday night. Big stage, packed crowd, real exposure. You’d be going on after nine.”

My mouth drops open. “You’re serious?”

“Completely. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. I liked what you did tonight, and I think your sound fits the festival.” James pulls out his phone. “There are logistics, though. You would be responsible for bringing your own setup people. We provide the booth, main system, lighting, and stage crew, but anything personal, equipment management, transport, and people handling your setup comes from your side.”

“Hell yes, I’ll do it!”

He smiles. “I haven’t sent you the details yet.”

“I don’t care. Yes.”

“Awesome.” James types something into his phone. “I’ll email everything tonight. Look it over tomorrow and call me before five. I need confirmation fast.”

“You’ll have it.”

He offers his hand, and I take it, trying to act like my heart isn’t attempting to punch out of my chest.

“Congratulations,” he says. “You earned it.”

The second James walks away, I turn on Revel.

“Boyfriend?”

His grin spreads like he’s proud of himself. “Yeah, Mama?”

“Do not ‘yeah, mama’ me.” I shove his arm off my waist. “What the fuck was that?”

“What?” He takes a drink of water, way too calm. “Sounded better than introducing myself as the guy you fucked earlier and clearly want to fuck again.”

“He was just complimenting my set.”

“Nah, Mama. He was flirting with you.”

“He was offering me a festival slot.”

“Yeah, after flirting with you.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” I press both hands to my face, trying to process the fact that I just got offered Sol Fuego while also resisting the urge to strangle him. “You cannot just introduce yourself as my boyfriend.”

“Why not? You went with it.”

“That isn’t the fucking point.” I drop my hands and glare at him. “And the song comment?”

His mouth curves. “What about it?”

“You made it sound like we already fucked to it.”

“Not yet.” He leans in, smug as hell. “But now that I’ve heard the build, I’ve got plans.”

My stomach flips.

Revel’s thumb drags slowly over my hip. “Next time it drops, I’ll show you exactly why it’s the perfect song for it.”

I smack his chest, but there’s no heat behind it now because the excitement is starting to take over everything else.

“Okay, but did that really just happen?” I ask.

His whole expression softens, the jealousy fading into something warm and proud. “Yeah, Mama. That just fucking happened.”

“Oh my God.”

I put my drink down before I spill it and press both hands to my face again.

“I got Sol Fuego.”

“You got Sol Fuego.”

A laugh breaks out of me, half shocked, half losing my mind.

Then Revel catches me around the waist when I practically launch myself at him.

And this time, I let him.

His hands stay at my waist.

For one second, I forget the crowd. The secret. Every rule I made two minutes ago.

There is no teasing in his face now. He looks genuinely proud of me, and that feels more dangerous than every filthy thing he said in his bedroom.

“You did that,” he says. “Nobody handed you shit. You got yourself there, Mama.”

My chest goes tight.

“Ay, don’t make me emotional in the club. My makeup is too expensive.”

He smiles and brushes his thumb over my side. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I become painfully aware of his hands again and step back before someone else notices.

I grab my drink. “Come on. Let’s get back to them before they send a search party.”

We head back toward the others, and the second Bexley sees my face, she grabs both my arms.

“What happened?”

“I got offered Sol Fuego.”

The scream that comes out of Bexley turns half the heads around us.

Within seconds, everyone closes in. Echo throws her arms around me, Bexley starts jumping, and Sayshen nearly spills his drink trying to celebrate and hug me at the same time.

For a second, I just let myself get swallowed by them.

By the noise, the excitement, and the way every single one of them acts like this win belongs to all of us.

They might not be blood, but they’re family through and through. I never have to wonder who has my back because I already know the answer.

All of them.

Just like they have me.

I thread my fingers through Bexley’s, and she pulls me deeper into the crowd. We fall into the beat together, hips moving while Echo dances beside us and Sayshen attempts something that almost ends with him on the floor.

I laugh so hard I nearly lose the rhythm.

A few feet away, Revel stands beside Draygon and Talon with his water in one hand, watching me through all the chaos.

Every time I look over, he smiles.

And for once, it isn’t the filthy one.

It’s the proud one.

Which is deeply fucking unfair.

The music gets louder, the crowd tighter, and little by little, Revel starts finding his way closer without making it obvious. His hand brushes my lower back when he passes behind me. His chest catches my shoulder when the crowd shifts. His fingers find mine for half a second beneath the movement of everyone around us before slipping away again.

Private.

Physical and no one’s business.

Except every hidden touch feels louder than if he grabbed me in front of everyone.

Bexley turns toward Echo, and Revel slips in behind me, one hand settling low on my hip where nobody can see it.

“Still set on this being a one-time thing?” he asks near my ear.

“Yep.”

His laugh brushes over my skin. “Shame.”

“Why?”

“Because the way you’re moving right now?” His grip tightens as he pulls me back against him. “Fuck, Mama. You’re making it hard to believe you.”

He rolls his hips once, slow enough to let me feel exactly how worked up he is.

Ay, coño.

My whole body reacts before I can stop it, and of course he notices.

“Never again,”

He laughs and lets me go. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then he disappears back into the crowd, leaving me hot, annoyed, and way too aware of how badly I want him again.

That is exactly why I have to keep fighting it.

It is easier to stop this now than let it become something real and have him break my heart later.

Chapter Eight

Revel

Cece keeps calling it a one-time thing.

Which is kind of adorable, honestly.

I let her have the little speech because correcting her too soon would ruin the fun of this little game we’re playing. After the other night, I know she needs time to convince herself she’s in control. So I’ll let her ignore me for a couple days, threaten my life in the group chat as usual, maybe act like sleeping with me fixed whatever problem she thinks I am.

But we both know it didn’t.

If anything, she made it worse.

Now that she knows how good I can make her feel, all it’s going to take is one look. One second of her eyes dropping to my mouth, one bad decision after midnight, and that whole one-time rule is going straight in the fucking trash.

Where it can stay as far as I’m concerned.

Shit, I’ve jerked off thinking about her in my bed four times since that night.

Four.

And honestly, that number feels pretty fucking conservative considering how bad I want her.

I can’t stop picturing the way her hair spread across my pillow, those legs wrapped around me, and the look in her pretty brown eyes when she finally stopped pretending she didn’t want me. That shit has been stuck in my head on repeat, and apparently my right hand is working overtime because Cece wants to play hard to get after I already had her.

The worst part is remembering standing over her with that condom in my hand.

I put it on because I’m not a complete fucking asshole, but every part of me hated it. I didn’t want anything between us. I wanted to feel her raw, bury myself inside her, and fill her until she had no choice but to remember exactly who put it there.

And getting her pregnant?

That should probably scare the shit out of me.

Doesn’t.

Fuck, I like the idea way too much.

Cece with my baby growing inside her, belly swollen, still mouthy as hell and threatening to break my fingers every time I touch her. Mine in a way she couldn’t laugh off or call a one-time thing.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Just thinking about it has my cock hard while I’m standing in a garage surrounded by the guys, which is really not ideal.

That whole night has been playing in my head on repeat, and my right hand has been doing overtime because Cece decided to play hard to get after I already know exactly how badly she wants me.

Mean little thing.

Hot as fuck, though.

And completely fucking worth it.

Which is exactly why I refuse to believe that one-time bullshit. Cece can say it as many times as she wants, but sooner or later she’s going to crack, and I’ll have her right where I want her again.

Fuck, I’m already counting down.

“Revel.”

I blink and realize Talon has been talking to me.

He’s standing on the other side of the workbench with a wrench in one hand and the same annoyed expression he wears for basically everything.

“What?”

His eyes narrow. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Yeah.”

“What did I say?”

I look down at the brake caliper in front of me, buying time. “Something about the bike.”

“Great. Incredible recall.”

Sayshen laughs from where he’s crouched beside his own. “Dude hasn’t heard a fucking word in ten minutes.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’ve been staring at the same bolt like it holds the secret map to get in Cece’s pants,” Talon says.

I glance at it.

He’s not wrong. I’ve had the wrench against it for so long my hand is starting to cramp, but I haven’t turned the damn thing once. Little does he know I’ve already been there and I got that roadway fucking memorized.

Because instead of working, I’ve been thinking about Cece.

Again.

I finally turn the wrench. “I’m multitasking.”

“Thinking and working?” Thorne asks from behind Echo’s bike. “Careful, mate. Might pull a fuckin’ muscle.”

“Piss off,” I reply, grabbing a grease coated rag and tossing it at his head. “See?” I point the wrench at Talon. “I’m listening now.”

“Yeah, to the British boy band mascot, not me.”

“Still fucking counts.”

The garage is louder than usual today. The bay doors are open, letting in thick afternoon heat and the sound of somebody testing an engine outside. Tools cover both benches, spare fairings lean against the wall, and half the team is spread across the floor getting everything ready for next weekend.

Their race next weekend.

Not mine.

Andre followed through on his threat and suspended me for one event. I argued for maybe thirty seconds before he reminded me I’d nearly taken Ajax and myself into a wall after he specifically told me not to force the pass.

Still worth the win.

Also worth the slap from Cece that somehow ended with her in my bed and me learning getting hit can have a pretty fucking great payoff.

Apparently, none of that was Andre’s point.

So now I get to help everyone else prep while they remind me every ten minutes that I’m not riding.

A beautiful lesson in humility.

Fuck humility.

Echo rolls out from beneath her bike and sits up, pushing loose hair away from her face with the back of her wrist. “Can someone pass me the ten millimeter?”

Draygon finds it first and drops it into her hand. Then, because, apparently, handing over a wrench isn’t enough, he catches her by the jaw and kisses her.

Not some quick little peck either.

He tugs lightly on her bottom lip before letting her go, leaving her cheeks pink and her looking way too pleased for someone covered in grease.

Thorne stares at them like Draygon just stole his last meal. “Bruv, I was literally about to do that.”

“You were looking in the wrong drawer,” Echo says, glancing over at him. “But I’ll happily give you a kiss too if you’re feeling left out.”

“Oi, don’t gotta tell me twice.”

He drops his pencil and gets off the stool so fast his sketchbook nearly slides onto the floor.

He’s been working on some manga-style poster Andre thinks would be good for promo. Not the usual team shot either. No leathers, no staged paddock bullshit. Just all of us riding together on the open road, because apparently the point is to show we’re family on and off the track.

In life and in death.

Thorne thinks the fans will eat that shit up.

He’s probably right.

Thorne finally pulls away from Echo looking way too pleased with himself, then drops back onto the stool and reaches for his sketchbook like he didn’t just abandon it at record speed for a kiss.

Draygon only smirks, grabs Echo’s water bottle, and sets it closer to where she can reach it before going back to the bike.

The way the three of them move around each other should probably look complicated.

It doesn’t.

They just know where they fit.

Must be fucking nice.

I glance down at my phone on the bench.

Still nothing from Cece.

Whatever. She’ll come around.

I pull my shirt over my head, toss it beside my phone, and crouch back down by my bike.

“Yo, Echo, when are you girls leaving for Miami?” I ask.

Echo looks over at me. “What?”

“For Cece’s set. I figured she’d ask you girls to go with her since the guy said she was responsible for her own set up.”

“Yeah, she did, but we have a race, Revel.”

“I know.”

“And I’m racing in it.”

“Right.” I tighten the bolt in front of me. “Obviously.”

Sayshen glances up from his bike. “Bex can’t go either. She’s got some massive exam to study for, and she’s been stressing herself sick because she feels like shit about missing it.”

“What about Lena?”

Across the garage, Reign unwraps another protein bar because apparently the man needs a scheduled snack break from standing around looking pretty. “Nah, she’s got a rehab release with the rescue. One of the dolphins she’s been working with is finally going back out and she’s leading the release team.”

I stop turning the wrench. “So none of you are going?”

Echo shakes her head. “We already told her, she was cool about it, she doesn’t want us to miss anything and this set was last minute so not much we can do.”

“Then who the fuck is going with her?”

Talon shrugs. “Bex said Cece might ask her cousins.”

“Her cousins?”

“Yeah.”

“Which cousins?”

“I don’t fucking know, Revel. Her cousins,” Talon adds with annoyance.

“Are they useful?”

Thorne snorts. “What kind of question is that, mate?”

“A normal one.”

“No, it ain’t.”

I look around at all of them. “Does anyone know if they understand her setup? Can they lift anything? Show up on time? Or are we talking about two random assholes who’ll roll in hungover, lose half her cables, and call that helping?”

The garage gets quiet.

Not completely.

There’s still music coming from the speaker and a bike running outside, but every person close enough to hear me has stopped what they’re doing.

Talon looks at Sayshen.

Sayshen looks at Thorne.

“What?” I ask, lifting the wrench.

Sayshen’s mouth starts to curve as he wipes his hands on a rag. “Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“You just asked for the fucking employment history of Cece’s cousins.”

“No, I asked if they’re useful.”

Talon lets out a dry laugh and turns back to the parts spread across the bench.

Sayshen shakes his head, still grinning as he crouches beside his bike again. Thorne snorts and drops his eyes back to the sketchbook in his lap, while Echo slides underneath her bike like she wants no part of whatever the fuck is wrong with me.

Her cousins.

Yeah, no.

Fuck that.

I don’t know shit about DJ equipment, but I can carry the heavy stuff, fix her car when it inevitably decides to die again, and make sure no thirsty promoter gets confused about whose girl she is.

Basically, I’m useful as fuck.

And more importantly, it’s Miami.

Just me and Cece, away from this nosy-ass crew, with a whole weekend to prove one time was never going to be enough. No audience, no excuses, and nowhere for her to hide behind that this means nothing bullshit.

Fuck yes.

I’m suspended, I’ve got nowhere else to be, and somehow Andre’s punishment just handed me the perfect chance to show her this is real, even if she fights me every damn step of the way.

She can keep pretending for now.

She can’t fight it forever.

I grab my phone.

Looks like Cece just got herself a plus-one.

Me: I’m going to Miami with you.

I hit send.

Thorne leans sideways on his stool, trying to get a look at my screen without being subtle about it. I turn the phone toward my chest before he can read anything.

“Who you textin’, then?” he asks, pencil still tucked behind one ear.

“Your mom.”

He gives me a flat look. “Proper original, mate. You been savin’ that one all day?”

“Yeah, actually. Glad I finally found the right moment.”

Sayshen laughs from where he’s crouched beside his bike. “That’s Cece, isn’t it?”

I glance at him. “You guys ever think about getting hobbies that don’t involve watching me?”

“No,” Talon says from across the bench, not even looking up. “This is way more entertaining.”

Thorne grins and taps the end of his pencil against the sketchbook. “Lavender hair’s got you proper fucked, bruv. Girl threatens to flatten you every other day and you still sit there cheesin’ at your phone.”

“She likes me.”

“She wants to run you over,” Sayshen says.

“Same thing with Cece.”

Talon finally looks up, one brow raised. “You can turn literally anything into encouragement.”

“It’s called confidence.”

“It’s called delusion,” Thorne says.

I shrug. “Close enough.”

They go back to what they’re doing, still laughing like my love life is somehow today’s main event. I set my phone face down on the bench and return to the caliper, or at least make it look like I do.

She’ll argue.

Obviously.

She’ll tell me she never asked me to go, and I’ll remind her I wasn’t asking. Then she’ll call me something in Spanish that sounds sexy as fuck even though it probably means diseased asshole.

Normal shit.

The phone buzzes.

I grab it a little too fast.

Talon catches the movement and smirks.

I ignore him and open the message.

Cece: Okay.

I stare at the word.

That’s it.

No argument or threat. Not even a who the fuck invited you?

Just okay.

Me: Wow. That was easy.

Cece: Don’t get excited. I need someone to carry shit.

Me: So you do need me.

Cece: I need your arms. The rest of you is optional.

Me: Knew you were obsessed with my body.

Cece: Ay, cállate. Don’t make me regret this before we even leave.

Me: Too late. I’m already looking at hotels.

Cece: Who tf said anything about sharing a hotel?

Me: Nobody. Yet.

Cece: Revel.

Me: Relax, mama. What time am I picking you up?

Cece: You’re not. We’re taking my car. It’s already loaded so you can meet me at my place.

Me: Your car? Bold choice, not sure it will make it there.

Cece: You changed one battery and suddenly you’re AAA.

Me: Just saying, good thing you’re bringing a hot mechanic.

Cece: You’re bringing coffee and carrying speakers. That’s your entire job.

Me: Damn. No road head?

Cece: Choke.

Me: That’s not a no.

Cece: Friday. Six a.m. Be ready or I’m leaving your ass.

Me: You’d come back.

Cece: No, I’d send you a picture of me in the tiniest bikini from Miami.

Me: Now that is just cruel.

Cece: Bring my coffee.

Me: And breakfast?

Cece: Obviously.

Me: Look at you already ordering your man around.

Cece: You are not my man.

Me: Keep practicing. Almost sounded convincing.

Cece: Puta madre. Six o’clock, cabrón.

Me: Can’t wait.

Cece: I can.

Me: Liar. See you Friday, mami.

Cece: I hate you.

Me: Pack extra panties.

Cece: GET FUCKED.

I lock my phone, grinning like an idiot.

Miami. Just me and Cece in her little death-trap car, arguing for four hours while she pretends she isn’t excited I’m coming.

Fuck yes.

She can call me hired muscle all she wants but by the end of the weekend, she’s going to know one time didn’t get me out of her system.

It only made the problem worse.

For once, getting suspended feels like a fucking reward.

Chapter Nine

Cece

“You’re folding that wrong.”

Bexley looks down at the baby blue bikini tangled between her hands, turns it over like a second angle might help, then looks back at me with the kind of patience usually reserved for toddlers and drunk people.

“It’s six strings and two triangles, Cece. There is no right way to fold this.”

“There absolutely is. You’re twisting the bottoms into the top.”

“Yeah, because they’re basically the same piece of dental floss.”

Before I can stop her, she gives up and drops the entire thing into my open suitcase in one messy pile.

I stare at it.

She smiles sweetly. “There. Packed.”

“Don’t touch anything else.”

“You invited me over to help.”

“I invited you over because you said you were one bad practice test away from throwing your laptop into traffic. The packing was optional.”

“Then why did you hand me a pile of clothes the second I walked through the door?”

“Because you were standing there doing nothing.”

Bex grabs another top from the bed and holds it against herself. She’s wearing one of Talon’s oversized shirts with tiny shorts underneath, her hair piled on top of her head, and she somehow still looks cute while actively destroying the organization system I spent forty minutes creating.

“Actually, I was eating the chips I brought.”

“And dropping crumbs in my bed while you did it.”

“I was sharing them with Guac.”

“That little gremlin does not need chips.”

Guacamole lifts his head from the middle of my pillow at the sound of his name. He’s been supervising us for the last twenty minutes, wrapped in a soft gray blanket with only his bald head and enormous ears sticking out. His eyes narrow at me like I’ve personally insulted his nutritional choices.

Bex glances over at him. “He disagrees.”

“He also eats lint.”

“Still less questionable than half the men you’ve dated.”

“I don’t date men.”

“Exactly. You just occasionally make terrible decisions with them and then pretend it never happened.”

My hand pauses over the toiletries spread across my dresser.

Bex keeps her eyes on the shirt she’s folding, but there’s a tiny curve at the corner of her mouth that tells me the comment wasn’t random.

I narrow my eyes at her reflection in the mirror. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

“It was a general statement about your deeply healthy relationship with emotional intimacy.”

“Wow. One psychology elective and suddenly you’re Dr. Phil.”

“I’ve known you since we were fifteen. That’s basically a doctorate in whatever the fuck is wrong with you.”

I grab a rolled pair of socks and throw them at her. She catches them against her chest, laughing, then tosses them into the suitcase without even checking where they belong.

“Seriously, stop helping.”

“You’re welcome.”

I turn back to my dresser and start sorting my makeup into two bags. One for tomorrow morning and one for the festival, because I’m not digging through six lip liners at five in the morning while Revel stands outside my house running his mouth.

Just thinking his name makes my stomach do something stupid.

Not butterflies.

Absolutely not.

More like indigestion with abs.

I zip the smaller makeup bag harder than necessary and move it beside my purse. My equipment is already packed into the car, every cable wrapped, labeled, and checked twice. My clothes are almost done.

Everything is under control.

Mostly.

Bexley has started untangling the straps of my blue bikini bottoms when the doorbell rings.

Guacamole explodes out of the blanket so fast he nearly takes the pillowcase with him. He launches off the bed, lands with an offended little grunt, then tears down the hallway like somebody has come to steal the food he doesn’t pay for.

“Who the hell is that?” Bex asks.

“Probably my mom. She texted she might stop by before work.”

“At this hour?”

“She works nights.”

I follow Guac through the house while Bex trails behind me, still carrying the bikini for some reason. By the time I reach the front door, he’s standing on his back legs with both front paws against it, yelling at whoever rang the bell.

“Move, chismoso.”

He does not move.

I scoop him up with one arm and open the door to find my mother standing on the porch with two foil-covered containers balanced against her chest and a reusable grocery bag looped over one wrist.

“Hola, mi amor.” Her whole face brightens when she sees me. “Take this before I drop everything.”

I quickly grab the containers while she steps inside, bringing the smell of roasted peppers, seasoned meat, warm tortillas, and cinnamon with her.

My mom is forty-eight and still one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. Not in a polished, tries-too-hard way either. She’s wearing navy scrubs with little silver hoops, her dark hair twisted into a loose bun with a few gray strands showing near her temples. Her face is soft, warm brown eyes framed by laugh lines she used to complain about until I told her they made her look kind.

They do.

Everything about her is kind.

Even when life gave her every reason not to be.

“You made all this tonight?” I ask, carrying the food toward the kitchen.

“I made it this afternoon before I slept. There are breakfast burritos, empanadas, fruit, and the little cinnamon pastries you like. Some for tonight and enough for the road tomorrow.”

“Mom, we’re driving to Miami, not crossing the country.”

“Sí, and you’ll still be hungry before you even hit the highway.” She taps the first foil container. “This one is for tonight. The rest are for tomorrow. No stopping for that gas-station basura and calling it breakfast.”

Bex is already peeling back the foil before Mom finishes. She slides onto one of the stools, steals an empanada, then points it at me after the first bite.

“To be fair, Revel’s going too, and that man is huge. All that muscle has to eat. Mrs. Mendez, you might’ve made exactly enough.”

Mom’s eyes cut straight to me.

“¿Revel va contigo?”

I glare at Bex. “He’s helping with the equipment.”

“Mmm.” Mom leans against the island, a knowing little smile pulling at her mouth. “Qué conveniente.”

“Not today,”

“I didn’t even say anything, mi amor.”

“Your face did.”

Bex nods around another bite. “Her face definitely did.”

“He’s a sweet boy.”

“You’ve met him twice.”

“Twice was enough. Muy educado. Very charming. And he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“His entire existence is just to annoy me.”

“Maybe because you’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

Bex nearly chokes on her empanada.

I point at both of them. “You two are getting way too comfortable.”

Mom only smiles wider. “Ay, Cecilia. You talk about that man far too much for someone who supposedly doesn’t like him.”

“I talk about him because he’s irritating.”

“Claro.”

“Don’t claro me.”

Bex wipes her fingers on a napkin, looking far too pleased. “She’s right, though.”

Mom laughs, comes around the island, and kisses Bex’s cheek before taking an empanada for herself. Since Bex and I have been friends so long, mom stopped treating her like a guest years ago. Bex has slept on our couch, eaten out of our fridge, and cried at our kitchen table.

She’s family.

Mom reaches into the grocery bag and pulls out a smaller foil container, setting it off to the side. “This one is for Mateo. I’m dropping it off before work because, apparently, there’s no food in his apartment.”

“I swear he says that every week.”

“Claro. Your brother suddenly forgets how to cook whenever he wants me to feed him.”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“And still my baby.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat in it. Mateo is my younger brother and has spent most of his life acting like I exist to answer questions he could easily Google himself. He has Mom’s eyes, his dad, Daniel’s dimples, and absolutely none of my ability to mind his own business.

Daniel came into our lives when I was little, then Mateo came along a few years later. Technically, he’s my half-brother, but nobody in our family uses the half part unless paperwork makes us. Daniel made sure of that. He married Mom, loved her the way she deserved, and never once made me feel like the extra kid from the man who left.

He never pushed me to call him dad or pretended my real father didn’t exist, even when I wished he didn’t. He just showed up. School concerts, parent-teacher nights, birthdays, bad report cards, worse breakups. Daniel was there through all of it, quiet and reliable, loving me without ever acting like it was some generous thing he deserved praise for.

He tried to make sure I understood that one man leaving didn’t mean they all would.

It didn’t work.

If anything, Daniel only showed me how rare a man like him actually is.

“Daniel already told everybody at work you’re playing Sol Fuego,” Mom says, like she can hear me thinking about him. “He wanted to print the festival poster and hang it in the break room.”

My mouth falls open. “He did not.”

“I stopped him.”

“Thank God.”

“I did let him send it to the family group chat, though.”

“That thing has, like, thirty-seven people in it.”

“Thirty-nine now. Your tía added two cousins from Texas.”

“Of course she did. I don’t even know those cousins.”

“They know you now.” Mom smiles and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Daniel is proud of you, mija. We both are.”

Bex leans over the island, grinning. “Your whole family is basically running a marketing campaign.”

Mom laughs softly. “Ay, déjalos. They’re excited for you.”

“Excited and nosy.”

“In this family, it’s the same thing.”

Bex lifts her empanada in agreement. “That’s why I love it here.”

“You say that because they feed you.”

“It’s one of many reasons.”

Mom turns back to me, and the teasing in her expression softens. She reaches up and moves a piece of hair away from my face, smoothing it behind my ear the same way she’s done since I was little.

“I’m so proud of you, Cecilia.”

My throat tightens immediately, which is rude because I have expensive lashes on and no interest in getting emotional in my kitchen.

“I haven’t even played yet.”

“That doesn’t matter. You worked for this. Nobody handed you anything, and you kept going even when people made you feel like you didn’t belong there.” She cups my cheek for a second, her thumb brushing beneath my eye. “You belong there, mi amor. Don’t forget that this weekend.”

I look down at the foil container in front of me so she doesn’t see how badly the words hit.

“Okay,” I murmur.

“Okay what?”

“I won’t forget.”

“Good.” She kisses my forehead, then reaches down to scratch Guacamole under the chin. He immediately starts purring against my arm like he wasn’t screaming at her through the door thirty seconds ago. “And you behave while your mamá is gone.”

“Like that will ever happen.”

“He gets that from you.” She scratches under his chin, and Guac immediately leans into her hand like the shameless little suck-up he is. “I’ll stop by to check on you, mi amor. Maybe I’ll even bring you a little snack.”

His purr gets louder.

“Wow.” I stare at both of them. “Betrayed in my own house.”

Mom laughs and picks up Mateo’s container. “I need to go before I’m late.” She hugs me tightly, one arm around my shoulders and the other careful not to crush Guac between us.

“Te amo,” she says against my hair.

“Te amo también.”

She hugs Bex next, reminds both of us to eat, then leaves before I can tell her again that she made too much food.

I close the door and stand there for a second, Guac warm in my arms, watching through the window as she climbs into her car. Her headlights sweep across the front of the house before she backs out and heads toward Mateo’s place.

Bex comes up beside me, already chewing.

I look down at her hand. “Did you seriously steal an empanada the second I turned around?”

“She said we should eat.” Bex takes another bite like that settles it, then makes a happy little noise. “God, this is so good.”

“You say that every time my mom feeds you.”

“Because your mom is literally the best cook. Also, I’m pretty sure she loves me more.”

“She does not.”

“She gave me the bigger hug.”

“That’s because she knows you’re emotionally fragile.”

Bex presses a hand to her chest like I just wounded her. “Wow. After everything we’ve been through.”

She takes one last bite, then wanders back toward my bedroom like she pays rent here while I start putting the food away. I leave two breakfast burritos and a container of pastries out for tomorrow, even though Revel already said he’s bringing breakfast.

I catch myself smiling at the thought and immediately flatten my mouth.

Absolutely not.

By the time I get back to the bedroom, Bex is sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed with Guacamole curled in her lap, both of them looking far too comfortable for people who have contributed absolutely nothing to the packing process.

Bex smiles like she knows better, then glances toward the equipment cases by the door. “You nervous?”

“For the set?”

“For all of it.” Bex scratches under Guac’s chin, watching me a little too closely. “I mean, you and Revel trapped in a car together for four hours, then spending the whole weekend in Miami basically alone.”

“We won’t be alone. There’ll be thousands of people at the festival.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

I look up from the shirt in my hands. “Ay, what is that face?”

“What face?”

“That little nosy-ass face you make when you think you’ve figured something out.”

“I don’t know anything.” She scratches Guac’s chest while he sprawls farther across her legs. “I’m just curious why Revel St. Clair is driving four hours to Miami to carry speakers when you supposedly can’t stand him.”

“He’s suspended after that stupid ass shit he did in the race last weekend, so now he has nothing else to do.”

“Sure, that explains why he can go. But it doesn’t explain why you said yes.”

“I said yes cause I need help.”

“Thought you were going to ask your cousins?”

“They’re busy.”

“You didn’t ask them, did you?”

“I didn’t need to. Revel already knows James, so it makes more sense for him to come.”

Bex’s hand slows over Guac’s back. “Wait. How does Revel know James?”

I let out a disgusted noise and toss the shirt into my suitcase. “Because the second James offered me the set, Revel came marching over like he owned the fucking building and introduced himself as my boyfriend.”

Bex stares at me. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did. Full chest out, hand shake, smug little grin. Basically waving his dick around like he was king shit and needed James to know I belonged to him. It was mortifying.”

“And you corrected him?”

“I was in the middle of getting offered Sol Fuego, Bex. I wasn’t about to turn it into some weird relationship press conference.”

“So you let it slide.”

“I let James keep talking. Big difference.”

Bex looks at me for a long second, then glances toward my phone on the dresser.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

She looks back at me, eyes narrowing. “Your phone has been dry as fuck all night.”

“So?”

“So your usual lineup normally starts circling after dark. Not one ‘you up,’ no shirtless mirror pic, not even that tattoo guy with the tragic beard.”

“I stopped answering him.”

“Since when?”

I don’t answer fast enough.

Bex goes completely still.

“Oh my God.”

I frown. “What now?”

“You fucked Revel.”

My hands freeze over the suitcase. “What? No. How the hell did you get there?”

“Because Revel has been chasing you for months and he has never once pulled the boyfriend card. Then suddenly he’s staking a claim in front of James, you’re letting him go to Miami with you, and every other man in your phone has disappeared.”

“He’s always been possessive.”

“Not like that.”

“You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” Her grin starts spreading. “Because you’re also doing that thing where you get pissed instead of answering.”

“I’m pissed because you’re being nosy.”

“You love when I’m nosy.”

“I really don’t.”

“Cece.” She leans closer, eyes huge now. “Holy shit. You actually fucked him.”

“Bexley, lower your voice.”

She slaps both hands over her mouth and lets out a muffled scream while Guac startles upright in her lap. Guac jumps down just as she launches forward and grabs my wrist.

“When did this happen? Was it after the race? It was after the race, wasn’t it? You followed him home bitch, I saw you pull out behind him.”

“I did not follow him home.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Fine, okay. But I only went there because he almost got himself killed and I was pissed.”

“And then what? You tripped and landed naked?”

“Can you act normal for five seconds?”

“No, because I have been waiting for this since the first night you met him and pretended you didn’t spend the entire evening checking if he was looking at you.”

“I did not.”

“You nearly broke your neck pretending not to watch him.”

“That is such bullshit.”

Bex presses both hands over her mouth, but it does nothing to hide the scream that comes out of her. She falls backward onto my pillows and starts kicking her feet against the mattress like she’s sixteen and I just told her the hottest guy at school asked for my number.

Guac startles, jumps down from the bed and into the hamper of clean warm laundry.

“Look what you did. You scared my son.”

“Fuck your son. You had sex with Revel.”

Guacamole’s head snaps towards us, eyes narrowed into judgmental little slits.

Bex immediately looks at him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but your mother has been withholding important information.”

“It is not important.”

“It is the most important fucking thing you’ve told me in months.”

“No, I did tell you I’m playing Sol Fuego Saturday night.”

“That is career important. This is best-friend important. Different category.”

I grab a pillow and smack her in the stomach with it. “Ay, cállate.”

She catches it, laughing.

“Was it good?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Her laughter cuts off. Slowly, she lowers the pillow and stares at me.

“Oh my God. It was really good.”

“Bex, te juro, shut up.”

“It was. Look at your face.”

“There is nothing wrong with my face.”

“You look pissed off.”

“I usually look pissed off, cabrona.”

No, this is your specific I-liked-something-I-didn’t-want-to-like face.”

“That is not a face.”

“I’ve known you since high school. You absolutely have a face for it.”

I turn away and refold a shirt that was already fine.

“It happened after the race. I went over there because he almost got himself killed and I wanted to yell at him.”

“And somehow his clothes fell off?”

“Ay, cállate.”

She keeps poking at me until I finally admit that yes, it was good, and no, it didn’t mean anything. I got dressed, went home, got ready, and played my set like the whole thing never happened.

“That doesn’t exactly scream meaningless,” Bex says, her smile fading into something gentler. “You slept with him, then he showed up at your set looking proud as hell. Now he’s going to Miami with you. Cece, the man is obsessed.”

“He likes the chase.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he just likes you.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “He’s a good guy. Loud, cocky, reckless as fuck, but good. And he isn’t your dad.”

My shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t push it harder.

“You don’t have to trust him with your whole life,” she says. “Just give him a chance to prove he’s not going anywhere.”

I look down at Guac curled in my lap, warm and completely relaxed while my brain does the opposite.

Revel already got me into bed.

He could have taken the win and moved on.

Instead, he came to my set. He watched me like I was the only person in the room, acted proud when James offered me Miami, and invited himself along before I could even figure out how to ask for help.

Maybe that’s what scares me.

Not that he’ll leave.

That he actually wants to stay.

Tomorrow, I’ll be stuck in a car with him for four hours while he runs his mouth, touches my radio, and acts like calling me mama isn’t a threat to his health.

It sounds exhausting.

Ay coño, I can’t wait.

Chapter Ten

Revel

I’m about to spend the entire fucking day alone with Cece, so naturally, I’m awake before my alarm like a kid on Christmas with a hard-on and significantly worse intentions.

Training has my body used to mornings this early, but usually it takes Andre threatening cardio to drag my ass out of bed. Today, all it takes is the thought of four uninterrupted hours trapped in a car with a mouthy little menace who swears she can’t stand me.

By the time I pull onto her street, the sky is barely starting to lighten. Her lilac Honda Civic is sitting in the driveway with its trunk open, the back seat packed with enough equipment to make the suspension look nervous. I park my bike beside it, lock my helmet to the handlebars, then start unhooking the whole ridiculous setup I MacGyvered onto the back seat. The coffee’s wedged inside an insulated carrier beneath a cargo net, breakfast is crammed into my tail bag, and Guacamole’s stupid little gift is tucked between them like precious fucking cargo.

Turns out I can transport half a café across Tampa on a sport bike when Cece is waiting at the other end.

It’s five fifty-six when I knock.

Something crashes inside, followed by Cece swearing and Guac letting out a screech like a tiny bald pterodactyl.

The door swings open a few seconds later.

Cece stands there in tiny black shorts and an oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, her thick hair twisted into a messy knot. There’s a faint line of mascara beneath one eye, and she looks sleepy, annoyed, and so fucking good I forget to say anything for a second.

Her eyes drop to the coffee carrier in my hand, then lift to mine. “Holy shit. You actually made it on time.”

I press a hand to my chest. “Damn, Mama. Have a little faith.”

“You’re Revel. Being late feels very on-brand for you.”

“Yeah, well, Miami and four hours alone with you felt worth setting an alarm for.”

She snorts and reaches for her drink. “Careful, that sounded almost responsible.”

“Don’t spread it around. I’ve got a reputation.”

She takes a sip and lets out a quiet little moan before she can stop herself. “Ay, fuck. Okay, this is perfect. Thank you…for the coffee. Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late, Mama. I’m framing the moment.”

“Puta, please.” She hides the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth behind another drink just as Guacamole squeezes past her ankles. He’s wearing a tiny black sweater with mini avocados on it, and the second he spots me, he marches onto the porch like a bald little security guard inspecting the delivery.

I crouch and hold my hand out. “Morning, little man.”

Guac rubs his face against my fingers, so I reach into the bag and pull out a tiny plush taco packed with catnip.

Cece stares at it. “What the fuck is that?”

“Something to keep him busy while I steal his mom for the weekend.”

“You are not stealing me.”

“You’re right, kidnapping sounds hotter.”

“Ay, you’re lucky you brought coffee, cabrón.”

“See? He gets catnip, you get caffeine, and I get you trapped in a car with me for four hours. Everybody wins. Plus I didn’t want him feeling excluded.”

“That is bribery.”

I lower it toward Guac. He bites the taco, yanks it from my hand, and carries it inside.

“Looks like it worked.”

Cece watches him disappear, offended. “He doesn’t even play with the toys I buy him.”

“Maybe you have bad taste.”

“I mean, I did sleep with you, so apparently.”

My grin spreads as I let my eyes drag slowly down her body and back up. “Sleep? Pretty sure there wasn’t much of that happening, Mama. Mostly just you moaning my name and finally giving in to all that shit you’ve been fighting.” I lean against the doorframe, not even trying to hide how hard I’m eye-fucking her. “Not that I’m complaining. I enjoyed every fucking second of it.”

“Ay, cállate.” She steps aside and points toward the kitchen. “Put the food down. I still have to get dressed.”

I let my eyes travel over her slowly. “Thought you were dressed.”

She looks down at herself. “Do I look ready?”

“You look fucking delicious.”

“I look homeless.”

“Hot homeless.”

“Pendejo.”

She turns and walks away before I can answer, but I catch the small smile she tries to hide.

A few minutes later, her bedroom door opens again and she comes down the hall pulling a fitted black tank into place. The shorts are gone, replaced by gray leggings that fit her like they were designed specifically to ruin my morning. Her hair falls smooth over her shoulders now, both hoops are in, and her makeup is fixed.

She catches me staring and slows. “Are you going to eye-fuck me all weekend?”

“Most definitely.”

“Great. Love that for me.”

My cock twitches as my gaze drags over her again, the memory of how good she felt hitting me hard enough to make the next four hours seem like a terrible fucking idea.

Also the best one I’ve had all week.

“Not my fault you’re hot, Mama.” I meet her eyes again. “Or that those leggings are about to make this drive difficult.”

She grabs her coffee and heads for the door. “You’ll survive.”

“Not comfortably,” I mutter, adjusting myself before following her outside.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

I fold myself into the passenger seat and immediately regret every insult I’ve ever made about her car. The cooler jammed behind me means I can’t slide back far enough, leaving my knees damn near touching the dashboard.

Cece starts the engine, glances over, and smirks. “Comfy?”

“Is that a serious question?” I look down at the way I’m wedged into her front seat, all six-three of me folded up like bad luggage. “I can’t feel anything below the waist. My knees are basically in the glove box.”

“Good. Maybe your dick will finally stop making decisions for you.”

I look down at myself, then back at her. “Nah, Mama. He’s resilient.”

“Ay, qué pena.”

“You’d miss him.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

She backs out of the driveway with one hand on the wheel while the other turns the music up. I reach toward the radio, and she slaps the back of my hand without even looking.

“You’re testing me,”

“I was turning it up.”

“You were about to touch my playlist.”

I grin and try again just to be an asshole. She catches my wrist this time and shoves it back toward my lap.

“Hands to yourself, pretty boy.”

“You know that’s never been my strong suit.”

“Oh, I know.” She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts.

The first hour passes in a mix of coffee, breakfast, and arguing over everything that exists inside the car. She says I’m blocking the air vent. I remind her the seat was designed for a twelve-year-old. I try on her sunglasses. She tells me I look like a douchebag, and I scoff, telling her they look better on me.

Little by little, she relaxes.

Her shoulders drop. One knee turns toward the console. She starts tapping the steering wheel in time with the music, then singing quietly beneath her breath.

I lower the volume.

She stops and looks at me. “Why did you do that?”

“Wanted to hear you.”

“I wasn’t singing.”

“Sounded like singing.”

“I was breathing.”

“In tune?”

“Shut up.”

The next song comes on, something loud with a fast Latin beat, and she gives in before the chorus. I join her with the wrong lyrics and enough confidence to make up for the fact that I have no clue what I’m saying.

She looks horrified but laughs. “That isn’t even close.”

“Sounds right.”

“You’re not speaking Spanish.”

“Music is universal.”

“Universal? You sound like you’re fucking choking.”

I keep going until she breaks, laughing hard enough that she has to press her lips together and focus on the road.

That laugh hits me straight in the chest.

I stop singing and look at her.

She catches me. “What?”

“Like hearing you laugh.”

The air changes for half a second. Her smile softens, and she looks back at the road without a comeback.

I turn the music up before she can retreat too far.

We stop for gas outside Fort Myers, and Cece reaches for the handle before I catch her wrist.

“Nah, Mama. I’ve got it.”

She looks from my hand around her wrist to my face. “I can pump my own gas.”

“I know you can.” I take the nozzle from her anyway, then slide my card into her palm. “But I’m trying to impress you, so let me have this.”

Her mouth twitches. “By pumping gas?”

I nod toward the store. “Go grab some of those mango Monsters you like. And whatever else you want.”

She starts to hand the card back. “Revel, I don’t need—”

“Cece.” My voice softens, but the teasing drops out of it. “I know you don’t need me to do anything. I want to.”

That stops her.

She studies me for a second, eyes moving over my face like she’s trying to figure out where the joke is but quickly realizes there isn’t one.

Then her fingers close around the card. “Fine.”

I grin. “See, I knew you liked being taken care of.”

“Ay, don’t ruin it.”

“Get me a water while you’re in there, Mama.”

She turns toward the store, glancing back at me with a look I can’t quite read. “Anything else, príncipe?”

“Yeah.” I let my eyes drag down her leggings. “Take your time walking there, Mama. Let me enjoy the view.”

“Pendejo.”

She flips me off and keeps going, but the smile she’s trying to hide makes me grin as I turn back to the pump.

Halfway through filling the tank, I glance toward the windows and spot her inside near the coolers. Some guy is standing beside her, saying something that makes her smile. He’s tall, tan, and dressed like he’s heading to the beach instead of a gas station, with messy dark hair and sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt.

Not her polite smile either.

A real one.

My jaw tightens before I can stop it, which is stupid. She’s buying drinks in a gas station. He’s probably asking where the bathroom is or some shit.

Still, I watch him lean closer while she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, and suddenly the pump is moving way too fucking slow.

The second it clicks off, I replace the nozzle and head around the car just as Cece comes out carrying a bag and two drinks.

The guy follows her, still talking.

His eyes land on the equipment packed into the back when they reach the Civic. “You heading to Sol Fuego?”

“Yeah, I’m actually playing it,” Cece says.

“No shit.” His brows lift. “What day?”

“She’s got a set tomorrow.”

Both of them look at me.

I step in beside her and take the bag from her hand, letting my palm settle against the small of her back. Her body goes still for half a second, but she doesn’t move away.

“She’s real fucking good too,” I add, looking at him. “Got a sick set planned,”

The guy’s gaze drops to my hand before returning to my face. “Cool. Maybe I’ll catch it.”

“You should.”

Something in my smile must land, because he nods once, tells Cece he’ll see her there, then heads back toward his car.

She waits until he’s out of earshot before looking up at me. “Was that necessary?”

“What?”

“This.” She points toward my hand, which is still resting against her.

“You want me to move it?”

Her eyes hold mine for a second before she turns to replace the gas nozzle. “I want you to stop walking around waving your cock every time another man looks at me.”

That pulls a laugh out of me. “I wasn’t waving anything around, Mama. But I do like knowing my cock was the first place your mind went.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s heat behind it. “Revel, you walked over like you owned the whole gas station.”

“Not the whole thing.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Just the part you were standing in.”

“I’m not territory, Revel.”

“Never said you were.”

“You practically pissed a goddamn circle around me.”

I grin, letting my gaze drop to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. “And you stayed right in the middle of it.”

“Ay, claro.” She rolls her eyes and arches her back with a quiet groan, pressing a hand to her lower spine. “My back is killing me.”

I hold my hand out for the keys. “Let me drive.”

Her eyes narrow. “You? Drive my car?”

“Yes, your car. I promise not to launch it through a fence.”

She studies me for a second. “You’ll be careful?”

“I’ll be very gentle with her.” I say it while letting my eyes drag slowly from her face to her legs and back up again.

She catches every second of it. “I was talking about the fucking car.”

“So was I.”

“Pendejo.” She drops the keys into my palm anyway.

I grin. “Knew you trusted me.”

“I trust my insurance.”

The driver’s seat isn’t much better. I shove it back until it hits the cooler, adjust the mirrors, then try to arrange six-three of me in a Honda without losing circulation below the waist.

Cece watches from the passenger seat like this is peak entertainment. She kicks off her sandals, tucks one leg under herself, and takes over the music while I pull us back onto the highway.

A few minutes later, she leans across the console for the charging cable.

Her fingers brush the inside of my thigh.

Fuck me.

I go stiff so fast it’s honestly embarrassing.

Every muscle in my body tightens. My grip clamps around the wheel, my jaw locks, and my cock goes hard so fast there’s no chance she misses it when her wrist brushes over the front of my sweatpants.

She stills.

Then slowly looks up at me.

I keep my eyes on the road like my entire body didn’t just sell me out.

The corner of her mouth lifts. “You okay over there?”

“Perfect.”

“Mm-hm.”

She finds the cable, but instead of pulling away, her fingers trail back over my thigh, lighter this time. Deliberate.

My cock jerks beneath her wrist.

Her smile turns wicked the exact second she realizes she has me completely fucked.

“Careful, Mama,” I say, voice rougher than I want it to be.

“Why?” Her fingers flex against my leg. “Is someone a little distracted?”

“Keep playing and you’re gonna find out.”

She settles back into her seat, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Eyes on the road, príncipe.”

For all of thirty seconds, she behaves. She plugs in her phone, turns the music up, and leans back like she didn’t just make my entire goddamn body tense with one touch.

Then her hand returns to my thigh.

“You having fun?” I ask.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Her thumb traces slowly along the inside of my leg.

I keep my eyes on the highway, readjusting myself in the seat. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“You like adrenaline, right?”

“I do, why?”

“You’re always going on about speed, danger, and how it’s the only thing that shuts your brain up.” Her fingers creep higher, tightening my grip on the wheel. “So I’m helping. Community service, basically. I’ve got hours to get in, and keeping you focused enough not to put us through another fence feels charitable.”

A rough laugh slips out of me. “That what you’re calling this?”

“Mm-hm. I’m very giving.” She leans closer, her hair brushing my shoulder as her voice lowers. “Thought I’d give you a little rush.”

My jaw tightens. “How very thoughtful of you, Mama. So selfless.”

When her hand moves again, one of mine leaves the wheel on instinct.

Cece catches it immediately and puts it right back.

“No.”

I glance at her.

She taps the steering wheel with one nail. “Both hands on the wheel. Focus.”

“You’re making that pretty fucking difficult.”

“That’s the point.”

She watches my fingers close around the wheel before continuing, moving slowly enough that I know she’s paying attention to every change in my breathing.

Fucking hell.

I turn my head, but she catches my jaw and points my face toward the windshield.

“Eyes stay on the road, pretty boy.”

“Fuck, you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Actually, I think I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount.”

My hand shifts from the wheel again, reaching for her thigh.

She slaps it back into place.

“Do that again and I stop.”

“What the fuck! You’re touching me.”

“Exactly.”

“Mean little thing.”

“You like me mean.”

“Way too fucking much.”

Her smile deepens as she settles into the control she’s found. Every time I start to adjust to her, she changes the pace. Every time I try to touch her, she puts my hand back on the wheel and reminds me to drive.

“You know I could pull over.”

“But you haven’t.”

“I’m trying to get us to Miami alive.”

“Responsible Revel.” She clicks her tongue. “Qué decepción.”

“Keep talking, Mama.”

“What? You’re the one who’s always bragging that you can handle anything.”

“I can.”

Her fingers tighten against my thigh. “Then prove it. Eyes forward.”

My knuckles are white around the steering wheel, gripping it hard enough that the leather creaks beneath my palms. My cock pulses against my sweats, already leaking and so fucking hard it borders on painful.

Cece knows exactly what she’s doing.

She isn’t touching me like she wants to get me off.

She’s testing me. Paying attention to every breath, every twitch, every tiny shift in my body like she’s learning exactly how to play me.

Her hand slides higher until her palm cups the my cock over my pants. She doesn’t grip me yet. Just brushes over the head with enough pressure to make my hips jerk toward her before I can stop them.

“Hands on the wheel, Revel,” she says sweetly.

Too fucking sweetly.

“You’re a fucking sadist,” I growl, my voice rough as shit.

I shift in the seat, trying to press harder into her palm, but she immediately pulls away.

The loss of contact makes my jaw clench.

“I’m a woman who knows how to get what she wants,” she says, satisfaction lighting her face. “And right now, I want to watch you struggle.”

A laugh leaves me, cocky in theory but strained enough to betray me. “Keep this up, Mama, and when we get to the hotel, I’m gonna fuck you until you forget your own name.”

She doesn’t even blink.

Instead, she gives me a soft, mocking laugh that goes straight through me. “Big talk from a man who can’t take one hand off the wheel without me putting it back.”

Her fingers trail over me again.

“You’re not in control right now, Revel.” She leans closer, her voice dropping beside my ear. “I am.”

Then she reaches over and pulls my cock free with a quick flick of her fingers.

My breath catches when her warm hand slides inside and closes around my cock.

“Fuck.”

My head starts to turn toward her.

She stops instantly.

“Eyes. On. The. Road.”

Her grip stays wrapped around me, perfectly still.

“One more look and I’m done,” she warns. “I’ll leave you like this all the way to Miami.”

I snap my attention back to the windshield, heart hammering against my ribs. “Fuck you.”

There’s no bite behind it. Not when I’m already fighting the urge to beg.

Her laugh is quiet and smug. “Mmm, you wish you could.”

She begins stroking me, slow and tight, dragging her hand from the base to the tip with enough patience to drive me out of my fucking mind. Her thumb spreads the pre-cum over the head, circling the ridge again and again while my breathing turns uneven.

“Cece.”

“What?”

“You know fucking what.”

“Use your words, pretty boy.”

Her pace quickens just enough to send heat racing up my spine before slowing again.

“Please,” I rasp, the word escaping before my pride can stop it.

Her smile grows. I can hear it in her voice. “Please what?”

“Fuck, Mama.” My grip tightens around the wheel. “Please don’t stop.”

“Aww,” she whispers, leaning in until her breath warms my ear. “All that cockiness, and you’re already begging.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy every second.”

She picks up the pace, her grip tightening around me until my entire body starts to shake with the effort of keeping the car steady. When my hand twitches toward her thigh, she catches it and slaps it back onto the wheel.

“Both hands.”

“Mama—”

“Focus on the fucking road, Revel,” she whispers, her voice low and firm enough to make every muscle in my body tighten.

Then she lowers her head again.

Her tongue flicks over the sensitive head of my cock, slow and deliberate, and the sensation hits my spine like a live wire. My entire body jerks before I can stop it. Before I even catch my breath, she takes me deep again, her mouth closing around me with enough suction to make coherent thought officially fucking impossible.

Jesus Christ.

Everything beyond the windshield blurs into passing trees, endless asphalt, and cars I’m trying very hard not to hit. The rest of the world might as well not exist. All I can feel is the heat of her mouth. All I think about is the smug little smile I know she’s wearing while she takes me apart piece by fucking piece.

My hips buck helplessly toward her, my body reacting before my brain can stop it. Her hand keeps working what her mouth can’t reach, tight and rhythmic, matching every slow pull of her lips.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, drawing back just enough to speak.

Her tongue drags from the base of my shaft to the tip, so slowly my grip nearly slips from the wheel.

“Take what I give you.”

The fucking audacity of her.

She’s spent all this time fighting me for control, and now that she finally has it, she’s enjoying every second. Watching my hands tighten around the wheel. Listening to my breathing fall apart. Learning exactly how far she can push before I break.

One of my hands leaves the wheel on instinct, reaching for her hair.

She catches my wrist before I can touch her and plants my hand firmly back where it belongs.

“Both hands, pretty boy.”

A rough laugh tears out of me. “You really think you’re in charge now, don’t you?”

“I don’t think.” Her eyes lift to mine, dark and smug beneath her lashes. “I know.”

“Mama, you have no idea what you’re starting.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

She presses her thumb firmly over the head of my cock, rubbing the sensitive tip in slow circles that send another brutal wave through me.

My jaw clenches. “You think you can wreck me and walk away?”

Her grin widens.

She doesn’t bother answering.

Instead, she slides me back between her lips, her mouth tightening around me before she starts moving again, faster this time. Her hand keeps pace, and the combined pressure coils through every muscle in my body like a spring being wound too fucking tight.

“Cece, I’m gonna—” I choke out, both hands locked around the wheel now, my knuckles white against the leather.

“Mmm, that's it.”

She doesn’t slow down.

The orgasm tears through me hard enough to rip a broken sound from my throat. My back arches off the seat as I come, and Cece swallows every fucking drop.

Normally, that would be the hottest shit ever.

But then she looks up at me, and all I can think is what a fucking waste.

I’d rather have that load buried deep inside her pussy, then use my fingers to push back anything that tried to drip out.

The thought completely fucks me up. My cock twitches in her mouth, already trying to get hard again while I fight to keep both hands locked around the wheel.

“Fucking hell, Mama.”

The final wave tears through me, leaving my whole body shaking, heavy and hollowed out, and barely capable of remembering where the fuck we’re even going.

Cece releases me with a pop and reaches into the glove box for a napkin. She wipes her mouth clean with slow, deliberate movements, entirely too calm for someone who just wrecked my entire fucking nervous system.

Then she settles into her seat, crosses her legs, and looks out the window like nothing happened.

“Now keep driving,” she says, a small, victorious smile pulling at her mouth.

I sit there trying to remember how lungs work while Cece calmly checks herself in the mirror.

She smooths her hair, fixes one hoop, and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb before taking a drink of water like she didn’t just dismantle my entire fucking personality in the front seat of her Civic.

I stare at her. “You are fucking dangerous.”

“You’ll live.”

“For now. But I’m telling you, Mama, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Dramatic.”

“You planned that.”

She lowers the bottle, all fake innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

She slides her sunglasses on and nods toward the windshield. “Now stop driving like someone’s abuela. We have somewhere to be.”

I glance at her. “You can’t do all that and expect me to just carry on like nothing happened.”

“You’re the one who said you could handle anything.”

“Yeah, well.” I tighten my grip on the wheel and look back at the road. “Apparently, that came with terms and conditions.”

“That sounds like an another you problem.”

I drag a hand down my face. “Cece.”

“Drive, bebé.”

I go still for half a second, my hands tightening on the wheel.

Her lips part when she realizes what slipped out.

My grin comes back slow. “What did you call me?”

“I said drive.”

“There was another word in there.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about, I think you lost too much oxygen. You’re confused.”

“Say it again.”

“Get us to Miami, cabrón.”

“Nah, that’s not the word you just said.”

“Well, that’s all you’re getting.”

She turns the music up loud enough to end the conversation, but not fast enough to hide the smile pulling at her mouth.

Yep. Definitely more than community service.

She fucking wants me.

Winning.

Chapter Eleven

Cece

By the time the Miami skyline starts rising in front of us, I’m tired, hungry, and painfully aware that I’ve somehow agreed to spend an entire weekend alone with Revel St. Clair.

Okay, agreed might be generous.

He invited himself.

I failed to stop him.

There’s a difference.

A very important one that I will absolutely be bringing up later when somebody inevitably accuses me of voluntarily taking a romantic weekend to Miami with him.

Because this is not romantic.

It’s work.

There just happens to be a six-foot-three biker sitting beside me in my Civic looking entirely too pleased with himself after four hours of invading my space, eating my snacks, criticizing my car, and making himself impossible to ignore.

Miami stretches around us in late-morning heat, all tall glass buildings throwing sunlight back at the sky, palm trees bending over wide streets, and flashes of blue water appearing between hotels and condos. The closer we get to the beach, the brighter everything feels. White buildings, pastel walls, bright signs, café patios already packed, and people moving around like the day started hours ago without us.

Tomorrow, somewhere in the middle of all this, I’m playing Sol Fuego.

That thought slips in quietly and still manages to flip my stomach.

Fuck.

I look out the window harder, like Miami is somehow going to distract me from the fact that in a little over twenty-four hours, I’ll be standing in front of the biggest crowd I’ve ever played for.

“You’re doing the thing again.”

I glance toward Revel. “What thing?”

He keeps one hand loose on the wheel while the other rests near the gearshift, sunglasses low on his nose. “Where you pretend staring out the window counts as not freaking out.”

“I’m looking at Miami.”

“You’ve been looking at the same building for thirty seconds.”

“It’s a nice building.”

“It’s a fucking parking garage.”

I turn my head enough to glare at him. “Maybe you should take your own advice and focus on what’s in front of you.”

His mouth pulls into a grin. “Oh, Mama, trust me. I’ve been appreciating the view this whole fucking drive.”

His eyes leave the road just long enough to drag slowly over me, making it very fucking clear he isn’t talking about Miami.

I immediately point toward the windshield. “Road.”

He laughs. “See? Traumatized me. I’m never gonna hear that word normally again.”

“That sounds deeply personal and not at all like my problem.”

“Haven’t you noticed anything involving me eventually becomes your problem?”

“Ay, Dios mío.”

He’s still smiling when he turns into the hotel entrance.

The Marisol Hotel & Beach Club sits a block back from the water, all pale coral stucco, arched windows, white stone, and giant palms lining the circular drive. It’s nicer than what I usually book for gigs, but not so fancy that I feel like I need to whisper in the lobby.

There’s a fountain out front surrounded by tropical flowers, brass luggage carts parked beneath the awning, and a sliver of ocean visible between the buildings across the street. Somewhere behind the hotel, music carries from what I’m guessing is the pool deck, mixing with traffic and voices drifting in from the sidewalk.

I pull up the reservation on my phone and glance at Revel.

“Just so we’re clear, I booked this before I knew you were inviting yourself.”

“Okay?”

“Which means I booked one room. One bed.”

His grin appears instantly. “Sounds perfect.”

“No. It sounds like we need to go inside and see if they have another room or at least something with two beds.”

“Mama, I’m really not seeing the emergency here.”

“I am.”

“Because you don’t trust yourself?”

I slowly turn my head toward him.

He looks entirely too pleased with that question.

“I trust myself perfectly fine. I don’t trust your inability to behave like a normal person for more than twenty consecutive minutes.”

“Fair.” He glances up at the hotel. “But if they’re sold out, I’m not sleeping in the car.”

“You invited yourself. Sounds like a logistical issue you should’ve considered.”

“You’d really make me sleep outside?”

“I’d send you a blanket.”

“Cold.”

“Thoughtful.”

He laughs as he parks, then shuts off the car and looks over at me. “Fine. We’ll go ask. But if there’s only one bed, I’m calling it fate.”

“Ay, cállate.”

I grab my purse and get out before he can make one bed sound any more appealing than it already does.

His laugh follows me out.

The second I straighten beside the car, my lower back protests from the drive. I stretch carefully, hands pressed against my hips, and look toward the strip of ocean visible down the street.

The air smells different here. Saltier. Warmer somehow.

There’s sunscreen, fried food, and that humid coastal smell that immediately makes everything feel like vacation even when you’re technically here to work.

I could like Miami, which is a dangerous thought.

Revel comes around the back of the car and pops the trunk before I even get there.

“I can carry my own stuff,” I tell him as he reaches for the biggest equipment case.

“I know.” He gets both hands around it and lifts it out like it weighs nothing. “Pretty sure that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Carry the heavy shit, look pretty, be useful when required.”

I lean against the side of the Civic, watching his black T-shirt pull tight across his shoulders.

“Something like that.”

He catches me looking and gives me a slow side-eye, mouth tipping into that cocky little grin. “Or did you have something else in mind for me this weekend, Mama?”

I grab my suitcase and start toward the hotel. “Keep walking.”

His laugh follows right behind me.

“And careful with that,” I add over my shoulder, nodding toward the case in his hands.

“Mama, I’ve carried motorcycle engines.”

“And? That is my DJ controller, not a fucking engine. Be careful with her.”

He looks down at it. “Her?”

“Yes, her.”

“Starting to think you care about this thing more than me.”

I glance back at him. “You say that like there was ever any competition.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Damn. Good thing I’m pretty.”

“Debatable.”

“You were staring pretty hard five seconds ago.”

“A moment of weakness.”

“Sure it was.”

I push through the hotel doors before he can get any more pleased with himself, and cool air hits my skin hard enough to make me shiver after the heat outside.

The lobby opens up in front of us with pale tile, brass pendant lights, soft green velvet furniture, and a wall of glass overlooking a courtyard where a long pool glitters between white loungers and palm trees.

A small bar sits tucked into one corner beneath mirrored shelves of bottles, and hanging plants spill down from the ceiling like somebody decided tropical but expensive was the assignment.

Festival weekend has clearly taken over the place.

Half the people checking in have Sol Fuego wristbands already.

A group of girls in bikini tops and cargo pants are taking pictures near the elevators, two guys with equipment cases are arguing with a bellhop, and somebody walks past me wearing enough silver glitter to qualify as reflective safety gear.

I love it.

I try not to smile too much as I approach the desk and hand over my ID.

The woman behind the counter pulls up my reservation, clicks around for a few seconds, then gives me the apologetic smile every traveler recognizes immediately.

“Okay, Ms. Mendez. I have you in 417, one king bed, balcony facing the city. Checkout is Sunday at eleven.”

I glance at Revel.

Then back at her.

“Right. About that.” I hook a thumb toward him. “He was a last-minute addition. Do you have anything with two beds? Or even just a second room?”

Her fingers move over the keyboard again while I silently bargain with the universe.

Come on. Anything.

Another room. A pullout couch. A sad little cot we can shove beside the ice machine.

“Unfortunately, we’re completely booked up because of the festival. I can check for cancellations later this evening, but right now, this is the only room available.”

Of course it is.

Because apparently the universe has jokes.

I slowly turn toward Revel.

He is trying so hard not to smile that it somehow looks worse.

“Not one word.”

His brows lift innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re doing plenty with your face.”

The woman slides two key cards across the counter. “If anything opens up, I can make a note on the reservation.”

“Yes. Please do.”

Revel reaches past me and takes one of the cards, his thumb brushing mine as that smug little grin finally wins.

“One bed,” he murmurs. “Damn. Tragic.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

He glances around the lobby, then back at me with a slow side-eye. “Mama, you really think after everything that’s happened today, the floor is where I’m ending up?”

My stomach gives an irritating little flip.

I snatch the other key card off the counter. “I think you should carry the expensive equipment upstairs before I decide you’re ending up in the pool.”

His grin widens as he reaches for the case. “See? The weekend's already getting romantic.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh, I will.” He falls into step beside me, giving me a sideways look that is way too pleased with this entire situation. “One room. One bed. Miami. Feels like the universe is finally on my side.”

“The universe has terrible judgment.”

He laughs under his breath as we reach the elevators, and I focus very hard on the glowing numbers above the doors instead of the fact that he looks entirely too comfortable with this arrangement.

This is fine.

Completely manageable.

It’s one room. One bed. Two adults.

Okay, one adult and Revel.

Still, I can handle this.

I’ve handled worse.

I was literally in control of him in the car a few hours ago. Compared to that, sharing a hotel room should be nothing.

The elevator doors slide open and Revel steps inside first, backing up just enough to make room for the equipment case. I follow with my suitcase, and the second the doors close, his eyes drift toward me again.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

“I’m not.”

He gives me a look. “Mama, I can practically hear the argument happening in your head.”

“Ay, cállate. There is no fucking argument.”

“Sure.”

I cut my eyes toward him. “You look real smug for a man who hasn’t even seen the room yet.”

His mouth curves. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

“Why?”

“Only need one thing in there.”

I already know better than to ask.

Unfortunately, curiosity is a toxic trait.

“What?”

His eyes drag over me before coming back to my face.

“That bed.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You really wake up every day and choose to be like this.”

“Pretty much.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“You like it.”

I smile sweetly. “I like that the hotel has security.”

The elevator dings and he laughs as the doors open, then lets me walk out first.

“Lead the way, Mama.”

I tighten my grip on the suitcase handle and head down the hall.

See, this is fine.

I’m fine.

I am in total control.

Room 417 is at the far end of the hall, and when I swipe the key card and push the door open, sunlight spills across pale wood floors from the balcony at the opposite end.

The room is nicer than I expected, bright and clean with one massive king bed dressed in white linen, a narrow desk beneath a large mirror that’ll be perfect for my laptop and equipment, and a small sitting area tucked beside the sliding glass doors.

I set my purse on the desk and wander toward the bathroom while Revel drops his duffel beside the bed.

Then I stop.

“Ay, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What?”

I step aside and point.

There’s a walk-in shower, double vanity, and tucked beneath a wide frosted window is a huge jacuzzi tub with chrome jets lining the sides.

Revel comes up beside me, takes one look, and that stupid grin starts spreading across his face.

“No.”

He side-eyes me. “Jesus. I didn’t even say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can practically hear the bullshit loading.”

He leans against the doorway, looking the tub over again. “I was just thinking this room keeps getting better.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For us, Mama.”

“There is no us getting into that thing.”

His gaze slides back to me, slow and cocky. “You sure?”

“Very.”

“Shame. Looks roomy.”

I glance at the tub, then back at him. “Everything looks roomy until your six foot three ass, get in it.”

He laughs, pushing away from the doorway. “Guess we’ll have to test that theory.”

“By yourself.”

“We’ll see.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” I follow him back into the main room. “You’ve been here thirty seconds and you’re already making the jacuzzi sexual.”

“Mama, anything involving you and me together is sexy.”

I turn away before he catches me smiling and head farther into the room, pretending I suddenly care very deeply about where everything is going.

I move toward the big window beside the bed and pull the curtain back.

Miami stretches out below us in late-morning brightness, all blue water flashing between buildings, palms moving in the heat, and traffic crawling along the streets beneath us. Farther out, I can make out pieces of the festival setup going up—lighting rigs, banners, temporary structures slowly taking shape against the skyline.

Tomorrow.

My stomach does that stupid little flip again.

Excited.

Nervous.

Then excited that I’m nervous, which feels psychotic.

I rest my fingers against the glass and stare out a little longer, trying to picture myself up there without immediately imagining seventeen ways technology could betray me.

A second later, Revel comes up behind me.

Close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back, but he doesn’t touch me.

Which somehow makes me notice him more.

“This view is pretty fucking sick,” he says, looking past me toward the city.

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever played a show in Miami before?”

“Once, just some tiny club. But nothing even close to this.”

He follows my gaze toward the festival grounds. “Ah, well this is a whole different league then, huh.”

I turn my head enough to give him a look. “Yep.”

His mouth curves. “You nervous?”

“Nope, not at all. I always stare dramatically out of hotel windows while dissociating.”

He laughs softly. “You have no reason to be nervous, but I get it.”

“Right.”

“Nah, seriously.” His tone shifts just enough that I look at him. “You’re gonna kill it. You always do.”

I arch a brow. “You haven’t even heard the whole set yet.”

“So?”

“So your confidence in me is based on what, vibes?”

“Vibes. Talent. And the fact that I’ve watched you work, Mama.” His eyes stay on mine, that little grin still there even though his voice softens. “You redo shit that already sounds good because you know you can make it better. You catch things nobody else would even notice, and you care way too fucking much to walk onto that stage unprepared.”

My fingers are still against the glass.

He shrugs like what he’s saying should be obvious. “So yeah. I’ve got all the confidence in you. You’re gonna go up there and absolutely fucking kill it.”

That does something stupid to my chest.

Because apparently flirting with me until I want to bite him isn’t enough. Now he has to be observant and supportive too.

Rude.

I look back toward the city before he can catch whatever the fuck just happened to my face. “You realize you almost sounded sweet just then.”

“Almost?” His mouth pulls to one side. “Damn, Mama. Thought I nailed it.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He shifts a little closer until his shoulder brushes mine. “So you like when I’m sweet too, huh?”

“I like when you stop talking long enough for me to enjoy the view.”

“Liar.”

I glance up at him, fighting a smile. “Maybe a little.”

His brows lift. “The sweet part or the shutting up part?”

I shrug like I haven’t already given him enough.

His grin comes back, warm and cocky. “Knew it.”

“Ay, don’t ruin it.”

He laughs, and somehow the nerves in my stomach don’t feel quite as sharp anymore.

Unpacking takes about fifteen minutes, mostly because I unpack like I’m staying for three weeks while Revel apparently travels like a fugitive.

By the time I’ve hung tomorrow’s outfit in the closet, lined my shoes underneath, arranged my makeup bag across the bathroom counter, and set my laptop on the desk, Revel has put his duffel on the bed and pulled out exactly one charger.

I stare at him.

“That’s it?”

He looks up from his phone. “What?”

“Your stuff. That’s all you brought?”

“It’s a weekend, Mama. What the hell else do I need?”

I glance at my open suitcase, then at his tiny duffel. “Clothes? Toothbrush? Deodorant? Basic evidence that you were raised indoors?”

His eyes narrow. “Do you think I’m feral?”

“I’ve seen you eat taco meat off the floor. You picked it up and ate it.”

“Duh, five-second rule.”

I stare at him. “It was the bathroom floor, Revel.”

He shrugs like that somehow helps. “And yet, I survived.”

“Ay, qué asco. You’re fucking disgusting.”

His mouth curves. “Maybe a little, but you still slept with me so I can’t be that bad.”

I narrow my eyes, thinking that should be enough to get him to shut up, but of course, it isn’t.

“And after that car ride here…”

“Ay, cállate.”

I roll my eyes, grab the nearest throw pillow, and launch it at his head.

He catches it against his chest, laughing while I scoop up my clean clothes and head for the bathroom.

“Very mature, Mama.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

His grin only gets worse.

“I’m showering.”

He tosses the pillow back onto the bed and reaches for his wallet. “I’ll go find us some food, unless you want me to join you?”

I roll my eyes, pausing just long enough to look back at him.

He smirks and I shut the door on his laugh. Then lock it because I know him and there is no winning with that man.

The shower feels incredible after being stuck in the car all day. I stand beneath the hot water longer than necessary, letting it pound against my shoulders while the bathroom slowly fills with steam.

For the first time since Tampa, everything is quiet.

Which is, apparently, dangerous, because the second Revel isn’t running his mouth beside me, my brain decides to replay the drive.

Ay, coño.

I close my eyes and tip my face into the water.

It wasn’t even just what happened, it was the way he let me have control.

Revel, who walks around with that stupid cocky grin like he already knows I’m going to cave eventually. He’s always hitting on me, always pushing just enough to get a reaction, smug as hell every time I look at him for half a second too long.

And the worst part?

He’s never really doubted this would happen.

He’s always been so sure that at some point, all my eye rolls, insults, and threats would stop working and I’d give in.

Which I did.

More than once now.

But in the car, when I took control of it, he let me.

No trying to turn it around, or smug little move to remind me he could take over whenever he wanted. He just let me have it, watched me do exactly what I wanted to him, and somehow looked like he fucking loved every second of it.

That part keeps getting me.

My hand trails absently over my stomach as I remember the look on his face, and then my mind jumps straight back to the night after the race.

In his bed.

The way his lips and hands felt across my skin.

All that cocky confidence finally cracking away, piece by piece when it was just the two of us.

Heat pools low in my stomach.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

Apparently, four hours trapped in a car with him wasn’t enough to cure whatever the hell this is.

My fingers drift lower until they’re circling my clit, and my head fills with the memory of his mouth on me, how fucking good it felt, how quickly he had me falling apart.

Something moves beside me.

I freeze.

At first, I think it’s just water sliding down the tile.

Then it moves again.

I turn my head.

There is a lizard on the shower wall.

A real fucking lizard.

Inside.

With me.

For half a second, my brain simply refuses to process it.

Then it twitches.

I scream so loudly my own ears ring.

“AY, FUCK! NO. NO, NO, NO.”

I slam backward into the opposite wall, nearly slipping in the process while the tiny demon clings to the tile like this is somehow his bathroom.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I yell at it, because apparently I expect an answer.

It moves again, and I scream again.

Hell no.

I grab the towel off the hook and wrap it around myself so fast I nearly strangle myself with it.

There’s movement outside the bathroom followed by Revel’s voice.

“Cece?”

Thank God.

I rush to the door, unlock it, and yank it open.

Revel is standing there with a takeout bag in one hand and the room key in the other, eyebrows pulled together.

“Uh, what's going on?”

“There is a monster in the shower.”

His expression changes immediately. “A monster?”

“Yes!”

He stares at me, then looks over my shoulder into the bathroom, and back at me.

“Monster? Are we sure?”

“Yes, cabrón. A massive fucking monster. On the wall. In the shower.”

His mouth twitches, but he sets the food down and heads toward the bathroom instead of laughing.

I stay near the vanity, gripping the towel closed while he steps through the steam and leans toward the shower.

For a second, he just stares.

Then he looks back at me.

“Mama.”

“What?”

“That’s a lizard.”

“I know what it is.”

His grin starts immediately. “That’s your monster?”

He leans into the shower, watching it skitter higher up the tile. “Brown anole. Shit, he's a big one too. Probably like four inches.”

I look at him slowly. “You would think four inches is big.”

His eyes cut straight to mine, and instead of taking the bait, his mouth pulls into that smug fucking grin. “Oh, we’re doing this?”

“Just making an observation.”

“Mm-hm.” He steps closer, clearly enjoying himself now. “Pretty sure you know exactly how many inches I’ve got, Mama.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you fucking do.” His gaze drags down me before coming back to my face. “And from what I remember, you weren’t exactly filing complaints.”

I fight the smile trying to break through. “Maybe I was being polite.”

He laughs. “You? Polite? Now I know you’re full of shit.”

“Your ego is disgusting.” I point toward the shower. “Can you put all those impressive inches to work and get the fucking lizard?”

His grin widens. “See? Knew you were impressed.” He looks back at the lizard. “Though, I’m petty sure this little dude is more scared of you than you are of him.”

“Good. He should be. Now get him the fuck out of my shower.”

Revel shakes his head, still laughing as he reaches toward the wall. “All right, Mama. I’ll handle your monster.” His eyes flick to mine, that cocky fucking grin spreading across his face. “Then you can handle mine.”

He actually winks.

I point at the lizard. “Get rid of him, pendejo.”

“Little dude was just hanging out. Probably scared as shit after you screamed at him.”

“Revel.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, turning back to the wall. “Come on, little man. Your lease is up.”

I immediately take another step back. “Do not let that thing jump.”

“It weighs like three grams. It’s harmless.”

“I don’t give a fuck. Keep it away from me.”

He laughs again, somehow scoops the lizard up without losing a finger, and carries it out toward the balcony like this is an entirely normal part of his day.

I stay exactly where I am.

My heart is still pounding way too fast, partly from the scare and partly because my body had already been wound tight before nature decided to personally attack me.

The balcony door slides open and then shuts again.

A few seconds later, Revel strolls back into the bathroom looking way too fucking pleased with himself.

“Threat neutralized. Miami is safe again.”

I roll my eyes. “Your bravery will be remembered.”

“I know. Pretty heroic shit.” He stops in front of me, grin still there as his eyes move over my face before taking their sweet fucking time traveling lower. “Although I’m starting to think I deserve a reward for risking my life like that.”

“You relocated a lizard, papi.”

“A monster,” he corrects. “Your words, not mine.”

“Don’t push it.”

His grin only gets worse as his gaze continues down me. “Oh, I plan to.”

I become painfully aware I’m standing in a steamy bathroom wearing nothing but a towel that barely reaches the tops of my thighs.

His eyes darken as he looks me up and down.

“Better?” he asks, and somehow his voice is quieter now.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m traumatized.”

His mouth curves. “Need me to check the rest of the bathroom for wildlife?”

“Ay, shut up.”

He takes another step closer, still smiling, but there’s something softer underneath it. “Mama, you’re actually shaking.”

“No shit. I swear I screamed myself into cardiac arrest.”

His hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly over my upper arm. “You’re good now. It’s gone.”

The reassurance and feeling of his skin on mine should calm me down, but it does the exact opposite.

Because my body was already overheated before he came in here.

Now he’s standing close enough I can smell him beneath the steam, his hand warm against my skin, that stupid smug little smile fading while his eyes stay on mine.

And suddenly I’m thinking about the car again.

About control and his bedroom.

About everything I was thinking five minutes ago before a demonic reptile interrupted my terrible decision-making.

Revel’s thumb moves once over my skin.

“Earth to Cece, you okay?”

I kiss him.

No warning or smart ass comment.

I grab just the front of his shirt and pull his mouth down to mine.

He makes a surprised sound against my lips that immediately turns into a low laugh, his hands catching my waist through the towel as I back into the counter.

“So fucking bossy,” he murmurs against my mouth, clearly enjoying it.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I kiss him again before I can over think it.

The steam curls around us, the counter cool against the backs of my thighs while Revel crowds in close, still careful even though the teasing in his expression tells me he knows exactly what kind of mood he just walked back into.

My fingers curl into his shirt.

His forehead touches mine for half a second.

“You sure?”

I look at him. That tiny pause does something to me all over again.

The fact that he still asks. After everything.

I pull him back down into me.

“Less talking, pretty boy.”

His grin flashes. “Finally, something we agree on, Mama.”

He brings his hand up between us, two fingers brushing across my bottom lip. I know exactly what he wants before that cocky little lift of his brow confirms it.

I open my mouth.

His gaze darkens as my lips close around his fingers, and suck. The playful edge in his expression sharpening while he watches me.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging them slowly free.

Then his hand trails down my throat, over my chest and stomach, taking the long way down like he has all the fucking time in the world.

Revel’s fingers slide between my folds without warning, two thick digits pushing inside while his thumb circles my clit in lazy strokes. The counter digs into my hips, cabinets rattling every time he thrusts deeper.

My breath stutters. “Fuck—Revel.”

He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes my knees buckle. “Eyes on me, Mama.”

His free hand closes firmly around my jaw, tilting my face up until I’m staring straight at him. The cocky smirk disappears, replaced by something darker as his grip tightens just enough to make the command clear.

“That’s it. Keep those pretty fucking eyes on me while you ride my fingers. I want to watch every second of what I’m doing to you.”

I drop the towel, and yank his shirt up over his head, tossing it somewhere on the bathroom floor. My hands find his chest, nails scraping over ink and muscle.

A rough groan rolls out of him as he pulls his fingers free, but instead of moving on, he brings them to his mouth. His eyes stay locked on mine while his tongue drags slowly over them.

“Fuck, Mama.” His voice comes out lower. “You taste so fucking good.”

“Then stop fucking teasing me.”

I’m already restless against the counter, hips shifting toward him on instinct, chasing the contact he just took away. Every second he spends standing there looking smug only makes the ache worse.

“Revel.” His name comes out breathier than I want it to. “I need you.”

His expression changes immediately and he freezes.

Actually fucking freezes.

His eyes snap to mine, and whatever smart-ass comment was waiting on his tongue disappears.

“Say that again.”

I swallow, suddenly very aware of what I just handed him. “You heard me.”

His jaw flexes as he steps closer, crowding into my space. “Yeah, I fucking heard you. Been trying to get those words out of that stubborn mouth since I met you.”

I grab the waistband of his pants and pull him closer. “Then quit looking so pleased with yourself and do something about it.”

A rough laugh leaves him, but his eyes stay dark on mine. “Fuck, Mama. You telling me you need me might be the hottest shit you’ve ever said.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late. That shit’s living in my head forever.”

“Papi.” I grab his waistband and tug him closer. “Please.”

That wipes some of the amusement off his face. He shoves his pants down—then stops.

“Fuck. I don’t have a condom.”

“You? Seriously? With how fucking horny you are all the time, I figured you had one permanently attached to your wallet.”

“Usually do.”

“Ay, of course you fucking do.” I push back against him impatiently. “It’s fine. I’m protected, just fucking touch me.”

His eyes snap to mine. “You sure?”

“Yes, Revel. Fuck.”

The hesitation disappears immediately, replaced by a look so fucking hungry it sends another rush of heat through me.

“Fuck yes, Mama.” His hand closes around my hip, pulling me back against him. “I’ve been thinking about how good you’d feel with nothing between us. No fucking barrier, just you.”

He spins me around, bending me over the counter.

One hand presses between my shoulder blades while the other grips my thigh, hiking my leg onto the cool surface. I’m exposed beneath him, already trembling when he lines himself up.

Except this time, he doesn’t slam into me.

He eases forward slowly, deliberately, a low grunt catching in his throat.

“One inch.”

I groan, pushing back impatiently.

“Two.” Another rough sound leaves him, his grip tightening on my hip, stopping me from taking more than he gives me. “Nah, Mama. You wanted to talk shit about how many inches I was packing, remember?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes—”

“Three.” He groans through the word, taking his sweet fucking time, clearly enjoying the way my patience is disappearing. “Still think four is a lot?”

“Pendejo.”

He laughs low behind me, the sound breaking into another grunt. “Four.”

I drop my forehead toward the counter with a frustrated sound.

Only halfway, Mama.” His mouth brushes my ear, that smug fucking tone coming right back. “And you wanted to get mouthy about four inches like you weren’t swallowing every inch of my cock a few hours ago.” He pauses. “Maybe I should stop right here.”

“Revel—”

He laughs low against my neck. “What? You said four inches was a fucking monster earlier. Sounds like you’ve got plenty.”

“Keep counting and I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Five.” His breath catches, followed by a strained grunt.

“Cabrón.”

“Six.” He groans again, fingers flexing against my hip. “Fuck, I love when you get impatient.”

By seven, whatever smart-ass response I had is gone, and he knows it.

“Eight,” he gets out on a low, wrecked groan. “There. Since, apparently, my girl needed a fucking measurement lesson.”

I suck in a shaky breath. “Not your girl.”

His laugh is rough against my neck.

“Yeah, yeah, Mama. Keep telling yourself that.” He starts moving. “Goddamn, you’re so tight,” he growls, hips snapping forward. “Fuck. You feel so fucking good wrapped around me.”

His pace is brutal, the counter edge biting into me with every thrust.

One hand snakes around my throat, fingers pressing just enough to make my head spin. He pulls me upright, my back flush to his chest, and crashes his mouth to mine—messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue.

“So fucking good,” he pants against my lips. “Taking every inch so perfectly, Mama.”

I moan into the kiss, clenching around him. “Harder,” I breathe, voice shaky. “Don’t you dare slow down now.”

He fucks me harder, rings biting into my skin where he grips my hip. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, voice rough. “Fuck, I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fuck—yes,” I gasp, pushing back against him. “Just like that, Papi, don’t stop.”

The pressure finally snaps, my orgasm ripping through me hard enough to make my legs shake. I cry out, clenching around him as he fucks me through it, his grip tightening on my hip to keep me steady.

“Ahh, fuck yeah, Mama,” he groans, the sound breaking into something almost feral. “Squeezing my cock so fucking good. Fuck—ahh, shit.”

At the last second he pulls out, cock pulsing as hot ropes of cum paint my ass cheek, dripping down my thigh. He stays pressed against me, breathing hard, one arm banded around my waist to keep me steady while the last waves leave me trembling against him.

I’m still leaning against the counter, trying to get my breathing under control, when Revel looks toward the shower. “You know, technically the monster lizard made that happen.”

I slowly turn my head.

He grins.

“Get out.”

“Just saying, I think we owe him.”

“Revel.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

He laughs and grabs the food on his way out, leaving me standing there in the steam, bent over the counter, with a cum coated ass, and absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to pretend this weekend is uncomplicated now.

Chapter Twelve

Cece

By the time I come back out of the bathroom, the steam has finally started clearing and Revel has, somehow, managed to make himself completely at home.

He’s stretched across the king bed with one arm behind his head, shirtless, gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, remote in one hand while some action movie plays across the TV.

The takeout containers are pushed off to the side, my equipment is still charging where I left it, and the man looks way too comfortable for somebody who has, technically, been in this room less than a day.

I stop beside the bed and look at him.

He glances over. “What?”

“You look way too comfortable over there. Like you’ve already moved in.”

“I mean…” His eyes slide over to me. “If you’re part of the deal, I could get used to it.”

“That was not an invitation to start imagining our weird little Miami life together.”

His mouth curves. “Too late, Mama.”

I climb onto the other side of the bed and pull the blanket over my legs, trying very hard not to acknowledge the fact that I’m wearing the shirt I peeled off him right before we fucked.

Not because I wanted to.

Mine was just, uncomfortable.

That’s my story. It’s a good story. Nobody asked him.

Revel notices immediately anyway, because apparently the man has fucking radar when it comes to anything he can use against me. His eyes drop to the black shirt hanging loose around my thighs, linger there long enough to be annoying, then slowly come back to my face.

“Is that my shirt?”

I keep my attention firmly on the TV. “Looks better on me.”

“Fuck yeah, it does.”

I can hear the grin in his voice without even looking.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Mama, we just fucked in a hotel bathroom and now you’re curled up in bed wearing my clothes.” He settles deeper into the pillows like he’s never been happier with his life. “I’m not making shit weird. I’m fucking thriving.”

I finally glance over. “You’re so easy to please.”

His grin turns downright smug. “Apparently, all it takes is hot bathroom sex and you stealing my shit. Who knew?”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Keep it. Like you said, Mama, looks better on you anyway.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the TV before he sees the stupid little smile trying to pull at my mouth.

Ay, cállate.

The asshole isn’t even talking anymore, and somehow I still need him to shut up.

We settle into the movie, and for a while, it’s weirdly easy.

Revel keeps making comments about the race scenes, because, apparently, watching a movie with a professional racer means being subjected to a running lecture on why every stunt is bullshit.

“That bike would’ve lost the rear three turns ago,” he says, pointing at the screen. “And there’s no fucking way he makes that corner at that speed.”

I look over at him. “You know it’s a movie, right?”

“Doesn’t mean they have to make it bullshit.”

“It literally does. That’s kind of what movies are for.”

He reaches for another fry, eyes still glued to the screen. “Nah, see, how he’s shifting way too early. Who the fuck taught this guy to ride?”

“Revel.”

“And that lean angle is fucking ridiculous.”

“Revel.”

“What?”

“Nobody cares.”

He finally looks at me, genuinely offended. “I care.”

“Yes, and you’ve made sure everyone on our floor knows it.” I grab the remote and turn the volume up a few clicks. “Can you just watch the hot man ride the motorcycle and stop trying to fucking coach him through the TV?”

His eyes flick from the screen to me. “You think he’s hot?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Ay, Dios mío. It’s a fucking movie, Papi. Now eat your fries and let the hot imaginary motorcycle man live.”

He settles back against the pillows with a muttered, “Still wouldn’t make that corner.”

I kick his thigh beneath the blanket and the asshole just laughs.

I shift lower against the pillows and tuck one leg beneath me.

At some point, my shoulder ends up against his arm. But neither of us moves.

Which should’ve been the first sign something is changing between us.

Normally, I’d make some comment, move away, do something to remind both of us there are rules here.

Instead, I stay exactly where I am.

Revel shifts beside me, his arm stretching along the headboard before eventually settling around my shoulders. I’m comfortable enough that I don’t bother giving him shit for it, which is probably mistake number one.

Mistake number two is how easily I settle into him.

Ay, coño.

This is exactly the kind of shit I was trying to avoid.

The sex I understand. Revel is hot, he knows he’s hot, and he’s been shamelessly hitting on me since the second he saw me. I held out longer than most women probably would’ve, so really, I deserve some fucking credit.

And today in the car?

Yeah.

I’m not touching that one right now.

But this is different. There’s nothing to hide behind when we’re just lying here.

No flirting until one of us gives in, no crew around talking shit, no reason for me to pretend I’m only tolerating him because he happens to be useful sometimes.

It’s just Revel, and apparently, despite how much of a pain in the ass he is, I actually like the asshole. Which, I wish was more annoying than it actually is.

Talking to him is easy, even when half our conversations are just us giving each other shit. Whatever attitude I throw his way, he takes it without getting offended and usually sends something worse right back. Four hours trapped together in a car should’ve had me considering whether leaving a man at a gas station counts as a crime, but somehow, he made the drive fun. Then there was the coffee waiting for me this morning, like driving me to Miami was already part of his plans, and the way he grabbed my equipment without making some big macho production out of helping me.

It’s all annoyingly…nice.

Especially coming from him.

And when he isn’t running his mouth or looking at me like clothes are a personal inconvenience, he’s actually easy to be around.

Not going to lie, it’s becoming a little fucking inconvenient.

Wanting Revel is one thing. I can blame that on chemistry, poor judgment, and the fact that the man looks the way he does. But somewhere between all the flirting, arguing, and finally giving in to him, I stop just wanting him and start enjoying him.

That has consequences written all over it.

Still, I’m not about to turn this into something it isn’t.

We’re having fun. We get along.

The sex is ridiculously good, and apparently, we can spend an entire day together without one of us committing a felony.

Friends with benefits. Easy.

At least, it sounds easy when I say it in my head.

I let myself sink a little farther into his side until my head rests against his shoulder. His fingers pause against my arm for half a second, like he’s surprised I do it voluntarily, then start moving again. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.

Smart man.

Because the second he gets smug about me cuddling him, I’m denying the entire thing and moving to the other side of the bed.

For now, though, I’m comfortable.

And maybe I don’t need to make every fucking thing more complicated than it is.

****

Saturday night comes way too fucking fast.

One minute I’m barefoot in the hotel bathroom finishing my makeup with music playing from my phone, and the next I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror wondering how the hell it’s already time to leave.

The outfit helps.

The dress is short, black, tight, and doing exactly what I bought it to do. The hem barely clears my thighs, little silver details catching the light when I move, and with my thigh-high boots, my legs look fucking fantastic. My hair is smooth down my back, my makeup is sharp, and if I ignore the nervous bullshit happening in my stomach, I look hot as fuck.

Good.

At least the outside of me has her shit together.

I’m smoothing my hands down the front of my outfit when Revel comes out of the bathroom behind me, halfway through buttoning his black shirt.

He looks up.

Stops.

“Well, fuck me, Mama.”

My hands still against my thighs.

There’s no pretending I don’t know exactly what he’s looking at. His eyes start at my boots and take their sweet fucking time working their way up, lingering everywhere they shouldn’t before finally meeting mine in the mirror.

The corner of my mouth pulls up. “You done?”

“Not even fucking close.” He abandons the last few buttons and comes up behind me, hands finding my hips. “You planning on actually wearing this shit to the festival?”

“That is generally why I put clothes on.”

“Nah.” His gaze drops again in the mirror, completely shameless. “Pretty sure you put this on specifically to fuck with me.”

I turn my head slightly. “Not everything is about you, Papi.”

“Maybe not.” His thumbs drag slowly over my hips. “But that dress is about to become a very serious fucking problem for me.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Control yourself.”

“I am.” He leans closer, mouth hovering beside my ear. “That’s why it’s still on you.”

Heat creeps beneath my skin.

Pendejo.

I turn in his arms and fix the front of his shirt, mostly because one side of his collar is folded under and definitely not because I need something to do with my hands.

His eyes stay on my face.

“You keep looking at me like that and we’re going to be late.”

“Worth it.”

“No.”

“Five minutes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Three.”

I flatten his collar against his chest. “You’re negotiating with yourself.”

“Two and a half. Final offer.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” I give his chest a shove, but he catches my waist before I get anywhere. “I have a fucking set to play.”

His grin eases slightly at that.

“I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes me look up.

His hands stay on my hips, but the filthy look softens around the edges. “You nervous?”

I consider lying.

He waits.

“Little bit.”

“Yeah?”

“I know the set. Everything is ready. I’ve gone through it so many fucking times I could probably mix it unconscious, but my stomach apparently didn’t get the memo.”

He gives my hips a small squeeze. “Good.”

I blink. “Good?”

“Means you give a shit.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You’ve worked your ass off for this, Mama. You’re allowed to be nervous.”

And there he fucking goes again.

One minute he’s trying to negotiate a quickie before my set, the next he’s saying exactly what I need to hear without turning it into some cheesy motivational speech.

Very inconvenient.

I look down and finish straightening his shirt. “You’re getting dangerously good at this supportive thing.”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip around my waist again. “Still comes with benefits?”

There he is.

I snort. “You lasted, what, thirty seconds?”

“Progress.”

I laugh, grabbing my bag from the desk. “Come on, pretty boy.”

His hand closes around mine before I get two steps.

I look back.

He pulls me toward him just enough to kiss me, slower than I expect, then lets me go.

“Go fuck that stage up, Mama.”

My stomach flips for an entirely different reason.

I recover with a roll of my eyes. “So inspirational.”

“Thought it was pretty good.”

“It was terrible.”

“You smiled.”

“Shut up.”

His grin follows me toward the door.

“Still saw it.”

“Ay, cállate and get your ass in the elevator.”

He laughs, but follows.

****

Within the first thirty seconds of being behind the booth, all the nervous bullshit from the hotel has burned off.

This is the part I know.

The stage is hot beneath my boots, lights cutting through the haze above the crowd in flashes of red, violet, and white while bass pounds hard enough to vibrate through my ribs. There are bodies everywhere, packed together beneath me, hands in the air as the beat builds. Every time I pull it back, they wait.

Every time I give it to them again, the whole fucking place explodes.

God, I love this.

I’m halfway through a transition when a familiar hand slides around my waist.

Revel.

He’s been hanging off to the side for most of my set, giving me space to work, but apparently, his self-control has officially expired. He comes up behind me, moving with the music, his chest brushing my back as he leans close enough that his mouth is right beside my ear.

“Fuck, Mama.”

I keep my eyes on the controls, but my smile gives me away.

“What?”

“Nothing.” His hand settles against my hip. “Just enjoying the show.”

“The show is out there.”

“Nah.” His gaze drags over me before his mouth brushes close to my ear again. “Best view’s back here.”

Of course it is.

I shake my head and reach for the next control, trying to concentrate while he moves behind me like he has absolutely no interest in making that easy. His body stays close, following mine with the beat, one hand loose at my waist while the other braces against the edge of the booth.

The crowd can see us.

That should probably make me tell him to back the fuck up.

Instead, I lean into him.

His fingers tighten slightly against my hip.

“Careful, Mama.”

I glance back over my shoulder. “Thought you could handle me.”

His grin flashes beneath the stage lights. “Never said I couldn’t.”

I turn back before he gets any more pleased with himself, bringing the next track in as the lights sweep over the crowd. Revel stays behind me, dancing against me just enough to make concentrating a hell of a lot harder than it was five minutes ago.

Then I reach for my headphones and knock one of the small adapters sitting beside the mixer.

“Fuck.”

It bounces once against the edge of the booth and disappears underneath.

“I got it,” Revel says.

He drops down behind me before I can stop him.

I keep working, cueing the next track while he reaches beneath the equipment. A few seconds pass.

Then a few more.

I glance down and find him already with the adapter in his hand.

Yet he’s still crouched there.

My eyes narrow with confusion.

Revel looks up at me from beneath the front of the booth, that slow, wicked grin spreading across his face as he holds the adapter up between two fingers.

Ay, no.

I know that fucking look, and judging by the way he settles onto his knees instead of getting his ass back up here, finding what I dropped is no longer the reason he’s down there.

The booth hides most of him from the crowd, but not from me. I can see him perfectly between the equipment and cables, crouched directly in front of me with that smug expression that says he’s already come up with an idea I’m going to regret agreeing to, and there are people fucking everywhere.

Crew moving around behind the stage. Security posted near the barricades. Other artists and their teams coming and going. Cameras sweeping across the stage every few minutes. Beyond all of that, thousands of people are packed together beneath the lights, jumping and dancing, phones in the air, all of them looking in my general fucking direction.

Fantastic.

I shoot Revel a warning glare, but my hands stay busy on the decks. I can’t exactly stand here staring between my own legs without somebody wondering what the fuck I’m doing, so I turn my attention back to the crowd, twisting the EQ as the bass rolls out over them.

He doesn't move fast.

He takes his time, letting the tension build

I feel his breath first—hot, and steady, hitting the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Then, his fingers hook beneath the hem of my dress, pushing the short black fabric higher before catching the waistband of my panties.

He doesn't yank; he just tugs, a slow, possessive slide that pulls them down, leaving me exposed beneath the booth while the thigh-high boots stay firmly in place.

I gasp, the sound swallowed by the bass, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

Ay, coño.

I straighten immediately, forcing my hips still.

"Revel," I hiss under my breath, a warning that sounds more like an invitation.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he leans in, his tongue dragging in one long, wet stripe from the base of my opening up to my clit. I nearly jump out of my fucking skin, my fingers twitching slightly on the mixer.

I have to force myself to focus, sliding the fader up, keeping the beat steady while my world narrows down to the point where his mouth meets my skin.

He starts with slow, swirling licks, tasting me, teasing the edges of my folds until I'm dripping. I can feel the vibration of the subwoofers humming through the floor and into my heels, syncing up with the throb between my legs.

Then, he adds the fingers.

One finger slides in, deep and slow, stretching me. I bite my lip, staring straight ahead at the crowd, my face a mask of professional confidence while my hips are subconsciously tilting toward him.

He adds a second finger, curling them upward to find that exact spot that makes my toes curl.

He keeps his fingers moving inside me while his mouth works my clit, somehow knowing exactly what the fuck to do to make it impossible for me to stand still.

Someone near the front catches my attention and throws both hands up when I look their way.

I grin and throw one of mine up in response like everything is completely fucking normal.

Like Revel St Clair, isn’t on his knees under my booth, with his face between my thighs.

Like there isn’t a camera moving across the crowd toward the stage that could put my face on one of those giant fucking screens at any second.

Act normal, Cece.

Easy. Sure.

I lean into the mic, my voice trembling just a fraction. "Are you guys ready for this one?"

The roar of the crowd is deafening. I start the build-up, the synths rising in pitch and intensity.

Revel feels the shift in my energy. He speeds up, his fingers pumping into me faster, his suction becoming more aggressive.

He’s trying to break me, trying to make me moan into the microphone for ten thousand people to hear.

Fucking pendejo.

I’m going to kill him.

Not now, obviously.

Right now, I need to somehow remember how to do my fucking job.

The tension in my lower belly is screaming. I’m hovering on the edge, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches. I lock my elbows, gripping the edge of the booth so hard my knuckles turn white.

The track reaches its peak—the silence before the storm.

Then, the drop hits.

At the exact moment the bass slams back in, Revel sucks my clit hard and drives his fingers deep, hitting my G-spot with a force that sends a shockwave through my entire body.

I scream, but I channel it into the music, slamming the crossfader and twisting the filter knob with a violent, adrenaline-fueled energy.

My orgasm crashes over me, my body tightening around his fingers as I shake.

The flashing strobes blur into streaks of white and neon, and for a few seconds, keeping my shit together in front of this crowd feels fucking impossible.

I throw my free hand into the air with everyone else, letting my body move with the drop because it’s the only fucking way to hide what’s actually happening to me. The crowd loses their minds with me, thousands of people jumping beneath a burst of lights, and for a few seconds I have no idea whether my legs are shaking from the bass, the adrenaline, or the asshole currently responsible for most of my problems.

Probably all three.

Revel doesn't stop until the very last tremor leaves my body. He lingers for a moment, his tongue giving one last, slow lap to clean me up, before he pulls back.

He slides my panties back up with a smug, lingering touch, his fingertips grazing my hip before he lets the hem of my dress fall back into place.

When I finally risk looking down, he’s still there between my thigh-high boots, looking entirely too fucking pleased with himself while he sucks his fingers clean.

I narrow my eyes at him and his grin gets worse.

Oh, he’s dead.

Later.

Because the next track is already coming in, the crowd is still screaming, and I have another twenty minutes to somehow pretend Revel didn’t just do that while half of fucking Miami was looking at me.

Revel shifts out from beneath the booth, and a second later, his hands land on my waist from behind.

The smug fucker doesn’t even give me time to recover.

He pulls me back against him, moving with me to the beat like he didn’t just spend the last several minutes making it nearly impossible for me to remember how to do my fucking job. My legs still feel weak inside my boots, adrenaline is ripping through me, and somehow I’m supposed to keep mixing while his body presses against mine and thousands of people are losing their shit on the other side of the booth.

I reach for the next control, trying to pull myself together.

His hand slides up, his fingers curling around my chin, turning my face back toward him, and then his mouth is on mine.

The second I taste myself on his lips, any chance I had of getting my shit together disappears.

Holy fuck.

I kiss him harder before I can think better of it, one hand still working the decks while he keeps me pulled against him, his other hand firm around my waist. Lights flash across my closed eyes, bass pounds through both of us, and somewhere beyond the booth the crowd screams as the next track drops.

When he finally lets me breathe, I turn back toward the decks with a grin I couldn’t hide if I fucking tried.

Fuck it.

If this is what playing Sol Fuego is like, they’re never getting rid of me.

Chapter Thirteen

Revel

The morning starts with some fucking bullshit.

Cece isn’t in bed.

I reach across the mattress, finding nothing but cold sheets where she’s supposed to be, and crack one eye open.

The fuck?

Just because it’s Sunday doesn’t mean she gets to skip out on her community service. I’m pretty sure keeping me satisfied was part of the court-ordered arrangement she made up to justify sleeping with me in the first place.

I roll onto my back and scrub a hand over my face.

Unbelievable.

She spends half the night wrapped around me, stealing my body heat, hogging my pillow and slowly taking over my side of the bed, then fucks off before I wake up.

Rude as shit.

Feels a lot like a dine-and-dash, and after the fucking five-star service I provided last night, I deserve better than this.

The lock clicks before I can decide how much shit I’m giving her for abandoning her civic duties.

Cece backs into the room carrying a drink tray and a paper bag against her hip. Her hair is twisted up in a messy knot, sunglasses pushed onto her head, and she’s wearing one of my shirts again like this has suddenly become a normal thing.

I sit up against the headboard and look her over. “Well, shit. Breakfast and my shirt? Careful, you’re getting dangerously domestic.”

She gives me a flat look as she sets everything down. “I got us breakfast because if I came back with one burrito, you’d eat half of mine and somehow convince yourself you were helping.”

“I would be helping. Portion control.”

“Touch my food and lose a finger.”

“See, this is why we work. Communication.”

She hands me my coffee, and I take a sip before looking over at her. Exactly how I order it. Not surprising—Cece knows me. We’ve been around each other long enough for that. Still, there’s something about her walking back into the room wearing my shirt with breakfast and my coffee that hits different this morning.

“Fuck, Mama.” I settle back against the headboard, taking her in. “This is a hell of a way to wake up.”

“Because I brought you food?”

“Food, coffee, you walking around in my shirt.” I grin. “Whole fucking package.”

She looks down at herself. “It’s comfortable.”

“Never said it wasn’t. Looks real fucking comfortable from here.”

“Ay, cochino.” She grabs her burrito and climbs onto the bed. “Eat before I regret feeding you.”

I catch her around the waist as she passes and pull her down beside me, making her coffee slosh dangerously close to the lid.

“Revel, coño.” She elbows me in the stomach. “You almost made me spill it.”

“Relax. Saved it.”

“You caused the fucking problem.”

“And fixed it. Basically a hero.”

“You’re basically an idiot.”

“Your idiot?”

Her head turns slowly.

I grin around another sip of coffee. “Too soon?”

“Way too fucking soon.”

“Worth checking.”

She rolls her eyes, but when I lean over and kiss her, she meets me halfway without any of the hesitation she used to have. Her hand slides along my jaw, mouth lingering against mine for another second before she pulls back and reaches into the bag.

Yeah.

I fucking like this new development.

“You taste like coffee,” she mutters.

“You taste like me.”

Her eyes snap to mine.

I grin.

“Ay, fuck you.”

“Already did. Twice actually.”

She shoves my burrito against my chest. “Eat.”

I laugh and unwrap it while she settles into my side with hers. The TV is still muted from last night, some painfully cheerful Sunday morning shit playing across the screen, but Cece barely looks at it. She’s three bites into breakfast when her phone lights up.

Then again.

And again.

I glance toward it as another notification rolls across the screen.

“Jesus. The fuck did you do last night, Mama? Break Miami?”

She looks at me over the top of her phone. “My notifications have been fucking insane since last night. Every time I clear them, ten more show up.”

“Sounds like a good problem to have.”

“It is.” Her thumb keeps moving as she scrolls. “People are tagging me in videos from the set, my follower count jumped, there are comments everywhere. Someone posted the drop from the middle of my set and it’s already getting shared like crazy.”

I grin around another bite of breakfast. “Because you fucking killed it.”

“I know.” She says it without trying to downplay it this time, a little smile pulling at her mouth. “It’s just weird. I woke up and suddenly there are all these people who didn’t know who the fuck I was yesterday talking about me.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” She looks at the screen again, and her smile gets bigger. “Yeah, it fucking is.”

Another notification comes through before she can finish reading the last one.

“James has been texting me too. He said two promoters asked him for my contact info last night, and some guy from another festival followed me this morning.”

“Well, fuck, Mama.” I reach over and squeeze her thigh. “Look at you go.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m fucking impressed. There’s a difference.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, and for a second that confident little smile softens.

Then she ruins it.

“As you should be.”

I laugh.

“What? You’ve been telling me I’m hot shit all weekend. I’m finally agreeing with you.”

“About fucking time.”

She bumps her foot against my leg and goes back to scrolling, stopping every few seconds to answer something or show me a video somebody posted. One catches her halfway through a transition, the crowd fucking losing it when the beat hits, and watching her face light up while she watches herself is almost better than seeing it happen from backstage.

Then another message appears and her entire expression changes.

“Aww, my baby.”

I don’t even have to ask which baby.

She turns the phone toward me.

Guac is sprawled across her couch back home, wrapped in one of her blankets with his wrinkly little head poking out, staring directly at the camera like he’s been abandoned for several years instead of a weekend.

“Jesus Christ.” I take the phone for a closer look. “He looks pissed at you.”

“That’s his sad face.”

“That naked little fuck has one face.”

She snatches her phone back. “Don’t talk about my son like that.”

“Your son would sell you for a bag of treats.”

“He can be emotionally complex and food motivated, cabrón.”

I laugh as she zooms in on the picture like there’s anything more to see besides seventeen pounds of offended wrinkle tucked into a blanket.

By the time we finish eating, her phone is still going off, and she’s bouncing between answering messages and packing. The excitement has finally won out over the nerves from yesterday, and every few minutes she’ll stop what she’s doing to tell me about another tag, another comment, another person asking when she’s playing next.

By eleven, most of our shit is packed.

Mine takes about five minutes.

Cece, meanwhile, has checked the bathroom twice, opened every drawer she swears she never used, looked under the bed, checked every outlet for chargers, and is currently standing in the middle of the room staring around like we’re evacuating a fucking crime scene.

We get everything downstairs and loaded into the Civic, and for once, leaving actually looks like it might be simple.

That should have been the warning.

Cece slides into the driver’s seat, pushes the key into the ignition, and turns it.

The car makes a horrible grinding cough, shudders once, then dies.

She freezes.

I slowly turn my head toward her.

She keeps staring straight ahead. “Whatever face you’re making, stop.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You are. I can feel it.”

She tries again.

The Civic makes the same sound, only angrier this time.

I wince. “Yeah. That’s new.”

Her head snaps toward me. “Fix it.”

I laugh and climb out before she decides murder is easier.

The Florida heat hits hard the second I pop the hood. Cece is beside me almost immediately, arms folded, watching over my shoulder while I check everything I can without an actual set of tools.

It doesn’t take long to realize this isn’t another battery problem.

I straighten and wipe my hands on my shorts.

She sees my face and groans. “No. Absolutely not. You fixed it last time.”

“Last time it was a battery. This isn’t.”

“So what is it?”

“I don’t know yet. I need tools and somewhere I can actually get under it.”

She gestures vaguely toward the engine bay. “You know engines you said. This is an engine. Figure it out.”

I turn and stare at her. “That’s not how mechanics work, Mama. I’m standing in a hotel parking lot with sunglasses, a phone charger, and breakfast still digesting. I’m not rebuilding your Civic by hand because you’re glaring at it aggressively.”

Her mouth twitches even though she’s trying not to let it. “So you’re useless.”

“Currently under-equipped.”

“Same thing.”

I lean back over the engine just to double-check, but nothing here is going to magically become fixable because she’s impatient.

“We need a shop.”

The little bit of humor drops right out of her face.

“No. We need to go home.”

“I agree.”

“So fix it.”

I laugh once and look over at her. “You really think if you say it with more attitude, a wrench is gonna appear in my hand?”

“It’s worth trying.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

She blows out a breath and presses both hands to her forehead.

There it is.

Not sass anymore.

Actual stress.

I pull out my phone and call for a tow before she can start threatening the car directly.

The wait is about forty-five minutes, and Cece spends most of it pacing the edge of the parking lot while I sit on the curb.

Every few minutes she comes back, checks the hood like maybe the Civic has reconsidered, then starts listing everything she needs to do once we get home.

“I have work. Guac is probably emotionally filing for emancipation, and my laundry is sitting in the machine from before we left.”

I look up at her. “You left laundry in the machine?”

“No, cabrón. I moved it. That is not the point.”

“Good, because that would’ve been a real emergency.”

She glares at me. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I’m not enjoying the car being broken. I’m enjoying you trying to personally negotiate with reality.”

“Ay, cállate.”

She walks away again, muttering something under her breath that definitely contains my name and probably an insult.

By the time the tow truck arrives, she has called her mom, checked her email enough times to wear out the refresh button, and threatened to sell the Civic. Twice.

The shop is only fifteen minutes away, which helps.

The mechanic taking one look under the hood and making a face almost identical to mine does not.

Cece catches it immediately.

“Oh, no.”

The guy looks up. “What?”

“That face. You just made a face.”

He glances at me like I might explain her.

I just shake my head. “You’re on your own, man.”

He laughs and starts asking her questions about the noise, when it started, whether the car has been acting weird recently. She answers all of them, then follows him halfway toward the garage until he gently tells her they’ll need some time to check it properly.

We end up in a tiny waiting area with plastic chairs, a vending machine, and a daytime baseball game playing on a TV in the corner.

Cece lasts about six minutes before she starts pacing again.

I watch her for a while, mostly because telling her to sit down will probably get me killed.

When the mechanic finally comes back out, she’s on her feet before he even opens his mouth.

He explains that the starter is shot. The gear inside it isn’t engaging the flywheel properly anymore, which is the grinding noise we heard every time Cece tried to start it. It’s not something he’s willing to keep cranking and risk chewing up the flywheel too. He can replace the starter, but he doesn’t have the right one in stock and has to order it in.

“How long?” Cece asks.

“Part should be here Tuesday. I’d say three days tops and you’ll be back on the road.”

I see her entire soul leave her body.

“Three days?”

“Most likely.”

She turns slowly toward me.

I already know better than to smile.

Mostly.

“No. This can’t be happening.”

I lean back in the chair. “Not really my call.”

“I can’t stay in Miami until Wednesday.”

The mechanic looks between us.

“She’s having a moment,” I tell him.

Cece shoots me a look that promises violence, then turns and walks toward the front of the shop, already pulling out her phone. Probably calling her mom before she starts stressing herself into an early fucking grave.

The mechanic watches her go, then looks back at me with an amused shake of his head. He finishes printing the paperwork, staples everything together, and reaches beneath the counter for a set of keys.

“Got a loaner you can use till the part comes in.”

My eyes follow his toward the little silver sedan parked outside.

I stare at it for a second. “Any chance you’ve got something less… depressing?”

That gets a laugh out of him.

“If it was anybody else asking? Not a fucking chance.” He leans back against the counter, looking me over like he’s finally decided where he knows me from. “But as a die-hard Diablos fan. I know who you are, Revel St. Clair,”

I grin. “Is that helping or hurting me?”

He smirks and reaches into his pocket and tosses me another key.

I catch it.

“Ducati Streetfighter V4 S. Mine.”

I look down at the key, then back at him. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah. Don’t make me look stupid for it, Speed Demon.”

A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He jerks his chin toward the back of the shop. “There’s a rack of helmets by the rear door. Grab two that fit. Bike’s parked around the side.”

“Well, fuck. Appreciate it, man.”

I turn the Ducati key over once in my hand, already feeling significantly better about being stuck here three more days.

By the time I make it back over to Cece, she’s ending the call with her mom.

Her phone buzzes again, and she looks down at the screen with a groan.

“Group chat?”

“Unfortunately.” She scans whatever they’ve sent, mutters, “Ay, qué fastidio,” and locks the phone before shoving it into her bag.

For about three seconds, she looks calmer.

Then her eyes go back to the Civic.

I watch her shoulders tighten again.

She’s already ten steps ahead in her head, probably thinking about work, Guac, the car, the hotel, the fact that we’re supposed to be halfway back to Tampa instead of standing in a mechanic shop with no fucking clue where we’re sleeping tonight.

I step in front of her before she can disappear any farther into her own head.

“Mama.”

She looks up at me, jaw tight, phone still clutched in her hand.

“I’ve got it.”

Her brows pull together. “Revel—”

“No.” My hand comes up and closes firmly around her chin, tipping her face up until she has no choice but to look at me. “The car, the hotel, getting us around—all of it. I’ll handle it.”

For once, there’s no grin, no joke sitting behind the words.

I hold her gaze so she knows I mean every fucking one of them.

Her eyes search mine, and I can practically see her trying to come up with a reason she should keep worrying anyway.

I rub my thumbs over her cheeks. “Stop stressing yourself out over shit you can’t control. Your car’s getting fixed, Guac’s taken care of, and nothing’s falling apart.”

She exhales slowly. “I hate not knowing what the plan is.”

“I know.”

“And you having the plan somehow isn’t as comforting as you think.”

That pulls a small grin out of me. “Fair.”

Her mouth twitches.

I lean down, pressing a slow kiss to her lips before resting my forehead against hers.

“I got you, Mama. Just trust me.”

She goes quiet for a second.

Then her fingers curl lightly into the front of my shirt.

“Ay, you better not make me regret that.”

My grin comes back, softer this time. “Not planning on it.”

She gives me a look.

“Yeah, all right. With my track record, that probably wasn’t very reassuring.”

That finally gets a real laugh out of her, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

Chapter Fourteen

Revel

I’ve officially decided being stranded in Miami is the best thing Cece’s shitty little Honda has ever done for me.

She disagrees.

Obviously.

The motel we found yesterday is nothing fancy, but it’s clean, a couple blocks off the beach strip, and somehow, had one room left when every decent hotel in Miami was either booked solid or charging enough to qualify as extortion. One king bed, tiny bathroom, questionable artwork bolted to the wall, and an air-conditioner that sounds like it’s fighting for its life.

Works for me.

After the garage, we grabbed food, checked in, dumped the duffel on the floor, and spent the rest of the night doing absolutely nothing.

Ate in bed, watched TV, talked shit, made out until neither of us remembered what was playing, then passed out sometime after midnight.

Honestly? Solid fucking evening.

Cece, however, woke up today acting like relaxing for twelve consecutive hours put her behind schedule.

She’s been at the little table by the window for almost an hour now, sitting cross-legged in the chair with her laptop open, lavender hair piled messily on top of her head while she answers emails.

I’m stretched across the bed watching her pretend she hasn’t checked the repair shop’s message three times already.

“You know staring at that email isn’t gonna make the part show up faster.”

Her fingers keep moving over the keyboard. “I’m working.”

“You’re obsessing.”

“I can multitask.”

“Clearly.”

She finally looks over her shoulder at me. “Do you plan on lying there watching me all morning?”

I grin. “It is a pretty good view.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What?” I gesture toward the room. “Cheap motel, beach two blocks away, one bed, hot woman trapped here with me for another couple days. I’m making the best of a difficult situation.”

“Ay, pobrecito. Your suffering is inspirational.”

“Thank you. I’ve really been trying to be brave about it.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to the laptop.

I settle deeper into the pillows, still grinning, and grab my phone.

Miami can keep the Honda another day.

I scroll without really paying attention, bouncing between messages and whatever bullshit the algorithm throws at me, until an ad for jet ski rentals pops up.

I stop.

Well, fuck.

That could work.

Cece loves jet skis. Back home in Tampa, she’s never the one sitting on shore while everyone else is out on the water. The second she gets comfortable, she goes from cautious to completely fucking fearless, which is exactly what she needs right now.

Less staring at emails and thinking about shit she can’t fix.

More sun, speed, and water.

I click the rental page and check availability.

Two machines.

Obviously.

No chance in hell she’s riding behind me once she realizes she can have her own, and honestly, watching her talk shit while trying to outrun me sounds way better anyway.

Then there’s the bikini.

That part is purely for me.

I glance over at her sitting at the desk, still focused on the laptop, and picture her in one of those tiny black bikinis she keeps wearing around the crew.

Yeah.

This is a fucking excellent plan.

I book two before she can somehow sense me spending money and start asking questions, lock my phone, and toss it onto the bed.

Cece checks her phone again.

Okay.

Enough.

I sit up and reach for the shorts I tossed over the chair last night, pulling them on before grabbing my shirt.

“Get dressed.”

She doesn’t even look at me. “I am dressed.”

I glance over at the oversized shirt she slept in. Mine again.

“As much as I fucking enjoy seeing you in my clothes, you’re gonna need a swimsuit.”

Her fingers stop over the keyboard. “For what?”

“Got a plan.”

“Ay, no. Your plans are exactly why I have trust issues.”

I grin and get off the bed. “What’d I tell you yesterday?”

She looks up at me, already knowing where I’m going with this.

“Trust me, Mama. I got you.”

She holds my stare for a second before rolling her eyes so fucking hard it’s practically a full-body movement.

I look her over and bite back a grin. “Keep doing that.”

Her brows pinch. “Doing what?”

“Rolling your eyes at me like that. Gets me fucking hard every time.”

“Jesus Christ.” She grabs the nearest pillow and launches it at my head.

I catch it, laughing, while she digs through the duffel, yanks out her bikini, and heads for the bathroom.

“Five minutes,” I call after her.

The door shuts.

“Chinga tu madre.”

I stare at the bathroom door.

“No fucking clue what you just said, Mama, but shit, the way you said it made my cock twitch.”

“Pendejo!”

I grin.

“Yeah, that one too.”

****

Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up to a marina tucked just off the beach strip, and the second Cece sees the row of jet skis lined along the dock, I know I fucking nailed it.

She stops beside me, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, eyes moving from the jet skis to me. “You rented these?”

“Two of them.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Two?”

I stare at her. “You really think I’m putting you behind me and listening to you bitch about my driving for two hours?”

“You mean while you drive like a fucking lunatic?”

“Exactly. This way you can try to keep up.”

That gets her.

She laughs and starts toward the rental kiosk. “Ay, please.” Her gaze stays on me a beat longer before she turns away. “Still gonna smoke your ass.”

“Cute.”

“Start making excuses now, pretty boy. It’ll hurt less later.”

Fuck, she’s back.

By the time we clear the marina, the stressed-out woman who spent the morning glaring at her laptop is gone.

The water stretches wide and blue around us, Miami fading behind into glass towers, white hotels and a strip of pale sand lined with palms. The sun is fucking relentless, high overhead and flashing against the chop until the whole ocean looks covered in broken glass.

Cece takes the first few minutes easy, getting used to the machine beneath her.

Then I pass too close and spray her.

Her mouth falls open.

Even from twenty feet away, I know I’ve fucked up.

She wipes water from her sunglasses and points at me.

I laugh. “What?”

She guns it.

“Oh, shit.”

Her jet ski launches forward, cutting across my wake as she flies past me with a scream of laughter.

I punch the throttle after her.

From there, it turns into complete fucking chaos.

We race between markers, cut across each other’s wakes and argue over who cheated every time she wins—which is bullshit, because she absolutely cheats.

She takes off before we agree on a start at least twice and nearly falls off laughing when I call her on it.

At one point, she pulls alongside me and lifts her sunglasses.

“Having trouble keeping up?”

“My view’s distracting.”

Her eyes narrow before she catches where mine drop.

“My ass is not an excuse for losing.”

“Have you seen it in that bikini?”

“Yes. I own a mirror.”

“Then you understand the disadvantage I’m working with.”

Her laugh gets carried away by the wind. “Losing is still losing, Papi.”

Then she sprays me directly in the face and takes off again.

Fucking menace.

And I’m having the best goddamn time.

More importantly, so is she.

There’s no phone in her hand. No crease between her brows. She isn’t worrying about the Honda or what she should be doing back in Tampa. She’s soaked, sun-flushed and laughing so hard after taking one wake too fast that she has to slow down to recover.

Exactly what I wanted.

Eventually, we head farther out, slowing near a shallow reef where the water changes completely. The darker blue gives way to clear turquoise, pale stretches of sand visible beneath the surface between patches of reef.

The city looks distant from here, softened by heat and salt haze, and without both engines screaming, I can hear the slap of water against the hulls.

I kill mine and look over at her.

“Going in?”

Her expression changes immediately. “Absolutely fucking not.”

I laugh. “Come on, Mama.”

“Nah, I’m good right here.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” I slide into the water and swim around to the back of her jet ski. “You’re practically welded to the fucking thing.”

“Exactly. We’re happy together.”

I rest my arms on the platform and look up at her. “Trust me.”

She gives me a look. “You say that way too casually for someone who regularly makes terrible decisions.”

“Not with you.”

That quiets her for a second.

I move closer, holding my hand out. “Come on. I had you on the surfboard, I’ve got you now. I’m not going to let you go.”

Her eyes drop to my hand, but she still doesn’t take it.

“Do you trust me?”

That takes some of the fight out of her.

Her eyes drop to my hand, lips pressing together while she thinks about it. I don’t push or try to joke her into saying yes. I just wait.

Finally, her hand slips into mine.

“Yeah,” she admits quietly, eyes lifting to mine. “I do.”

Ah, shit.

I wasn’t prepared for how hard that would hit.

Not ‘I trust you to drive’ or ‘I trust you not to let me drown.’ Just I trust you.

Something tightens behind my ribs, and every smart-ass comment I had lined up disappears.

My fingers close around hers as I move between her legs at the back of the jet ski. “Then come here, Mama.”

I reach for her slowly, settling my other hand around her waist as she starts scooting toward the edge.

The second her feet touch the water, her hands land on my shoulders. Her grip tightens when I ease her farther down, and I keep her close, letting her take it as slowly as she needs.

Then she's off the jet ski completely.

Her arms circle my neck almost immediately, legs wrapping around my waist while I brace one arm securely around her.

For a few seconds, she’s tense against me.

I don’t tease her.

I just hold her.

The water lifts us gently with each swell, warm from hours beneath the Miami sun. Her cheek rests against my shoulder while I keep us close to the jet ski, one hand spread across the middle of her back.

“I've got you,” I murmur.

Her fingers loosen slightly at the back of my neck.

“I know.”

There it is again. I close my eyes for half a second.

When she finally lifts her head, there’s none of that sharp challenge in her expression anymore. Her sunglasses are gone, tucked safely on the jet ski, and damp strands of hair stick to her cheeks. The sun catches little drops of water across her lashes and nose.

She finally lifts her head from my shoulder and takes a look around. Her eyes move over the clear water, down toward the reef beneath us, then out toward Miami sitting hazy in the distance.

I feel the tension slowly leave her body.

Her legs are still wrapped around my waist, arms around my shoulders, but she isn’t clinging to me anymore. She’s just...holding me.

And fuck if that doesn’t feel different.

My hand moves slowly up her back, and she leans into me like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

“You okay?”

Her eyes come back to mine, and she nods. “Yeah.”

I glance toward the jet ski. “Want back up?”

She follows my gaze for a second before looking at me again.

“No.”

Something about the way she says it—quiet, certain, while staying wrapped around me—hits me right in the fucking chest.

Her fingers curl into the wet hair at the back of my neck, and whatever smart-ass comment would usually come next never makes it out.

Neither does mine.

For once, neither of us needs to fill the space.

I lean in and kiss her slowly.

Her lips soften against mine, her body settling closer as the water moves gently around us. There’s no rush behind it, no teasing or trying to get a reaction out of each other. Just her arms around my neck, my hand spread across her back, and the warm Miami sun beating down on us while we float beside the jet skis.

And somehow, this kiss gets under my skin more than any of the reckless ones ever have.

I hold her in the middle of all that blue, and she kisses me like she has nowhere else she needs to be. When I pull back, her eyes stay closed for another second.

Then she leans forward and kisses me again.

Softer this time.

Fuck me.

My forehead rests against hers when we part, and her thumb moves slowly along the back of my neck, and I can feel the shift between us.

I’ve been feeling it all weekend if I'm being fucking honest.

But out here, with her trusting me enough to get into water that scares the shit out of her and staying wrapped around me long after she realizes she’s safe, it feels different.

More real.

Cece opens her eyes and catches me looking at her.

Usually she'd make some smart-ass comment and I'd give her one right back.

But right now, neither of us says anything.

She just brushes her nose against mine before kissing me again, and I hold her a little tighter.

****

That night, we’re back in bed with takeout spread between us and another horror movie Cece swears is good playing on the TV.

It’s not.

“This is fucking stupid,”

She doesn’t even look away from the screen. “You’ve been watching for twelve minutes.”

“And they’ve already made twelve bad decisions.”

“It’s a horror movie, Papi. If everyone had common sense, there’d be no fucking killing.”

“Sounds like a better movie.”

“Then watch a Disney movie and leave mine alone.”

I laugh as she reaches across me for the sauce. I get there first, grabbing it and moving it to my other side.

Her head slowly turns.

“What?”

“Give me the sauce.”

I take another bite, pretending I don’t see the murder brewing in her eyes. “Thought you said please.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“Could’ve sworn I heard it.”

“Revel.”

I grin. “That’s my name.”

She puts her food down and climbs across me, one knee landing beside my hip as she reaches for it.

Immediately, I hold it higher.

“Ay, coño. Are you twelve?”

“Depends. You gonna keep climbing on me like that?”

Her eyes narrow, but I catch the little twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Give me my fucking sauce, pretty boy.”

“See, now you’re complimenting me. We’re making progress.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“Felt like one.”

She drops more of her weight onto me and reaches again, lavender hair falling around my face.

I laugh and wrap my free arm around her waist before she can accidentally knee me somewhere important. “Jesus, Mama. All this over sauce?”

“All this because you’re fucking annoying.”

“And yet here you are, on top of me again.”

“Temporary location.”

“Mm-hm.”

She finally rips the bottle out of my hand and sits back with the most satisfied fucking look on her face.

“Gracias.”

I stare at her. “You could’ve just asked me like a normal person.”

She squirts sauce onto her food. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Well shit, fair fucking point.

I laugh and go back to my food.

That’s about as exciting as the rest of the night gets.

We eat, talk shit about the movie, and somewhere along the way Cece ends up against me. Her head settles onto my shoulder first, then her legs stretch across mine beneath the blanket like she’s been doing it forever.

By the time the movie gets to whatever predictable haunted-house bullshit it’s been building toward, her takeout is abandoned on the nightstand and she’s curled completely into my side.

I glance down and pull the blanket higher over her legs.

A few minutes later, her breathing evens out against me.

I should put something else on.

Scroll through my phone. Get up. Do fucking anything.

Usually, I’m shit at this part.

Too much quiet makes me restless.

My brain starts searching for noise the second everything slows down—engines, training, people, some dumb shit to do just because sitting still has never come naturally to me.

Tonight, I don’t feel it.

Cece is warm against my chest, one hand resting loosely over my stomach, hair spread across my shoulder. Every so often her fingers twitch against my chest or she shifts a little closer without waking, and I’m completely fucking content.

That realization sits heavier than I expect.

Today was fucking perfect. Racing her across the water, watching her laugh every time she sprayed me, getting her into the ocean even though it scared the shit out of her.

Hearing her say she trusted me.

That one still gets me.

But lying here with her feels just as good, and that's the part I wasn't expecting.

I knew I wanted the adrenaline with her.

The sex. The attitude.

The way she gives me shit and never lets me get away with anything.

I just didn't know I'd want this too.

Takeout containers on the nightstand. A terrible movie neither of us finished.

Her asleep against me like this is somewhere she feels safe enough to let her guard down.

My hand moves slowly over her back, and she makes a quiet sound before curling closer.

Yep.

I stare at the TV without really seeing it.

Friends with benefits.

Sure, Mama.

She can keep calling it that if she needs to. I’m not going to push her into admitting something she isn't ready for when she’s finally letting me this close.

But I know myself.

And somewhere between her trusting me enough to climb into that water and falling asleep wrapped around me tonight, this stopped feeling casual.

Maybe it stopped a while ago and I’m only just catching the fuck up.

I lower the volume and settle deeper into the pillows, keeping my arm around her.

For once, I don't need more.

I’m good, right fucking here.

Chapter Fifteen

Cece

Something cold presses against my cheek.

I make a noise somewhere between a groan and a threat, roll onto my stomach, and drag the pillow over my head.

The cold thing follows me.

“Get up, Mama.”

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

“You want this.”

I crack one eye open beneath the pillow and find an iced coffee hovering six inches from my face.

Behind it is Revel, already showered and dressed, looking disgustingly awake for a man who kept me in this bed for most of yesterday.

I reach for the cup.

He pulls it back.

“Revel.”

“Get up.”

“Give me my coffee.”

“Technically, it’s my coffee until I give it to you.”

I shove the pillow off my face and glare at him. “You have five seconds before I bite you, and not in the fun way.”

His grin spreads immediately. “Mama, you threatening to bite me isn’t exactly motivating me to hand this over.”

“I said not in the fun way.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” His eyes drag over me. “Still willing to risk it.”

“Revel.”

He laughs and finally hands me the cup. “Fine. But that offer stands.”

I push myself upright against the headboard, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and underwear, and take a long drink while he wanders around the room collecting his wallet, sunglasses, and whatever else he, apparently, needs for the mysterious bullshit he has planned.

The coffee is exactly right.

Again.

I still hate that he knows my order, and I hate even more that I like him knowing it.

Confusing, I know.

“Why are you dressed?” I ask.

He looks down at himself. “Well, that’s usually how I leave the hotel.”

“Smart-ass. Where are you going?”

“Where are we going.”

I stop mid-sip.

There’s something in his expression I immediately don’t trust.

Revel always looks smug, but this is different. This is the face of a man who has already made a decision on my behalf and is waiting to see how long it takes me to realize I’m about to become involved in it.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Exactly. If it were something normal, you would’ve told me.”

His grin gets wider. “Shorts. And that tight running jacket you have.”

I narrow my eyes. “Which one?”

“You know exactly which fucking one.” His hands gesture vaguely at his own chest. “The one that does that whole push-your-tits-up thing. Big fan.”

“Of course you are.”

“Obviously.” His eyes flick over me before he grabs his sunglasses. “And put your hair up or braid it or something.”

I take another sip of coffee. “Anything else, stylist?”

“Yeah.” He points at me on his way toward the bathroom. “Thirty minutes, Mama. Try not to spend twenty of them talking shit.”

I stare at him. “Should I be concerned that you just gave me a dress code for my own kidnapping?”

“Twenty-nine now.”

“Ay, qué pendejo.”

He laughs, catching the pillow when I throw it at him.

By the time I’m dressed and we’re on the loaner bike, I’ve guessed everything from a hike to some ridiculous obstacle course or one of those adventure parks where people voluntarily throw themselves off platforms for fun. Revel refuses to give me anything.

It isn’t until the buildings start thinning and I spot a small airfield ahead that suspicion crawls up my spine.

Then I see the sign.

SKYDIVE MIAMI.

I tap his shoulder, and his head slowly turns toward me.

“Not a fucking chance.”

His mouth twitches behind his visor.

“Absolutely fucking not. Keep driving.”

“Mama—”

“You brought me skydiving?”

“It’s better than sitting in the motel room.”

“Okay but like, we could’ve gotten jet skis again. Or food. Could’ve even just gone to the beach. Activities where my feet remain somewhere in the general vicinity of planet fucking Earth.”

He pulls into the parking lot, kills the engine and pulls his helmet off, all entirely too calm about this.

“You jumped off that cliff with Echo.”

“Into water. Water is significantly closer to the ground than the fucking clouds.”

He parks and finally looks at me. “You scared?”

My eyes narrow because this bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

“No.”

“I don’t know, you sound a little scared.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean, if you’re too scared, we can leave. I’ll understand.”

I climb off the back of the bike and pull my helmet off.

His laugh follows me across the parking lot.

I spend the next hour pretending I don’t regret every decision I’ve ever made.

The waiver alone is enough to make me reconsider. There are entirely too many mentions of injury and death for something people, apparently, do recreationally, and Revel signs his like he’s accepting a package.

The harness doesn’t help.

I tug at one of the straps around my thigh for the third time while the instructor is talking.

Revel catches me doing it.

“You good?”

“Fantastic. I love having my survival dependent on fucking buckles.”

He smiles, but when I reach for the strap again, the amusement fades. He steps closer and checks it, then motions the instructor back over and asks her to go through everything one more time.

I watch him give another strap a firm tug after she leaves.

“You do know you’re not actually qualified to inspect this shit, right?”

“Obviously.” He checks the buckle anyway. “But I’ve jumped enough times to know what it’s supposed to look like.”

“And you suddenly don’t trust the woman whose literal job it is?”

“Trust her just fine.” He gives the strap one last pull, then looks up at me. “Still checking the shit that’s keeping my girl attached to me fourteen thousand feet in the air.”

My stomach does something stupid at my girl.

“Not your girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mama.”

His eyes lift to mine, and something warm twists beneath my ribs before I can stop it.

He gives the strap one last check. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m adjusting to you occasionally being useful.”

He laughs, hooks an arm around my shoulders, and walks me toward the plane.

The second we’re strapped in and the engine kicks harder, some of my attitude starts leaking out.

The plane rattles down the runway, picking up speed while my stomach drops for no fucking reason considering we haven’t even left the ground yet. I look out the tiny window just in time to see the pavement disappear beneath us.

“Oh, fuck.”

Revel looks over, way too relaxed. “Little late to bail now, Mama.”

“Ay, shut up.”

Miami keeps getting smaller as we climb, buildings turning into blocks, roads into thin lines, the water spreading out around everything in blue and green. I make the mistake of looking down for too long and immediately decide I’ve seen enough.

Revel keeps talking beside me, mostly just to keep me from sitting there thinking about how high we’re getting. He points out random shit below, makes comments about the plane, and somehow manages to sound like we’re on a casual Sunday drive instead of climbing toward fourteen thousand fucking feet.

Normally, I’d have several smart-ass comments ready for him.

Instead, my hand is wrapped so tightly around Revel’s, I’m probably cutting off circulation.

He looks down at our hands, then at me. “Easy, Mama. I need those fingers.”

“You have ten. Losing one or two wouldn’t kill you.”

“Yeah, except last I checked, you were pretty fucking fond of these fingers and what they can do.”

I turn my head slowly. Of course that’s where his mind goes.

His grin gets worse. “And I need all ten to ride, preferably. Missing digits makes working a clutch and brake a little more complicated.”

“Maybe losing a finger would finally make you ride like a normal fucking person.”

“Let’s not say crazy shit just because you’re nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

Right on cue, the door opens.

The sound changes instantly.

Wind tears through the cabin, violent and fucking loud, rushing past the open doorway while sunlight floods in. One second I’m sitting inside a perfectly acceptable airplane, and the next there’s a giant fucking hole in the side of it with nothing beyond it but sky.

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

Oh.

Oh, absolutely the fuck not.

Every ounce of confidence I’ve been faking disappears as I stare at the open door and realize people are actually getting up to willingly throw themselves through it.

My grip on Revel’s hand somehow gets tighter.

“Revel.”

The joking disappears from his face the second he hears my voice. He turns toward me completely, attention locking onto mine.

“I changed my mind.”

There’s no joke this time. He leans closer, one hand coming up to my cheek so I have to look at him instead of the open door.

“Then we don’t go.”

I blink. “What?”

“If you don’t want to do it, we don’t do it. I’m not throwing you out of a plane to prove a point.”

The fact that he means it somehow makes me want to do it more.

I swallow and look toward the door again.

“Stay with me?”

His expression softens. “Whole way down.”

I take one shaky breath. “Okay. Before I regain common sense.”

His grin comes back. “That’s my girl.”

“Not your girl.”

“Terrible time to argue semantics.”

I’m still telling him to go fuck himself when we jump.

The first few seconds are complete chaos.

Wind. Sky. Noise. My stomach is somewhere above us.

My lungs lock up, panic hitting so hard I can’t catch a full breath, and Revel immediately realizes it. His voice stays in my ear, keeping my attention on him, giving me something other than the endless open space beneath us to focus on.

"Breathe for me, baby. In through your nose, out through your mouth. I’ve got you."

The harness digs into my thighs and chest, the wind screaming past us, and my stomach keeps trying to crawl up my throat. I can’t do this. I can’t—

Revel’s gloved hands move with purpose. I feel him strip off one glove, then the other, the leather peeling away so his bare fingers can work between our bodies.

His hand finds the zipper of my running jacket and tugs it down just enough to reach the waistband of my shorts.

He doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers hook into the fabric of my shorts and panties, yanking them roughly to the side, exposing my pussy to the cold rush of air and the heat of his skin.

The shock of it jolts through me like lightning.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Focus on me, Mama," he says, voice steady in my earpiece. "Focus on my fingers. My touch. That’s it, Mama. Fuck, that’s it."

His bare fingers press between my folds, sliding through the slick heat he finds there. The sensation cuts through the terror like a blade. My hips jerk involuntarily, and the harness rocks us together.

"That’s it. Right there. You’re so fucking wet already." His middle finger finds my clit and rubs slow, deliberate circles. "Christ, Cece. You’re dripping for me up here."

I can’t believe he’s doing this. Can’t believe his fingers are stroking my clit while we’re plummeting through the sky at terminal velocity. But the panic is receding, replaced by the hot, slick drag of his touch.

"Revel—"

"I know. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good." Two fingers push inside me, curling against my inner walls as his thumb keeps working my clit. The harness straps bite into my skin with every movement, the wind whipping around us, but all I can focus on is the relentless rhythm of his hand between my legs.

"Focus on me, Mama," he murmurs again. "Focus on my fingers. My touch. That’s it, Mama. Fuck, that’s it."

My head falls back against his shoulder. The fear is still there, humming beneath my skin, but it’s drowned out by the building pressure in my core. His fingers pump deeper, faster, the wet sounds of my pussy barely audible over the roar of the wind.

“Forget the ground, Mama. We’ve got fourteen thousand feet to fall and I’m about to give you a whole fucking different reason to scream.”

His words come through the headset, cocky and completely insane, but they do exactly what he wanted.

They drag my attention back to him.

The wind is still roaring around us, the earth spinning impossibly far below, but Revel is solid against my back, his body strapped securely to mine. One arm keeps me anchored against him while his voice stays in my ear, talking me through the panic until my breathing starts matching his.

The fear doesn’t disappear. It gets tangled up with everything else—the adrenaline, the weightlessness, the absolute insanity of falling through open sky with him behind me.

Then pleasure hits hard enough to scatter the rest of my thoughts.

My body locks against his as the orgasm crashes through me, my cry disappearing instantly into the wind. For a few seconds, there’s nothing coherent left in my head.

Just blue sky, rushing air, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, and Revel’s voice in my headset telling me he’s got me.

He keeps me tight against him while I shake through it, his voice coming through the headset until I finally manage to drag in a full breath.

Then another, and somewhere between the adrenaline and the sheer fucking insanity of what just happened, a laugh tears out of me.

Holy shit.

I’m still falling.

Fourteen thousand feet above Miami, nothing beneath my shoes but open fucking air, and somehow the fear isn’t swallowing me anymore.

The ocean stretches out in every direction, impossibly blue beneath the midday sun, Miami spread along the coastline in tiny white buildings and strips of green. From up here, everything that felt huge this morning looks ridiculously small. The roads. The beaches. The boats cutting little white lines through the water.

Even my problems.

For a few seconds, I forget to be scared.

I just stare.

The wind tears at my clothes and whips loose strands of hair around my face while Revel stays solid against my back, and suddenly I understand why this crazy motherfucker keeps chasing shit like this.

It’s fucking incredible.

The parachute eventually catches above us, jerking us out of the fall, and my stomach tries to relocate itself for the second time today. I laugh again, louder now, half delirious from the adrenaline as we drift toward the ground.

By the time my shoes finally touch grass, my legs have apparently resigned from their position as functional parts of my body.

My knees buckle.

Revel catches me around the waist before I can eat shit, already laughing while they start unclipping us.

“Good thing I got the circulation back in those fingers you were trying to fucking amputate earlier.”

I turn in his arms and smack his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said I could afford to lose a couple.” His grin turns filthy as he flexes his fingers between us. “Pretty sure you’re fucking glad I kept all ten now, though.”

Heat hits my face because I know exactly what he’s referring to.

“Revel.”

“What, Mama?” He laughs, catching my wrist when I try to smack him again. “You seemed real fucking appreciative of them about when they were taking your mind off how high up we were.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He pulls me closer by the waist. “Sure didn't sound like it up there.”

I grab his face and kiss him before his ego gets any fucking bigger.

That finally shuts him up, at least for a few seconds.

When I pull away, his hands are still around my waist and that stupid grin is already coming back.

“Shit, is that how you punish everybody you’re mad at?”

“Keep talking and I’ll try something else.”

His brows lift.

“Violent?”

“Extremely.”

“So fucking hot,” he adds, shamelessly adjusting the hard-on straining against his pants.

“Ay, cállate.”

His grin only gets worse. One hand comes up, gripping my face and pulling me straight back to him before I can say anything else. His mouth crashes into mine, swallowing whatever insult I had ready while his other arm locks around my waist and keeps me against him.

****

By that night, my nervous system has mostly forgiven him.

We spend the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive. We order food, shower, crawl back into bed and put on a movie neither of us really watches. I answer a few emails while Revel stretches across half the mattress scrolling through videos, and at some point I fall asleep with my head on his stomach.

It’s dangerously easy.

That’s becoming a problem I’m choosing not to examine.

Tonight, at least, I have a distraction.

I step out of the bathroom in a black leather mini skirt that barely makes it past my ass and a matching bralette top, both simple enough to look effortless while showing enough skin to make the entire outfit a terrible fucking decision.

My thigh-high heels add another few inches, silver hoops catch beneath my ears, and my hair is slicked back into a high ponytail that falls almost to my waist.

Revel is halfway through buttoning his shirt when he looks up.

His hands stop.

I bite back a smile and walk toward the mirror like I don’t notice his eyes following every step.

“Well, fuck, Mama.”

There’s enough appreciation in those three words to make me feel even better about my outfit.

I pick up my lip gloss. “You okay over there?”

“Not even a little bit.”

His gaze drags from my boots, up my bare thighs, catches on the tiny strip of leather pretending to be a skirt, then takes its sweet fucking time getting to my face.

“Good.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Oh, you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Getting dressed?”

“Trying to make me act like an asshole before we even leave the room.”

I swipe gloss across my bottom lip. “Pretty sure you manage that without my help.”

“True.” He finishes the last button and comes up behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of him against my bare back. His hands settle low on my hips while his eyes meet mine in the mirror. “But walking around Miami looking like this sure as fuck isn’t helping.”

I turn in his arms and smooth the front of his shirt, pretending his reaction isn’t doing wonderful things for my ego.

“Then you better make sure it’s clear who I’m here with.”

His brows lift, and the slow grin that spreads across his face tells me I’ve just handed him way too much ammunition.

“Oh, Mama.” His hands tighten around my hips. “You sure you wanna give me permission like that?”

“Permission to behave yourself? Yeah.”

He laughs. “That is not what you fucking said.”

“It’s what you heard.”

“Liar.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “But I’ll make it real fucking clear.”

***

The club is pure Miami excess—violet neon, mirrored walls, VIP booths overlooking a packed dance floor, and bass heavy enough that I feel it through my heels before we’re even fully inside.

Revel keeps one hand against my lower back as we move through the crowd.

It’s become such a normal thing lately that I barely register it until his touch disappears.

I follow his stare across the club toward the raised VIP section overlooking the dance floor.

Two guys stand behind the railing, and judging by the way Revel’s attention locks onto them, I’m guessing they aren’t random.

“Who are they?”

“Ajax Sawyer and Dimitri Petrov.” His jaw shifts. “Deadly Diablos.”

I’ve heard the names. I just haven’t had faces to put to them until now.

Ajax is the first one I notice. Built, tattooed, messy brown hair, with the kind of rough face that looks like smiling is something he does strictly when necessary.

He’s broader than I expected, dressed in black, and carries himself less like some polished professional racer and more like the guy security should probably be keeping an eye on.

Dimitri looks like he belongs in an expensive fucking cologne ad.

Taller, leaner, blond hair pushed back from sharp features, black shirt open low enough to show the chains at his throat. Even from down here, he somehow manages to look bored.

“Those are the guys from the Miami team?”

“Yeah. Ajax is the one I beat in the race that Andre suspended me for.”

Ajax catches Revel looking.

For a second, the two of them just stare at each other across the club, and I can practically feel the testosterone poisoning the fucking air between them.

Then Ajax surprises me.

He lifts his chin toward the stairs and motions for us to come up.

Revel’s brows pull together.

“Is he inviting us up?”

“Looks like it.”

Ajax leans toward the massive bouncer stationed at the entrance to VIP and says something in his ear. The guy glances down at us, then nods and unhooks the velvet rope.

Well.

Apparently we’re doing this.

Revel’s hand settles at the small of my back as we head up the stairs, and the bouncer steps aside without a word. The bass is a little duller up here, still heavy enough to shake the glass in our hands but far enough from the dance floor that people can actually hear each other.

Ajax meets us near the booth first.

“St. Clair.”

“Sawyer.”

There’s still an edge there, but it’s controlled. No puffed chests, no stupid macho bullshit.

Revel’s hand slides from my back to my hip as he looks between them.

“This is Cece. My girl.”

The words catch me for half a second.

My girl.

Normally, I’d correct him before the sentence even finished leaving his mouth, but I don’t know these guys, and, technically, I did tell him to make it clear who I came here with.

So I let it go.

That’s the only reason.

Definitely has nothing to do with the annoying little flicker of warmth the words send through me.

Dimitri’s eyes flick to me, then back to Revel, one brow lifting. “Tvoya devushka?” His Russian accent curls heavier around the words before his mouth twitches. “Interesting.”

Revel’s hand settles a little more firmly at my hip as Ajax gestures toward the booth.

“Sit. Let’s get you a drink.”

Revel guides me toward it with his hand still on my hip, and this time, I don’t give him shit for that either.

Apparently, I’m feeling generous tonight.

Ajax slides into the seat across from us while Dimitri drops down beside him, one arm stretching across the back of the booth like he’s already settling in for whatever shit is about to happen. Revel sits beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine beneath the table.

For a few seconds, it’s almost weirdly normal.

Then Ajax leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“Look, before this turns into more bullshit, I owe you an apology.”

That gets Revel’s full attention.

Ajax rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw tightening before he finally says it.

“My girlfriend was cheating on me. Left me for the guy, then left our daughter with me too.” He gives a humorless laugh and looks down at his drink. “So yeah, between the travel, training, races, all the other shit that comes with this life, I’m figuring out how to be a single dad while also figuring out how not to lose my fucking mind over being cheated on.”

Dimitri makes an offended sound beside him. “Single dad? Da nu. What am I, a fucking decoration?”

Ajax looks over. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I do not. Team helps. I help. You are not abandoned in a forest with a child.”

That pulls the smallest laugh out of Ajax.

“Fine. Mostly single dad.”

Dimitri lifts his drink. “Better.”

Ajax shakes his head, then looks back at Revel. “Either way, I was pissed at everything and rode like it. None of that was your problem, but I made it your problem on the track.”

“Nah, you’re good. Honestly. I wasn’t exactly innocent either.” He shifts forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “I forced that pass. There was barely a fucking gap and I knew it, but I’d already committed in my head, so I went for it anyway. Could’ve taken us both out.”

Ajax holds his gaze for a beat.

“Yeah.”

Dimitri takes a slow sip of his drink and looks between them. “Khorosho. Two idiots finally admit they were idiots. Miracles happen.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Revel glances over at me. “You enjoying this?”

“A little.”

Ajax actually laughs, and just like that, some of the tension finally breaks.

He is quieter than I expected, while Dimitri has, apparently, made sarcasm his primary language. Revel relaxes beside me, one hand still resting casually on my thigh beneath the table while they talk racing.

Then Ajax checks his phone and his entire face changes.

I notice immediately.

“Your kid?”

He nods and turns the screen toward me and I melt. The little girl is sitting on a tiny electric motorcycle wearing oversized sunglasses and a helmet that looks almost as big as she is.

“Oh my God. Look at her.”

Ajax laughs. “She knows she’s cute. That’s the problem.”

“Aw, she looks like trouble.”

“She is.”

He swipes to another picture, this one of her absolutely covered in ice cream.

I’m laughing when I realize Revel has gone quiet.

He’s watching me.

Not with his usual filthy grin either.

Something else.

“What?”

He blinks. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

His mouth curves. “Later.”

I narrow my eyes.

Whatever just happened inside his head is absolutely going to become my problem.

****

We’re standing outside the club later, waiting for our ride, when I finally turn on him.

“Okay. What was the look?”

“What look?”

“The one you gave me when Ajax showed me his daughter.”

His mouth starts to twitch.

Immediately, I know I’m going to regret asking.

“Revel.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes moving over me like he’s deciding how much of whatever fucked-up thought was in his head he should actually admit.

Apparently, all of it.

“I was thinking about our little girl.”

I stare at him. “Our fucking what?”

He laughs, but there’s something different underneath it. “Just hear me out, Mama.”

“No, I feel like that sentence alone was enough.”

“Too late.” He steps closer. “I saw you looking at that picture, getting all soft over her, and suddenly I’m thinking about this tiny little version of you running around. All fucking fire and attitude, probably mean as shit to me just like her mom.”

“My imaginary daughter is already bullying you?”

“Hundred percent. She’s yours.” His grin flashes. “Little lavender helmet, tiny race suit, telling me I’m doing everything wrong while you stand behind her looking proud as fuck.”

I bite the inside of my cheek because the image is dangerously cute and I refuse to give him that.

Then his eyes drop over me, lingering at my stomach.

The grin fades.

“And then my brain got stuck on you.”

Something about his tone makes heat pool low in my belly.

“Me how?”

“Pregnant.” His hand finds my waist, thumb dragging slowly over the bare skin above my skirt. “Fuck, Cece. You with that attitude and a swollen belly carrying our kid?” His eyes lift back to mine. “You’d be so fucking hot.”

“Jesús Cristo.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“Oh, I do.” He pulls me closer, gaze still fixed on me. “That’s why I was looking at you like that. I went from Ajax showing us one cute picture to imagining our daughter and wondering what you’d look like carrying her in about thirty fucking seconds.”

“You mentally built us an entire child.”

He shrugs like he didn’t just make this infinitely worse. “Not the first time, Mama. Just the first time I let you know about it.”

“Ay, Dios mío. How long has this shit been happening in your head?”

“Long enough to know she’d have your attitude and me wrapped around her finger before she could fucking walk.”

My face heats all over again.

“And you just kept that to yourself?”

He grins. “Had a feeling telling you I’d already pictured you pregnant with my kid might scare you off.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.” His hand spreads over my waist, thumb brushing slowly across my skin. “But now that you like me, and actually admit it, you’re harder to get rid of.”

“You’re insane.”

My face is burning now, which would be significantly less embarrassing if Revel weren’t watching every second of it.

His mouth curves. “Just admit you kinda like the idea.”

“I absolutely did not say that.”

“Didn’t have to, Mama.”

I shove lightly at his chest, but his arm stays around my waist.

“Ay, cállate.”

He laughs and kisses my temple like he didn’t just casually drop a fucking grenade into my brain.

Except now it’s there.

A little girl with my attitude.

His grin.

Both of us.

Nope.

Absolutely fucking not.

I am not thinking about this.

Especially not the part where, for one terrifying second, I kind of fucking liked it.

He catches my wrist, laughing, and pulls me back against him.

“Can’t help where my brain goes, Mama.”

“Your brain needs professional supervision.”

“Probably.”

Our ride pulls up before he can make it worse, and I’m grateful for the interruption because my face is still too fucking warm.

The entire drive back to the motel, Revel’s hand stays on my thigh.

Not doing anything. Just there.

Which is somehow worse.

Every time I look over, he’s wearing that smug little smile like he knows exactly what he dropped into my head outside the club and plans on letting it marinate.

Asshole.

By the time we make it upstairs, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m over it.

Then the motel-room door shuts behind us.

Revel tosses the key onto the dresser and turns toward me. “So.”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Was gonna ask if you’re still thinking about our imaginary kid.”

I kick off one heel and glare at him. “I’m thinking about having you evaluated.”

He laughs, stepping closer while I work the other heel off. “Still thinking about it, though.”

“Revel.”

His hands find my waist, pulling me into him. The joking is still there, but his eyes have gone darker.

“Tell me to drop it and I will.”

I should.

Instead, I look up at him. “You really wanna keep going with this?”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

Of course he does.

I lift my chin. “Fine. It’s fantasy. We’re playing. That’s it.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Yeah, Mama. Just playing.”

He walks me backward toward the bed, gaze dragging over me like he’s already imagining everything he told me outside.

My ass hits the mattress.

“You want me to lean into it?” he asks.

I hold his stare even though my pulse is already picking up. “Go ahead, big shot. Sell me on it.”

Revel’s grin widens as he lowers himself in front of me.

“First of all,” he says, hands settling on my thighs, “you’d look so fucking good carrying my baby.”

Just like that, the stupid fucking fantasy follows us all the way into the room.

The air in the hotel room is thick, smelling of expensive cologne and the salt of our skin.

Revel has me pinned against the mattress, his weight a crushing, welcome heat that anchors me. He’s hovering over me, his eyes dark and dilated, looking at me with an intensity that feels like it could strip the skin right off my bones.

He shifts, his hand sliding down from my throat to splay across my stomach, his palm warm and heavy.

He doesn't move it; he just lets it rest there, as if he’s already claiming the space.

"Just...stretched out and heavy with mine."

I freeze, a sharp intake of breath hitching in my chest.

I try to find my usual cocky armor, but my voice comes out breathy, betrayed by the way my pussy is currently pulsing around his fingers.

"You're fucking insane, Revel."

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smirk. He just leans down, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath hot on my lips.

"I am. I'm completely fucked for even thinking about it. The thought of a little version of you...a little brat with your eyes and my temper...it makes me so hard I can barely breathe."

I’m flushed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I want to tell him it’s just a fantasy, a game we're playing to spice things up, but the raw hunger in his gaze tells me he’s not playing.

He’s staring at my belly like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

“Fantasy, Revel,” I whisper, though I’m arching my hips instinctively, the friction of my leather mini skirt against my skin suddenly feeling like too much and not enough all at once. “It’s just a fucking fantasy.”

“Not for me,” he growls.

Whatever playfulness was left in him disappears.

Revel crowds over me, forcing me deeper into the mattress as his gaze drags down my body. My leather skirt is already shoved high on my thighs, bralette barely staying where it belongs, and the way he looks at me makes my pulse kick harder.

His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties.

One hard tug sends them down my legs and across the room.

But he doesn’t reach for his cock.

Instead, his hands slide beneath my thighs and spread me wider, pushing my knees back as his attention drops between them.

I swear I can feel that stare.

“Fuck, Mama.” His voice comes out rough.

He doesn’t rush it.

I’m perched on the edge of the bed when his hand closes around my throat, holding me exactly where he wants me. His other hand comes up between us, two fingers brushing across my bottom lip.

“Open.”

My eyes stay on his as I do.

He watches my mouth close around his fingers, sucking and coating them in a thick layer of saliva. When he finally pulls them free, his gaze follows them down my body.

His hand slips beneath my skirt, taking its time before those wet fingers drag between my legs.

My body betrays me immediately.

A twitch. A shudder.

Revel catches every fucking bit of it.

“Fuck.” His grip firms around my throat as his fingers tease through my wetness again, deliberately drawing out the reaction. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me.”

I bite down on my lip, but another shiver runs through me anyway.

His eyes lift to mine.

There’s something deeply unfair about how fucking pleased he looks when he realizes I’m already falling apart for him.

Then he drives two fingers deep into me without warning.

I gasp, my back arching as he stretches me open, but the hand around my throat keeps me anchored at the edge of the mattress. There’s nothing slow about it now.

He pumps his fingers in and out with a brutal, rhythmic speed, his knuckles rubbing against my clit with every thrust.

Then he adds a third finger, stretching my walls to the limit, the friction creating a wet, slapping sound that echoes through the otherwise quiet room.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he snarls, his thumb pressing hard into my clit, circling it with a punishing pressure that has me sobbing. “Mm, do you know how much I want to replace these fingers with my cock, baby?”

I can’t even answer.

My entire body is shaking, my internal muscles clamping down around his hand.

Revel watches every fucking second of it.

Then he gives one final, deep shove, his fingers hitting my cervix, before ripping them out with a wet, visceral pop that makes me shiver. He holds my gaze while sucking them clean and I barely have time to register the loss before his hand leaves my throat.

In one fluid, violent motion, he flips me over.

I gasp, the air leaving my lungs as my chest hits the mattress, my ass tilted high in the air, completely exposed and vulnerable.

Before I can even catch my breath, his palm slams against my right cheek with a loud, stinging crack.

"Ah!" I cry out, the shock of the spank sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my clit, making my walls contract violently.

“You’re mine, Cece,” he snarls, his voice possessive and raw, stripped of all his usual smugness. “Every inch of you.”

“Fuck.” I glance back at him over my shoulder. “Then quit fucking talking about it.”

His eyes darken.

“Careful, Mama.”

“Or what?”

That does it.

His shirt comes off first, dragged over his head and tossed somewhere behind him. My eyes shamelessly follow the movement, taking in tattooed muscle and the hard rise and fall of his chest before his hands drop to his pants.

“Ay, cállate,” I mutter before he can comment on me staring.

He frees his already hard cock and steps back between my legs. One hand grips my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me as he lines himself up.

“Revel.” His name comes out needier than I intend.

“What do you need, Mama?”

“You.” I push back toward him impatiently. “I fucking need you.”

A rough groan tears out of him.

“Fuck, Cece.”

Then he slides into me.

Slowly.

My fingers twist into the sheets as he works himself deeper, stretching me around him until the pressure steals whatever smart-ass comment I had left.

“Fuck!” I cry out when his hips finally press flush against mine.

“Yeah,” he grunts behind me. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

Before I can catch my breath, he spits onto my ass. His thumb follows, circling slowly while his other hand stays locked around my hip.

“Fuck, Revel.”

A low groan rumbles out of him, his grip tightening as my body shudders beneath his touch.

His hand leaves my hip and comes around my throat, firm enough to pull me upright against him. My head tips back toward his shoulder, and when my eyes start to close, his grip tightens just enough to get my attention.

“Look at me, Mama.”

I force them open and look back at him.

Fuck.

The Revel staring at me barely resembles the cocky asshole who was joking about imaginary daughters outside the club. His jaw is tight, breathing rough, eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes the whole stupid fantasy suddenly feel a lot less like a joke.

“There you go.” His voice drops. “Don’t look away.”

His mouth finds the side of my neck, teeth catching hard enough to pull a broken sound from me. My hand reaches back blindly, fingers tangling in his hair as he leaves another mark against my skin.

“Revel…”

“Tell me.” His mouth brushes my ear. “Tell me you want it.”

Any smart-ass answer I could give him is long fucking gone.

“I want it.”

His breathing catches.

“Want what, Mama?”

“You know what.”

“I wanna hear you fucking say it.”

“Fuck.” My fingers tighten in his hair. “I want you to feel you come inside me. I want all of you.”

The sound that tears out of him is somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

“Fuck, Cece.”

Then suddenly he pulls away.

He hauls me up, guiding me to sit on top of him. I slide down his length slowly, my pussy gripping him tight, the sensation of him filling me again making my toes curl.

“Fuck, Mama.” His hands lock around my waist, holding me there for a second like he needs to get himself under control. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“Pretty sure you started this.”

“Yeah.” His eyes drag over me. “Best bad decision I’ve ever made.”

I start moving, and his grip immediately tightens, helping guide me as the rhythm builds between us.

I’m desperate now, grinding my clit against his pubic bone, my internal muscles milking him with every frantic downward plunge.

Revel’s hands move up my body instead, catching the edge of my bralette and tugging it down. My breasts spill free, and his attention drops immediately.

“Fuck, so goddamn pretty.”

He cups them in both hands, squeezing as he pulls me closer. His mouth closes around one nipple, sucking hard enough to pull a gasp from me before his teeth catch it, giving it a sharp little tug.

My fingers bury themselves in his hair.

He groans against my skin, switching to the other breast and giving it the same attention, hands kneading and holding me while I move above him.

“That's it, Mama. Fucking take what you need.”

His grip tightens, and the filthy praise goes straight through me.

“Mine,” he breathes against my skin. “All fucking mine.”

There’s something about the way he says it that fucks with me more than it should. The roughness is still there, but underneath it is something almost reverent.

His eyes lift to mine.

“I’m gonna fill you up, Mama.” His voice is wrecked. “Want you walking around with me still inside you. Want you feeling exactly what I left behind every fucking step you take.”

Fuck.

My entire body reacts to the words, the pressure building until there’s no room in my head for anything else.

“Revel—”

“Come for me, Cece.”

That’s all it takes.

The orgasm tears through me hard enough that I collapse against him, crying his name into his neck while my whole body shakes.

His arms lock around me.

“Fuck, yeah. That’s it, Mama.”

A rough, guttural groan tears out of him as his control finally snaps, his arms locking around me as he comes deep inside me.

Neither of us moves afterward.

Eventually, his breathing begins to slow beneath me, one hand dragging lazily over my back before settling across my stomach again, and somehow, that touch feels more intimate than everything that came before it.

We stay like that for a long time, tangled together, the only sound the ragged synchronization of our breathing.

“Ay, cállate,” I mutter, hiding my face in his neck.

He laughs quietly and pulls me back down against his chest. But his hand stays on my stomach. No joke this time.

No teasing. Just his palm resting there while our breathing slowly settles.

And somewhere between the dirty talk and the fantasy we were supposedly only playing with, Revel stopped sounding like he was pretending.

Chapter Sixteen

Cece

Morning in Miami has zero fucking mercy.

Sunlight cuts through the gap in the hotel curtains and lands directly across my face, warm and bright enough that pretending to still be asleep stops being an option. Somewhere beyond the glass, traffic moves steadily along the street, a horn sounds in the distance, and the air conditioner rattles like it’s fighting for its life against another ninety-degree day.

When I open my eyes. I immediately remember last night and immediately close them again.

Our daughter.

Ay, Dios mío.

Beside me, Revel is still asleep on his stomach, one arm shoved beneath the pillow and the sheet hanging low across his hips. His hair is too short to really suffer from bedhead, just slightly flattened along one side, and the morning light catches across the tattoos covering his shoulders and running down both arms.

He looks ridiculously peaceful for someone who spent last night saying the most unhinged shit anyone has ever said to me during sex.

Fantasy vacation sex.

That’s what I’m calling it.

We’re in Miami. There’s a hotel involved. We’ve done tourist shit, spent too much money, eaten nothing remotely nutritious and jumped out of a fucking plane.

Close enough.

Whatever happened last night stays here.

Including the part where my stupid body apparently found the entire imaginary-baby situation significantly hotter than my brain would like to acknowledge.

I slide toward the edge of the mattress.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

His voice is rough with sleep.

I glance back. One blue eye is open.

“I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“Bullshit.”

I grab his shirt off the floor and pull it over my head. “Go back to sleep.”

His gaze drops lazily over me as I stand, and that stupid little smile starts.

I head toward the bathroom and shut the door before he gets the chance to say anything else.

By the time I come back out showered, dressed and significantly more prepared to deal with life, Revel is awake and sitting on the edge of the bed in black shorts, checking something on his phone.

“I need coffee,” I announce.

“Well shit, good morning to you too, Mama.”

“I said what I said.”

He stands, grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head and his phone buzzes again.

Revel looks down at the screen, and I stop halfway through putting in my hoop.

“What?”

“It’s the shop.”

That gets my attention.

He opens the message.

“The part came in this morning. They’ve got your car up now and they’re starting the install.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

“They said they’ll update me once everything’s in and they’ve tested it.”

The relief is immediate.

I love Miami, but I would also like to stop living out of a suitcase and wondering whether my Honda is going to financially ruin me.

He holds both hands up. “Didn’t say, but I doubt it. It’s not an easy install, Mama.”

I sigh and drag a hand down my face. “Fine. One more day. But if that car finds one more reason to keep me here, I’m setting it on fire myself.”

His mouth twitches.

I grab my purse before he can encourage me.

“Now, we get coffee.”

The heat hits the second we step outside.

Miami is already fully awake. Cars crawl through the intersection beneath tall palms, music spills out of an open storefront across the street, and the sky is painfully blue above rows of white buildings.

The ocean isn’t visible from here, but I can smell it beneath the exhaust and somebody’s breakfast cooking nearby.

We find a café a few blocks away with little tables beneath striped umbrellas and fans turning overhead.

Revel gets our drinks while I claim a table in the shade.

When he comes back, he sets mine in front of me and presses a kiss to the top of my head before sitting down across from me.

I take a sip and pull apart a piece of toast while the city moves around us, watching Revel across the table. He’s relaxed, sunglasses pushed up on his head, eating like there’s nothing complicated about any of this.

Meanwhile, I’m noticing things I really don’t need to be noticing. Like how my coffee showed up exactly how I like it without him asking, again. How easy sitting across from him has started to feel.

How somewhere along the way, spending every day together stopped feeling like being stranded and started feeling suspiciously normal.

I take another sip and glance at him over the rim.

“Last night was vacation sex.”

Revel looks up from his plate, one brow lifting. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yes.”

His mouth curves around a slow, annoying grin. “Cool. Big fan of vacations, apparently.”

I give him a flat look. “I’m talking about the shit we were saying.”

“Ah.” He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too entertained now. “The part where you got all hot and bothered over me knocking you up?”

“¡Cállate!” I hiss, kicking him under the table as I glance around the patio. “Coño, Revel. The entire fucking restaurant doesn’t need to know.”

“What? You brought it up.”

“I brought it up because I’m clarifying.”

“Right.” He takes another bite, nodding like this is all very serious. “Vacation sex. Vacation rules. Vacation babies.”

“There are no vacation babies.”

“Probably for the best. Customs would be a nightmare.”

I stare at him and his grin widens.

“Are you done?”

“Not even a little bit, Mama.”

“Of course you’re not.”

I reach for my coffee, mostly so I have something to do with my hands. Revel lets me suffer for another second before some of the amusement finally leaves his face.

“I do know the difference, Cece.”

I glance at him over the rim of my cup.

“Between talking shit when we’re worked up and actually deciding to have a kid,” he says. “I’m not completely fucking stupid.”

“Debatable.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t run with it. “I meant some of it, though. I’ve thought about having a family before, and apparently my brain really fucking likes putting you in the picture.”

My stomach does an annoying little flip.

Fucking traitor.

“But that’s in my head.” He rests his forearms on the table, gaze holding mine. “Anything real would be something we both wanted. I’d never make that choice for you or assume I get to just because I’m, apparently, developing a very specific fucking problem where you’re concerned.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, but something in my chest loosens with it.

Not because I genuinely thought Revel had walked out of that hotel room with a five-year reproductive plan and a list of baby names.

It’s that he understands there’s a line between fantasy and reality without making me draw it for him. He can want something, joke about it, get entirely too fucking excited by the idea of it, and still understand that anything involving my body isn’t a decision he gets to make.

“Okay,” I say.

He studies me for a second, like he’s making sure I actually mean it, then reaches for his coffee and moves on.

Just like that.

No pushing. No trying to turn it into something bigger because I gave him an inch.

And somehow, that makes the tightness in my chest ease even more.

****

We spend the afternoon walking with absolutely nowhere to be, which might be the first time since getting to Miami that nobody is trying to throw me out of a plane, strand me in the ocean, or kill me with adrenaline.

Revel’s hand stays wrapped around mine as we move down the sidewalk, his thumb brushing over my knuckles every so often like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I do realize. Unfortunately.

The streets closer to the water are packed, all bright storefronts, little cafés spilling tables onto the sidewalk, souvenir shops crammed with neon shirts and shit nobody needs, tiny boutiques with dresses hanging in the windows that cost more than my monthly grocery bill.

Palm trees throw broken patches of shade across the pavement, and every time the breeze comes in off the ocean, it carries salt and enough relief from the humidity to stop me from bitching for at least thirty seconds.

Probably.

Revel, meanwhile, has apparently decided this is a motorcycle sightseeing tour.

He stops for every fucking one.

Parked outside restaurants. Cruising past us. One ancient thing chained near a curb that looks like it survived three hurricanes and a felony.

I stare at it. “That is literally tetanus with handlebars.”

“It has potential.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head but in typical Revel fashion, he pulls out his phone and takes a picture anyway.

I tug his hand and keep walking. “Come on, Bob the Builder.”

He laughs and lets me drag him along, only to turn his head when another bike passes two seconds later.

“Ay, Dios mío. Do you need to stop and sniff the exhaust too?”

“Depends what it is.”

“You’re so embarrassing.”

“Says the woman holding my hand in public.”

I look down at our joined hands.

Then back at him.

“Yeah well, I seem to have had a temporary lapse in judgment.”

“Been having a lot of those lately, Mama.”

I squeeze his fingers hard enough to make the point, and he just grins.

So fucking annoying.

But this version of him is different from the one I first met at the garage. He’s still cocky as fuck and, apparently, incapable of letting a motorcycle exist near him without conducting a visual inspection, but he isn’t performing for me anymore.

He doesn’t keep pushing for reactions the way he used to. No constant little comments just to see if he can get under my skin, no hovering around waiting for me to look at him.

He doesn’t have to anymore.

Somewhere between Tampa and Miami, I stopped making him work for every scrap of attention.

Now I’m walking beside him with our fingers laced together like this has somehow become normal.

It kind of has.

We duck into shops whenever the heat gets annoying. I buy sunglasses I don’t need. Revel finds the ugliest tourist shirt in Miami and actually considers it.

“If you buy that, I’m walking ten feet behind you.”

“You try it and I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”

I put it back for him.

Eventually, I spot a pet store and somehow Guac ends up with a tiny gold collar with an avocado charm, more treats, and a ridiculous pair of sunglasses Revel slips onto the counter.

“You do know he’s going to hate those.”

“Probably, but still worth the picture.”

Unfortunately, I agree.

Outside, the afternoon heat has softened and the breeze coming off the water finally makes walking bearable. Revel takes the shopping bag from me, and a few blocks later, he suddenly disappears into a little antique store.

“Hold up, Mama. Stay right here.”

I stop. “Why?”

“Two seconds.”

Before I can ask anything else, he disappears inside the jewelry store.

Suspicious as fuck.

A few minutes later, he comes back out with a small box in his hand.

I look at it, then at him. “No.”

His mouth twitches. “You haven’t even opened it.”

“Exactly. Still no.”

He holds it out anyway.

I stare at him for a second, then take it.

Inside is a delicate gold chain with a tiny wave hanging from it.

My thumb brushes over the charm.

“Why a wave?”

“Figured it could remind you of getting in the ocean even when you were scared as shit.” His expression softens. “If you can do that, you can handle a lot more than you think.”

My chest tightens.

“And if I can’t?”

His fingers close around mine.

“Then I’ve got you.”

Fuck.

I look back down at the little wave, suddenly very interested in it so he doesn’t see what that does to me.

The problem with Revel isn’t that he’s good at grand gestures.

It’s that he pays attention.

I can defend myself against grand gestures.

This shit is harder.

I take the necklace from the box and turn my back to him, lifting my ponytail out of the way. “Put it on me.”

His fingers brush the back of my neck as he fastens it, warm against my skin. When I let my hair fall, the little gold wave settles beside Abuela’s locket.

I look down at both of them resting together against my chest.

Yep, that gets me.

When I turn around, Revel is watching me with that softer look he gets sometimes, the one that never feels like he’s trying to get anything out of me.

So before he can ruin it by opening his mouth, I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

Slow. Sweet and just because I want to.

When I pull back, his grin starts.

“Don’t.”

He laughs under his breath and takes my hand again.

Later, we end up walking along the water.

The sun is lower now, turning the buildings behind us gold and scattering light across the ocean. Boats move farther offshore, white against all that blue, while the beach beside us is still crowded with umbrellas, towels, music and people trying to squeeze the last bit out of the afternoon.

A little girl runs through the sand near the walkway, squealing when a wave catches her ankles before racing back toward the blanket where her parents are sitting. Her mom catches her around the waist, laughing, while her dad already has a towel waiting.

I watch them for a second longer than I mean to.

Something about the little girl running back to her parents catches at me in a place I usually keep buried.

Which is ridiculous, considering my dad was gone before I was even born.

He heard ‘pregnant’ and disappeared.

That was it.

I don’t have memories of him walking out because I was never there for the leaving part. What I grew up with was the empty space after it.

My mom doing everything herself.

Me knowing there was a man out there who chased her for years, made her feel like she was the center of his world, then vanished the second that world came with responsibility.

Funny how someone I never knew still managed to leave that big of a mark on me.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been impressed by men wanting me too loudly.

Wanting is easy.

Chasing is exciting and promises sound good when nobody’s had to prove them yet.

Now, staying is the only part I actually believe.

My fingers tighten slightly around Revel’s and his phone buzzes a second later and breaks the moment.

“Is it the shop?” I ask.

He checks the screen. “Yeah. The part’s installed. They’re just running some diagnostics and taking it out for a test after. Said they’ll update me again once they know everything’s good, but we should be able to pick it up in the morning.”

Relief should be the only thing I feel.

Instead, there’s this stupid little drop in my stomach right behind it.

Because morning means my car is fixed. My car being fixed means we leave, and considering I spent half this trip bitching about being stranded here, I should probably be a lot more excited about that.

Apparently, my feelings missed the memo.

We keep walking while the sun sinks lower over the water, everything turning warm and gold around us. Revel’s hand stays wrapped around mine.

Up until this morning, all I wanted was my car fixed so I could get the hell back to Tampa.

Now that it’s actually happening, I’m not nearly as excited as I should be.

Because somewhere in the middle of all this, Miami stopped feeling like somewhere I was stuck and started feeling like a place I didn’t want to leave.

Not because of the city, but because here, with Revel, I stopped waiting for everything between us to fall apart.

Chapter Seventeen

Cece

The shop calls a little after nine the next morning, right when I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to decide if I care enough to do a full face of makeup for a four-hour drive home.

Apparently, I do not.

My phone starts vibrating on the counter beside my makeup bag, and the second I see the Miami number, everything else gets abandoned. Revel is stretched across the bed behind me, half-dressed and scrolling through his phone, but he looks up the second I answer.

“Hi, this is Cece.”

The mechanic doesn’t drag it out. The road test went fine, the diagnostics came back clean, everything they replaced is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do, and my Honda is officially ready to be picked up.

Relief hits first, because thank fuck. I’ve spent most of this trip wondering if every update from the shop was going to come with another problem attached to it.

I thank him, confirm we’ll be there soon, then hang up and turn toward Revel.

“She lives.”

He grins. “Knew she’d pull through.”

I stare at him. “Uh, you have literally criticized that car every single chance you’ve gotten.”

“Yeah, well, that was before she broke down and got me stranded in Miami with you for three days.” His grin gets wider. “Little death machine kinda won me over after that.”

I snort. “So now you love her?”

“Fuck yeah. Best wingman I’ve ever had.”

I toss my phone onto the bed and go back to my makeup bag, shoving the last few things inside before zipping it closed. I’m still wearing one of Revel’s shirts from last night, the hem brushing high on my thighs, and when I glance at him through the mirror, his eyes are already dragging slowly down my body.

Not subtle.

Not even pretending.

I let mine do the same right back.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but black sweats, tattoos on full display, looking entirely too fucking good for someone who hasn’t even had coffee yet.

His gaze catches mine in the mirror.

Then drops to the shirt again.

A second later, he shifts on the mattress and adjusts himself through his sweats.

I turn around, smiling. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re over there fighting for your life because I’m wearing a T-shirt.”

“My T-shirt,” he corrects, eyes sweeping over me again. “Big difference.”

“You’ve seen me in your clothes all week.”

“Yeah, and somehow it still fucks me up every time.”

I laugh and toss my makeup bag into the suitcase. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hard for you.”

I roll my eyes, the smirk still pulling at my mouth as I point toward his half-packed duffel. “Pack your shit before I get violent.”

His grin goes filthy. “Mama, you threatening me just makes me harder.”

He winks, then pushes to his feet and crosses the room before I can tell him to fuck off. One arm hooks around my waist, pulling me into him long enough to press a kiss to the top of my head.

Then he lets me go like he didn’t just make my stomach flip and goes back to packing his shit.

Cabrón.

Packing is easier than it should be considering we’ve somehow managed to make this hotel room look lived in over the last few days.

Clothes are draped over the chair, Revel’s shoes are near the end of the bed, my laptop charger is twisted through three other cords beside the table and there are empty water bottles everywhere because, apparently, this man hydrates like he’s preparing to cross a goddamn desert.

I start clearing my side of the room while he handles his, and for a few minutes neither of us says much. There’s music playing quietly from his phone and traffic moving beyond the windows, but the room itself feels different knowing we’re actually leaving.

Yesterday, when the shop said the part was installed and they only needed to finish testing everything, I should’ve been excited.

I had been waiting for that update since the second my car betrayed me, but instead all I could think about was how quickly this little Miami bubble had become something I didn’t want popping yet.

That feeling hasn’t gone away overnight.

I’m still ready to go home. I miss Guac enough that I’ve started checking the pet camera more often than any sane person should, and Bex has threatened to file a missing-person report even though she knows exactly where I am.

But there’s a weird weight to folding my clothes and watching everything disappear back into bags.

It isn’t sadness, exactly.

More like knowing something changed here, and now I have to figure out whether it still works when we’re back somewhere familiar.

Revel zips his duffel and glances over. “You’re thinking hard again.”

“I’m packing.”

“You do both.”

I shove another shirt into my suitcase. “Maybe I’m thinking about how annoying you are.”

“You don’t have to think about that. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Good point.”

He laughs, and that’s the end of it.

No pushing.

That is another thing I’ve started noticing about him.

When we first met, Revel would poke at every reaction until I wanted to throw something at his head. If I looked annoyed, he pushed harder.

If I got quiet, he filled the silence just to see if he could drag something out of me.

Now he seems to know when to let me have a thought without turning it into a fucking interrogation.

Which is somehow more dangerous than when he was annoying.

By the time we’re ready to leave, the room has gone back to looking generic. Suitcases closed, chargers packed, bathroom empty.

All the little pieces of us are gone from the surfaces and shoved back into bags like none of this

I sling my purse over my shoulder and reach for my suitcase, but Revel gets there first, grabbing the handle before I can.

“I can carry my own shit.”

“I know.”

“Then give it.”

“Nah.”

I stare at him. “You do know I survived just fine before you, right?”

“Yeah, Mama.” He hooks his duffel over his shoulder. “But I’m here now, so carrying your shit while getting threatened daily is basically my community service.”

I blink. “Did you just steal my line?”

His grin turns smug. “Just trying to be more like you.”

“Smart-ass.”

“See? Threat number one for the day.” He shifts my suitcase into one hand and hooks his duffel higher onto his shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m already putting in hours.”

I roll my eyes but finally let go of the handle. “Fine. Carry it, Papi.”

His brows lift at the easy surrender, that smug little grin spreading across his face as he takes a step backward toward the door. “Look at that. Cooperation.”

I point a warning finger at him as I grab my laptop. “Don’t make me regret it. You’re still on probation.”

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, fighting a laugh. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Liar.”

His wink says I’m absolutely right.

A few minutes later, we’re back on the loaner Ducati, my arms around Revel’s waist as he pulls away from the hotel and heads toward the shop.

The morning air is already warm, heavy with salt and exhaust, and Miami moves around us in flashes of white buildings, palms and too-bright sunlight. I sit close behind him, cheek near his shoulder, one hand resting against his stomach while the other hooks around him a little tighter every time some asshole cuts across traffic like turn signals are optional.

Revel glances at me in the mirror once.

I know that look.

I squeeze his side. “Eyes on the road, pretty boy.”

His laugh disappears into the engine noise.

The Ducati feels completely different now than it did when this whole mess started. Back then, riding with him felt like one more thing I had to stay aware of—his body under my hands, how close I was sitting, whether he could tell I liked being there more than I should.

Now I don’t think twice about leaning into him when we stop at a light.

Don’t think twice about my fingers spreading over his stomach or the way his hand briefly leaves the bar to squeeze my knee before the light changes.

It’s just easy.

That might be the part fucking with me most.

Miami is bright and loud around us, exactly the same as it’s been all week. People crowd patios in barely any clothing, palms bend in the breeze coming off the water, music spills out of open storefronts and somewhere nearby somebody is already blasting bass hard enough to compete with traffic.

The ride to the shop is easy, which is probably the weirdest part.

I’m wrapped around Revel on the loaner Ducati, my thick braid snapping lightly against my back every time he changes lanes, and I don’t spend the whole ride overthinking where my hands are or how close I’m sitting anymore. My chest is against his back, my arms are around his waist, and when he reaches down at a red light to squeeze my knee, I just tighten my hold on him and tell him to keep his eyes on the fucking road.

Apparently, this is normal now.

Dangerous.

But normal.

Revel is in black sweats and a black muscle shirt, tattoos out, which is honestly rude this early in the morning. Every time we stop, my gloved hands wander without me even thinking about it, sliding over his arms, across his shoulders, down his back just to feel the way all that muscle shifts under my palms.

He definitely notices.

I definitely don’t care.

Then the shop comes into view.

And my violet Honda.

Revel turns into the lot and parks the Ducati near the open bay, killing the engine before planting both feet on the pavement. I loosen my arms from around him, but before I can climb off on my own, he’s already swinging his leg over and standing beside the bike.

Then he turns and holds a hand out to me.

I look at it for a second, mostly because, apparently, this man has decided helping me off motorcycles is part of his personality now.

His mouth curves. “Come on, Mama.”

“I have legs.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Of course he has.

I take his hand anyway, and the second his fingers close around mine, his other arm slides around my waist to steady me as I swing my leg over.

That’s when my brain decides to drag up the memory of the first time he did this.

Different bike. Different city. Same fucking problem.

Me losing my balance in my driveway. His arm catching me around the waist. My hands fisted in his shirt while he looked down at me like he already knew exactly how badly I wanted to kiss him.

Then I did.

First.

Hard enough that I spent days afterward pretending it never happened.

Ay, qué vergüenza.

My boots hit the pavement, but Revel’s hand lingers at my waist for a beat, his thumb pressing into my side while his gaze drops to my mouth.

Heat rolls low through my stomach.

Apparently, getting off a motorcycle with this man is never going to be normal.

I lift my chin. “You planning on letting me go?”

“I was considering my options.”

“Well, hurry up and choose wisely.”

His grin turns slow. “Mm, that almost sounded like a threat.”

“It was.”

“Good. I missed those.” His teeth catch his bottom lip for a second as his eyes drag down me, slow and filthy, before he shifts his hips and adjusts himself like there’s absolutely no reason to be subtle about what I’m doing to him.

This man has no fucking shame.

And the worst part?

Fuck if that doesn’t do something to me.

Once the bill is handled and my keys are finally back in my hand, I slide behind the wheel and start the car.

The engine turns over clean, and I sit there for a second with both hands on the wheel, listening to it idle like I’m waiting for the Honda to betray me one more time.

Revel watches me from the passenger side, then jerks his chin toward the steering wheel. “Why don’t you let me drive?”

I look over. “Why?”

“So I can get a feel for how she’s running. Make sure everything feels right before we get too far.”

I narrow my eyes. “You just want to drive my car.”

“That too.” His mouth pulls into a grin. “Plus, I kinda like you as my passenger princess.”

I stare at him. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Oh, come on, Mama. Feet up, snacks in your lap, talking shit from the passenger seat while I do all the work?” His eyes drag over me. “That role was made for you.”

“Qué cabrón.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Annoyingly, I can’t.

I hesitate for maybe two seconds before killing the engine again and opening my door. “Fine. But if you drive her like one of your bikes, I’m throwing you out on the highway.”

His grin gets wider as he climbs out to switch sides with me. “Passenger princess already making demands. Knew I’d like this.”

I slide into the passenger seat and buckle in. “Drive the fucking car, Papi.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A few minutes later, Revel is driving, one hand loose on the wheel while I’m sunk into the passenger seat with my iced coffee between my thighs, but apparently giving up control of the car does not mean giving up my right to criticize everyone else on the road.

Some asshole in a white Mercedes drifts halfway into our lane while staring down at his phone, and I’m leaning forward before I even realize it.

“Ay, pendejo, pick a fucking lane.”

Revel glances over, amused. “You know he can’t hear you, right?”

“He can feel my hatred.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how cars work.”

The Mercedes wanders again.

“See? Mira esta mierda.” I throw a hand toward the windshield. “This is why people shouldn’t have licenses.”

Revel laughs as he eases back enough to put some distance between us. “You’ve been my passenger princess for like twelve minutes and you’re already trying to drive from over there.”

“I’m supervising.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

“You’re welcome.”

His hand comes off the wheel long enough to land on my bare thigh, giving it a quick squeeze before settling there like it belongs.

“Sit back and enjoy your coffee, supervisor. I got you.”

The words are casual, but something about them makes me shut up for a whole three seconds.

A personal record.

Once we finally clear the worst of the city, I take over the music because if I’m, apparently, committing to this passenger-princess bullshit, there should at least be benefits.

I turn it up, kick my sandals off and tuck one leg beneath me while Revel drives.

He lasts maybe two songs before reaching toward the screen.

I slap his hand away.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Skipping this.”

“No.”

“Mama, this is terrible.”

“It’s my playlist, Papi.”

“Yeah, and I’m the one being forced to listen to it.”

I turn toward him. “You were the one who volunteered to drive and made me the passenger princess.”

“You controlled the radio even when I was the passenger princess.”

“Because it’s my car.”

He glances over at me while I turn the volume up another notch just to piss him off. He shakes his head, laughing under his breath, but leaves the music alone.

Smart man.

The farther Miami falls behind us, the more the car settles into this comfortable little rhythm I don’t remember us having on the way down. Revel drives, I control the music and occasionally feed him something from the bag of snacks between my feet.

We talk when we feel like it, shut up when we don’t, and somewhere along the way his hand finds my thigh again.

It stays there.

His thumb keeps moving over my thigh, slow little strokes that should be nothing and somehow are very much fucking not nothing.

I shift in the seat, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll help, then uncrossing them two seconds later because, apparently, my body has completely abandoned subtlety.

Revel notices, but he doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t grin or say some smart-ass thing that’ll make me want to smack him. He just keeps his eyes on the road and lets his fingers drift a little higher.

Bastard.

My stomach tightens immediately because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

That’s what pisses me off. Okay, also turns me on.

One second I’m perfectly capable of sitting there, listening to music and minding my business, and the next I’m staring out the window thinking about how easy it would be for him to take the next exit, find somewhere quiet and do something about the heat building between my thighs.

About how fucking long it’s been since I felt him inside me.

Since I watched that look take over his face when he had me falling apart for him, like seeing me lose control was his favorite fucking thing in the world.

Puta madre.

Now I really want him to pull over.

I reposition again and his fingers slide higher.

I bite the inside of my cheek and refuse to look at him, because the second I do, I already know I’m going to see that smug little look telling me he’s enjoying every fucking second of this.

And honestly?

At this point, I’m about three minutes away from threatening him with so much violence he has no choice but to—

A silver SUV cuts hard into our lane.

“AY, CABRÓN!”

Every filthy thought in my head disappears instantly.

I shoot forward in my seat, hand flying toward the dash as Revel brakes and swerves just enough to avoid the asshole.

“¡MIRA POR DÓNDE VAS, PENDEJO!”

The SUV jerks back into its lane.

I’m still glaring through the windshield like I can personally set the driver on fire with eye contact.

Beside me, Revel starts laughing.

I snap my head toward him. “What the fuck is funny?”

“Nothing, Mama.”

His hand settles right back on my thigh.

Asshole.

We stop for gas and food a couple hours later.

I come back out with a bag tucked under one arm and my iced coffee in hand, expecting Revel to be done already.

He isn’t.

He’s still beside the pump, one hand on the nozzle, the other braced against the roof of my Honda while the numbers climb.

Black muscle shirt. Tattoos out. Sunglasses pushed up. Looking stupidly good doing something as boring as putting gas in my car.

Annoying.

Very fucking annoying.

I walk up beside him and duck under the arm he has planted against the roof.

His brows lift as I set my coffee on top of the car, lean my back against the door and hook both arms around his waist.

“Hi.”

His mouth curves. “Hi, Mama.”

Then I pull him into me and kiss him.

No warning. No smart comment first. I just want his mouth, so I take it.

He makes this low sound against my lips and shifts closer immediately, his free hand sliding from the roof to brace above my head, boxing me in against the car while the other stays on the pump.

My hands flatten against his back, dragging him tighter between my thighs as the kiss turns slower and deeper.

Yep. See, this is exactly the problem.

He can be doing something completely normal, standing at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, and somehow I still want to climb him.

His teeth catch my bottom lip before he pulls back just enough to look at me.

“That for pumping your gas?”

I keep my arms around his waist. “Maybe.”

His grin turns filthy. “Shit, I’m filling your tank every time now.”

I snort and drag him back down by the front of his shirt.

“Cállate and kiss me.”

He does.

By the time the pump clicks off, I’m smiling into his mouth like an idiot and Revel looks entirely too pleased with himself. He tops the tank, grabs the receipt, then opens my door for me with this ridiculous little flourish like he didn’t just have me pinned against the side of my own car at a gas station.

“Your chariot, princess.”

“Qué estúpido.”

“Get that sweet ass in the car.”

I do, mostly because my coffee is waiting and partly because I’m starting to enjoy letting him fuss over me way more than I should.

Once we’re back on the highway, Revel settles behind the wheel again and I make myself comfortable on the passenger side. Really comfortable.

My sandals come off first.

Then I turn sideways in the seat, lean my shoulder against the window and stretch my legs across his lap.

He glances down at them, then over at me.

“Comfortable?”

“Very.”

“Glad one of us is.”

I wiggle my toes against his thigh. “You made me the passenger princess. This feels like a you problem.”

His hand closes around my ankle, thumb rubbing slowly over the bone. “Nah. I can work with this.”

“Of course you can.”

Instead of letting go, he lifts my foot toward his mouth.

I watch him press a soft kiss across my toes, then another along the top of my foot, taking his sweet fucking time as his lips trail toward my ankle.

Oh.

My whole body practically melts into the seat.

There’s nothing filthy about it, not really, but somehow that makes it worse. The casual affection, his hand wrapped securely around my ankle, his mouth warm against my skin while he drives like kissing every available inch of me is just something he does now.

When I look up, that little smirk is already pulling at his mouth.

“Eyes on the road, Papi,” I mutter, trying for annoyed and landing somewhere dangerously close to breathless.

His smirk deepens as he presses one last kiss just above my ankle before lowering my leg back across his lap.

“Whatever you say, princess.”

Cabrón.

I turn my attention toward the window before he can see just how embarrassingly warm and gooey that made me feel.

The highway stretches ahead of us beneath a washed-out blue sky, traffic finally light enough that neither of us has anything to bitch about. Music hums through the speakers while I pick through the snacks and occasionally hold something out for him because apparently I’m generous now.

Gross.

I’m halfway through stealing the best pieces out of a bag of candy when my phone starts ringing beside me.

Mom.

I answer and put her on speaker before I can think better of it.

“Hola, Mami.”

“Hi, baby. You driving?”

“No. Revel is.”

Beside me, his eyebrows lift at hearing his name.

“Oh, good.”

I narrow my eyes at the phone. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re relieved he’s driving.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Mami.”

Revel is already grinning.

My mom laughs softly. “I was checking where you are. I went by the house this morning and checked on Guacamole.”

I immediately sit a little straighter. “Awwh. How’s my baby?”

“Alive and very dramatic. Starving, according to him.”

“So normal.”

“Very. I cleaned his bowls, gave him fresh water and left more food. There’s food for you two in the fridge too.”

“Te amo, mami.”

“I know.”

It takes my brain a second to catch up.

“Wait. You two?”

My eyes slide toward Revel. He’s still driving with one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped loosely around my ankle, but that smug little curve is already starting at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Mom says. “There’s enough for Revel too.”

“Why Revel?”

“Because I’m sure the man will be hungry after driving you all the way home.”

I blink at my phone. “And you just assumed I’m feeding him?”

“Cecilia.”

Ay, coño.

Full name.

Revel bites his bottom lip, shoulders bouncing once as he tries not to laugh.

I point at him with the bag of candy. “Not a fucking word.”

“Oh, I’m staying out of it.”

“Mhmm. Smart.”

Mom sighs through the speaker. “Mija, por favor. You’ve been in Miami together for three days and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know there was already something going on between you two before you left, whether you wanted to admit it or not. I am your mother. I have eyes.”

Revel makes a quiet choking sound beside me.

I whip my head toward him. “Do you need something?”

“Nah.” He bites back a grin, giving my ankle another squeeze. “Just nice to finally talk to the woman responsible for all this attitude.”

I narrow my eyes. “Careful, Papi.”

“What?” His grin breaks loose. “I’m complimenting her. Takes talent to raise this much fucking trouble in one tiny package.”

“Oh, I like him,” Mom says immediately.

I stare at my phone. “Mami.”

His whole face brightens. “See? I like you too, ma’am.”

“Revel,” I groan.

“What? I’m being polite.”

“No, you’re kissing ass.”

“Little bit.”

My mother laughs. “At least he’s honest.”

“Please don’t encourage him. I have to live with this ego.”

Revel glances over. “Live with it, huh?”

“Drive.”

He laughs and turns his attention back to the highway while I sink lower into my seat, already regretting putting this call on speaker.

Mom, naturally, isn’t finished.

“I’ve been wanting to meet him properly anyway. Maybe now we can finally plan something.”

Revel beats me to it.

“I’d love that.”

I turn my head so fast my braid slides over my shoulder. “Oh, would you?”

“Fuck yeah.” He catches himself. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Another laugh crackles through the speaker. “You don’t have to apologize to me for cursing. I raised Cecilia.”

My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”

Revel fucking loses it.

“Okay, I definitely like your mom.”

“Traidor.”

He squeezes my ankle, still laughing, while Mom carries right on like the two of them haven’t just formed an alliance against me in under thirty seconds.

“What about dinner this weekend? Saturday?”

My head turns toward Revel.

His brows shoot up, but before I can even answer, he leans a little closer toward the phone.

“I’d love to.”

I blink at him.

Well, shit.

Not a second of  hesitation or pretending he needs to check his schedule. The man looks fucking thrilled.

“We’ve got a race Saturday, though,” he adds, glancing at me before looking back at the road. “Would you be okay doing it after? Might be a little later.”

My mom doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. Come whenever you’re finished.”

“Perfect.”

I stare at the side of his face. “Wow, okay so you two are just planning this without me now?”

Revel grins. “You were taking too long.”

“Pendejo.”

My mom laughs through the speaker. “Then it’s settled. Saturday after the race.”

“Sounds good to me,” Revel says. “Looking forward to it.”

He says it so genuinely that this stupid warmth spreads through my chest before I can stop it.

Great.

Now my mother likes him.

He likes her.

They’re making dinner plans over speakerphone while his hand is wrapped around my ankle and my bare feet are stretched across his lap like this is some completely normal thing we do.

Qué peligroso.

“Okay then,” I cut in before they start exchanging Christmas plans too. “Saturday after the race. We’ll text you when we know exactly when we’re leaving.”

“Perfect. Now, drive safe, cariño.”

“I’m not driving, remember?.”

“I know, I was talking to Revel.”

He grins. “I got her, ma’am.”

My heart gives one stupid, traitorous squeeze.

Mom doesn’t miss a beat. “Good boy.”

Oh.

Fuck both of them.

“Okay, goodbye. This conversation is over.”

She laughs. “Te quiero, mija.”

“Te quiero también.”

“And Revel, nice talking to you.”

“You too. See you Saturday.”

I hang up and let the phone fall onto my stomach.

For maybe three seconds, the car is quiet.

Then Revel looks over at me with the happiest fucking grin I’ve seen on him all week.

I squint. “Why do you look like you just got invited to the fucking Met Gala?”

“Your mom likes me.”

“You spoke to her for four minutes. She doesn’t know you yet.”

His hand slides from my ankle up my calf, giving it a squeeze. “She invited me to dinner. Sounds serious.”

“Do not make it weird.”

“Mama, I’m meeting your mom.” His grin somehow gets even bigger. “I’m allowed to be a little fucking excited.”

And there goes that warm feeling again.

I turn toward the window before he catches the smile pulling at my mouth, but there’s no hiding the way my whole body feels softer all of a sudden.

Saturday.

After the race.

Dinner with Mom.

Revel sitting at her table.

Actual plans waiting for us back in Tampa.

For once, instead of picking apart what any of it means, I let myself enjoy the fact that I’m looking forward to it.

By the time we turn onto my street, the sun has dropped lower and everything has that warm late-afternoon glow that makes even regular neighborhoods look softer around the edges.

My house comes into view.

And there, between the blinds in the front window, is a tiny black head.

I gasp.

“My baby.”

Guacamole is sitting on the windowsill staring directly at the driveway like an angry little landlord waiting for rent.

The second the Honda pulls in, he disappears.

I already have my seat belt off.

Revel laughs. “You’re gonna break your neck.”

“I haven’t seen my child in days.”

“He’s a cat.”

I look at him.

“Never say that again.”

“Right. Sorry. Your son.”

“Thank you.”

The second the car stops, I’m out.

By the time I unlock the front door, Guac is already yelling from somewhere down the hallway.

“MY BABY!”

He comes flying around the corner, paws sliding slightly across the floor before he launches himself toward me.

I scoop him up against my chest while he screams directly into my face like I abandoned him for a decade.

“I know. Mami is terrible. You suffered so much while Grandma came over every day and fed you treats.”

He shoves his wrinkly little face beneath my chin and starts purring hard enough that I feel it through his entire body.

God, I missed him.

I’m still kissing the top of his head when Revel walks in behind me carrying my suitcase in one hand and my equipment case in the other.

Guac’s head lifts.

He sees Revel and flattens his ears, then he hisses.

I burst out laughing.

Revel stops in the doorway. “Seriously?”

“He remembers you.”

“Clearly.”

“Aw. My baby missed his enemy.”

“I thought we bonded over the catnip taco.”

Guac hisses again.

“I guess not.”

Revel mutters something about him being an ungrateful little asshole and heads back outside for the rest of the bags.

I stand there with Guac in my arms while Revel brings in the last bag, his duffel still hanging off one shoulder.

He looks at me like he’s waiting for instructions.

I jerk my chin toward the door. “Close it behind you, Papi.”

His brows lift.

Then that slow, cocky smirk spreads across his face.

“Oh, shit. I get to stay?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” He reaches back and shuts the door, still grinning. “You let me in.”

“Temporarily.”

“Mhm.” He drops his duffel by the wall. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Mama.”

“Cabrón.”

His laugh follows me farther into the house.

And somehow, hearing the door click shut behind both of us feels exactly right.

Chapter Eighteen

Revel

Race mornings usually fix whatever the fuck is wrong with my head.

By the time I’m suited up and the paddock is alive around me, everything narrows down to things that make sense—tire temperature, braking points, track conditions, the weight of the bike beneath me, who’s starting where and how much room I can steal before somebody decides they want it back. It’s clean. Simple. Fast enough that there isn’t space for anything else.

Usually.

Today, Cece is standing in our paddock wearing a Demons pass around her neck, and apparently even race day isn’t enough to get that woman out of my fucking head.

She’s leaning against one of the workbenches while Echo finishes checking something near my bike, black shorts showing off those legs I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about, hair pulled into a high ponytail and the worlds tightest fucking jeans.

She looks comfortable here now, talking to Bex like she’s been hanging around race paddocks her whole life instead of pretending a few weeks ago that she only tolerated us because the girls kept inviting her.

I catch myself staring.

Again and unsurprisingly, Talon notices.

“So,” he says from the folding chair beside me, dragging the word out while I tighten the cuff of my undersuit. “Miami.”

I don’t even bother looking at him. “Beautiful city. Highly recommend.”

Across from us, Thorne snorts into whatever protein bullshit he’s drinking. “That all you’ve got, bruv?”

“What do you want, a fuckin’ TripAdvisor review?”

Talon leans back against the workbench, grin already there. “Nah. Think we’re more interested in the accommodations.”

“Bed was decent.”

Sayshen cracks up behind me. “Decent?”

I finally look up and all three of them are staring at me like they’ve been waiting all morning to be annoying.

Nosy fuckers.

I shake my head. “If you guys are this invested in where I slept, start a group subscription or somethin’.”

Talon laughs. “Bro, you vanished with the one girl who’s had you workin’ overtime since day one, got stuck in Miami with her for what, nearly a week? Then you roll back into Tampa cheesin’ like you just won a championship.”

“I always look this good.”

“That wasn’t the accusation,” Sayshen says. “But she is over there wearing a VIP pass and one of your old training shirts, so…”

Thorne lifts his drink toward Cece. “And, apparently, man’s buyin’ jewelry now. Heard you got her a necklace, loverboy.”

My eyes go to her before I can help it.

The little gold waveform is sitting right beside her locket.

Still wearing it.

Fuck, that does something stupid to me.

I drag my gaze back to Thorne and let a lazy grin pull across my face. “You been sitting around with the girls gossipin’ about my girl and her jewelry, mate? What’s next, cucumber sandwiches and a little fuckin’ tea party?”

That lands exactly how I wanted.

Talon’s brows shoot up.

Sayshen makes this loud, offended noise and starts laughing harder.

Thorne lowers his drink nice and slow. “Your girl?”

I shrug like I didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the garage. “That’s what I said.”

Sayshen points at me. “Oh, he’s gone. Fully gone.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Talon’s grinning now too. “Nah, man. You said that way too easy.”

I glance back toward Cece.

“Probably because it is.”

Across the paddock, Cece looks over like she can sense her business being discussed from thirty feet away.

I smile at her and she narrows her eyes.

Yep. That’s definitely my girl.

Whether she’s ready to put that on a fucking T-shirt yet is another problem entirely.

Echo saves me from further interrogation by throwing a shop rag straight at Sayshen’s chest.

“Can you idiots gossip after the race?”

Sayshen catches it. “Easy for you to say. You already know everything.”

Echo’s smile turns suspicious.

My head snaps toward her. “Everything?”

“Relax.”

“That is never a reassuring thing to hear from you.”

Cece’s eyes narrow at Echo now.

Interesting.

Before either woman can betray me, Andre walks into the middle of the paddock carrying his tablet and the expression of a man who regrets every life choice that led him to managing professional racers with the emotional maturity of unsupervised teenagers.

“Enough.”

Thorne gestures toward me. “Important team business.”

“You can conduct it from the grandstand if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

That mostly works.

The paddock settles into something closer to professional while Andre starts running through the schedule. Around us, mechanics finish the last checks, tire warmers still wrapped around the bikes while generators hum beneath the constant clatter of tools and voices.

Engines bark to life farther down pit lane, sharp enough to cut through everything else, and the air smells like fuel, hot rubber and the coffee somebody left sitting too close to a toolbox.

I missed this.

The noise. The routine. The way race day feels like the whole world has been boiled down to a strip of asphalt and whoever is willing to push hardest across it.

Still, part of me misses waking up in that shitty Miami motel with Cece already sitting at the desk in my shirt, pretending she wasn’t going to steal half my breakfast later.

That realization is probably more dangerous than anything I’m doing on the track today.

“Revel.”

I look up.

Andre is staring directly at me.

“Sorry, Coach.”

The entire group goes silent for half a second.

Thorne actually turns his head.

“Did this prick just apologize?”

“Fuck off.”

Andre pinches the bridge of his nose. “Track’s hotter today and grip through the back section isn’t where it was yesterday. Use your heads. I don’t want anybody manufacturing passes that don’t fucking exist this time.”

His eyes settle on me.

I grin. “Feels targeted.”

“That’s because it is.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been responsible lately.”

Echo pauses halfway through pulling the zipper up on her leathers and looks over at me, one brow climbing slowly.

“Responsible?” she repeats, like the word personally offended her. “Didn’t you convince Cece to jump out of a fucking plane while you two were in Miami?”

Talon lets out a sharp laugh from beside the bikes.

Sayshen points at me. “Oh, shit. Yeah. Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t convince her,” I say. “She agreed.”

Echo gives me a dead stare while tugging one glove tighter around her wrist. “Right. Because you’re known for calmly presenting safe, reasonable options.”

Thorne snorts into his drink. “Man probably went, ‘Go on then, Mama, jump out the fuckin’ plane with me,’ flashed that stupid grin of his, and kept at her till she finally caved.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

That gets a few laughs.

Echo shakes her head and bends to adjust the cuff of her boot, but when she straightens again, there’s this look on her face like she’s been holding onto something way better.

“And don’t even get me started on what happened between the jump and you two actually landing.”

The garage goes quiet for half a second.

Then Sayshen nearly chokes.

Talon’s head snaps toward me. “Wait, what happened?”

Thorne lowers his drink, eyes narrowing with immediate interest. “Oi. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

I drag a hand over my mouth, already knowing exactly what Echo’s about to do.

“Echo.”

Her grin turns feral.

“Oh, now he wants privacy.”

A few of the guys laugh, but Andre cuts through it before Echo can make my life any worse, moving on to Thorne and finishing the rest of his notes.

Thank fuck.

This time, I actually listen.

Mostly.

By the time Andre wraps up, the whole paddock shifts with him. The bullshit dies down, tire pressures get checked one last time, gloves get pulled on, helmets come off the shelves. Everyone settles into that quieter, locked-in version of themselves that always shows up right before we race.

I grab my gloves from the bench and start tugging the first one on.

“Revel.”

Cece’s voice cuts through everything else.

I turn toward her.

She’s standing a few feet away with her arms folded across her chest, and the second I look at her properly, the grin starts slipping off my face.

This isn’t her usual don’t be a dumbass look.

She’s actually worried.

I try anyway. “You here to tell me how pretty I look in leather?”

“No.”

“Damn. Kinda thought that was coming.”

She walks closer, but there’s no real bite behind her expression. Her eyes flick toward the bike, then back to me, lingering there a little too long.

“Don’t do anything stupid out there.”

I let out a small laugh. “That narrows it down.”

“Revel.”

That’s what gets me. Theres no sarcasm or Spanish insult.

Just my name. Said soft enough that something in my chest pulls tight.

I stop fucking around.

She comes to a stop in front of me, arms unfolding as she looks up.

“I know you know what you’re doing. I know you’ve done this a million times. I know all of that.” She swallows. “I just…don’t want to stand here and watch something happen to you.”

Fuck.

The paddock noise seems to drop away around us.

I lift a hand and cup her jaw, thumb brushing slowly over her cheek while I hold her eyes.

“Hey.”

She exhales through her nose, trying to hold herself together like she’s annoyed she even let me see this much.

“I’m coming back.”

Her eyes tighten slightly.

I lean closer. “I mean it, Mama. I’ll be right back here when this is over.”

She looks at me like she wants to believe that and hates how badly she needs to.

So I give her more.

“I’m not going anywhere.” My thumb moves under her cheekbone. “Not today. Not after this race. Not even when shit gets hard. I’m always going to be here.”

Her lips part.

I keep my forehead close to hers.

“You’ve got me, Cece. I’m not leaving you.”

That does it.

Her hand fists into the front of my suit and she pulls me down.

The kiss hits hard.

Not playful and teasing. Nothing like the quick shit we usually steal when everyone’s around.

Right now, she’s kissing me like she’s scared, and I kiss her back like I can fix that.

My hand slides from her jaw into her hair while the other wraps around her waist and drags her tight against me. Her mouth opens under mine and the whole thing turns deeper, breathless, and messy enough that I forget there are people standing five feet away.

For a second, there’s only her.

The way she clings to me.

The way my chest feels too fucking full and the way I want to stay right here until she stops looking at me like I might disappear.

When we finally break apart, neither of us moves very far.

Her forehead rests against mine.

I’m breathing too hard.

So is she.

“Come back to me in one piece,” she whispers.

I press one last kiss to her mouth.

“Always.”

Thorne clears his throat, and points between us. “So Miami actually worked, then?”

I grab my helmet and grin at him. “Worked great for me.”

Cece smacks my arm.

Sayshen laughs. “Dude is fucking glowing.”

“Can you blame me?”

Cece shoves me toward the bike. “Go do your job.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrow.

I pull my helmet on before she can threaten me.

Fucking worth it.

****

The second I roll onto pit lane, everything else drops away.

The noise, Miami, the guys, even Cece mostly disappears behind the part of my brain that knows exactly what to do once I’m on the bike.

Her voice is still there somewhere, though, telling me not to do anything stupid, and fuck if that doesn’t make me smile inside my helmet while the officials clear the grid and the engines around me climb into one long scream.

Thorne is ahead and to my left, Ajax a couple spots over.

The lights come on, hold, then disappear and the whole grid launches at once.

Ajax gets the better start, Thorne slots in behind him, and I’m fourth heading into turn one. The rider ahead shuts the inside before I can even think about taking it, so instead of forcing something stupid, I stay wider, carry more speed through the corner and get back on the throttle earlier.

I drive past him on exit and settle into third.

Look at me growing and shit.

The first few laps turn into Ajax, Thorne and me trading tenths while the rest of the field starts dropping back. I stay close enough to watch where they’re gaining, where they’re giving something up, and where I’d be an idiot to try squeezing through.

A few laps in, Thorne drifts a little wide through turn nine and leaves just enough space inside to make every reckless instinct I have start talking.

Then Cece’s voice flashes through my head.

Don’t do anything stupid.

I almost fucking laugh.

She isn’t even on comms and, somehow, she’s still bossing me around from the paddock.

So I stay behind him.

The next lap gives me another shot, and this time I pull alongside him down the straight before the corner tightens enough that I know forcing it would be pointless.

I slot back in, wait, and a few laps later he finally runs deep enough into the braking zone to leave me something real. I take it clean, get half a bike ahead, and for a second I’ve got second place before the bastard cuts underneath me on exit and takes it right back.

I laugh inside the helmet.

Beautiful prick.

That’s the moment it really clicks. I still want the pass. I still want to beat him. I still want first because obviously I fucking do, but I don’t need it badly enough to turn half a gap into a crash just because my ego thinks it can.

By the final lap, Ajax is still out front, Thorne is defending hard and I’m right on his ass. I stay wider through the last section, get on the throttle early and launch onto the straight. I’m gaining, but not enough. Ajax crosses first, Thorne takes second, and I come across third less than a second behind him.

Weirdly, I’m good with it.

I wanted the win, but I raced clean, had pace and made both of them work for every inch. No stupid move, no wreck, no Andre screaming into my helmet because I tried to create space that wasn’t there.

Solid fucking afternoon.

On the cooldown lap, Thorne looks over and I flip him off. He returns it immediately. Ajax slows enough for us to come alongside and I lift a fist toward him. He gives me a nod back.

Good fucking race.

By the time we roll into the paddock, everything is loud again. Mechanics are moving around the bikes, cameras are everywhere, people are talking over each other, but I barely hear any of it once I spot Cece standing near the back with Echo and Bex.

Her arms are folded, eyes locked on me, and the second she realizes I’m looking at her, something in her face eases.

Relief.

That hits me harder than the podium.

I hand off my helmet and head straight for her. She meets me halfway, both hands landing against my chest while her eyes run over me like she needs to check for herself that I came back with everything still attached.

“You listened.”

I grin. “Jeez, Mama. You could at least try to sound more surprised.”

She shakes her head, but then her hand catches the front of my suit and she pulls me down into a kiss without looking around first or giving a shit who sees.

I kiss her back, one hand settling at her waist while the other slides into her hair, and for a few seconds the paddock disappears again.

By the time she pulls away, we’re both breathing harder than we should be and she’s still holding onto the front of my leathers.

Her smile finally comes all the way back.

“I’m gotta head out,” she says, smoothing a hand down the front of my suit before stepping back. “I need to get home, shower, then go help Mami with dinner.”

I grin. “I mean, I could use a shower too.”

“Cállate.” She points at me as she starts backing away. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll be there. I promise, Mama.”

“You better, Papi.”

I grin. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

I grab my helmet and start toward the exit, looking over my shoulder once before I go.

She’s still watching me.

Still smiling, and for once, leaving the track doesn’t feel like I’m already chasing whatever comes next, cause this time, I already know exactly where I’m going.

Chapter Nineteen

Revel

By the time I get home from the track, shower, and stand in front of my closet trying to figure out what the fuck a man wears to dinner with the mother of the woman he’s sleeping with, obsessed with, and apparently wants to put a baby in someday, I’m already running behind.

Not late.

Just close enough to late that Cece will absolutely weaponize it if I give her the chance.

My phone is sitting on the dresser beside my wallet, showing 6:11 p.m.

Twenty minutes to the address Cece texted me.

Her mom’s house.

Plenty of time.

Except showing up empty-handed feels like a terrible fucking move, and somehow I’ve gone from a man who willingly throws himself around a racetrack at stupid speeds to standing here wondering whether Cece’s mom prefers red or white wine.

This is fucked.

I settle on black jeans and a fitted black shirt because anything more formal feels like I'm attending court, then run a hand over the short hair at the back of my head and check myself in the mirror.

Respectable enough, at least. I hope.

The tattoos on my neck aren’t exactly screaming your daughter is making excellent choices, but those aren't going anywhere.

Cece knows what she signed up for.

Well.

She’s still pretending she hasn’t signed anything, but details.

I grab my phone, helmet, and keys.

Before I make it out the door, Cece texts.

Cece: My mom made enough food to feed the entire team so come hungry.

My mouth pulls into a grin.

Me: Was planning on eating you after. Does that count?

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Cece: I am revoking your invitation.

Me: Too late mama. Already dressed.

Cece: Seven. Pendejo.

Me: Miss you too.

She reacts with a middle finger.

Perfect.

I pocket my phone and head out.

The ride takes me toward a shopping center not far from her neighborhood, one of those massive Florida strips where everything is shoved together under glowing signs.

Grocery store. Pharmacy. Liquor store. A couple restaurants. Some home decor place nobody has ever willingly gone into without being dragged.

I park near the grocery store entrance and pull off my helmet.

Flowers first.

Because I might be reckless, but I’m not fucking stupid.

Inside, the air-conditioning hits cold against my skin. Saturday evening has the place busy enough that carts keep cutting across aisles, kids are whining near the bakery, and somebody’s abandoned one of those motorized scooters directly in front of the flower display like they died mid-shop.

I grab two bouquets.

One is bright as fuck—pink, purple, blue, and way too much going on. Perfect for Cece.

The other is simpler. White flowers mixed with some green shit that looks classy enough to convince her mother I do have at least some manners.

Well, fuck. Look at me.

All domestic and shit.

The guys would never let me live this down.

Wine, however, is harder.

I stare at an entire wall of bottles like one of them is supposed to introduce itself.

Eventually I choose something expensive enough that it looks intentional without being obnoxious. Red. Her mom cooks a lot. Red feels right.

I have flowers tucked under one arm and the bottle hanging from my fingers when I turn toward the checkout.

That’s when I see him.

At first, my brain doesn’t place the face.

Why would it?

He belongs twenty years ago.

Different house. Whole different fucking life.

The man standing near the end of the next aisle is older now. A lot older.

His hair mostly gray, shoulders softer, stomach pushing against a faded and stained polo shirt. He has reading glasses hanging from the collar and a basket hooked over one arm with bread, milk, and some frozen bullshit dinners.

Normal shit.

Ordinary old-man shit and yet, I stare anyway.

Something cold crawls through my stomach.

There’s no fucking way.

Everything inside me locks up the second I see him.

Travis.

One of the foster dads Lena and I got stuck with growing up. One of the men who was supposed to be safe, supposed to be the adult in the house, and somehow managed to turn every room he walked into something you had to survive instead.

The flowers crush slightly beneath my arm before I even realize I’m squeezing them.

The store keeps moving around me like nothing happened. Cart wheels squeak across tile, a kid laughs somewhere near produce, somebody drops a bottle a few aisles over and an employee comes over the speaker calling for cleanup.

None of it processes properly, because for half a second I’m thirteen again, standing barefoot in a dark hallway listening through a wall, trying to figure out whether whatever was happening on the other side meant I needed to step in or stay the fuck out of the way so I didn’t make it worse for Lena.

My hand tightens around the wine bottle.

Travis turns.

His eyes slide over me at first, casual and blank, then jerk back a second later.

I watch recognition hit.

His face changes slowly, confusion giving way to something uglier as he stares at the grown man standing where that scared kid used to be.

“Revel?”

Hearing my name in his mouth makes something violent pull tight in my chest.

For a long second, neither of us moves.

Then the bastard smiles.

Actually fucking smiles.

“Jesus. Look at you.”

I don’t answer. My heartbeat is pounding hard enough that I can feel it high in my throat, but Travis seems completely fucking comfortable as he sets his basket down beside his shoe and looks me over like we’ve bumped into each other at some family reunion instead of a grocery store twenty years too fucking soon.

“Been a long time.”

Yeah.

Not long enough.

Memories I’ve spent years burying start crawling back up before I can stop them. That house always smelled like cigarettes even though nobody was technically allowed to smoke inside, with brown carpet, white walls stained yellow around the vents, and a lock on the pantry because Travis liked telling people foster kids stole food.

Lena’s room was across the hall from mine, the bathroom at the end of it. I still remember brushing my teeth beside her that first week, both of us watching each other through the mirror because neither of us knew if the other one was safe yet.

She was younger, small and way too fucking quiet, always checking where the adults were before she let herself relax.

I understood that.

We got good at understanding each other without needing to say much.

Then Travis started paying attention to her.

At first, I thought maybe he was just nicer to girls. He gave her extra snacks, sat too close beside her on the couch, volunteered to drive her places alone and called her sweetheart in this voice that made something inside me crawl long before I was old enough to understand exactly why.

Then one night, I heard her crying through the wall.

Quietly.

Lena never cried loud. Kids in the system learn pretty fucking fast that making noise brings adults, and adults don’t always make things better.

I reported him. More than once.

Told a caseworker I didn’t like the way he went into her room, told another adult Lena didn’t want to be alone with him, and watched them ask all the right questions while doing absolutely fuck all with the answers.

Nothing changed.

There wasn’t enough proof, apparently.

Funny how there’s never enough until somebody gets seriously hurt and everyone starts asking why nobody fucking noticed sooner.

Travis is still talking, but I haven’t heard a word of it. My attention snaps back when his eyes drop to the flowers tucked beneath my arm, and somehow his smile gets wider.

“Got yourself a girlfriend?”

Cold turns hot in my stomach so fast it makes my jaw clench.

“Don’t.”

His smile slips. “What?”

“Don’t fucking talk to me like we know each other.”

My voice comes out lower than I expect, enough that a woman pushing her cart past us glances over. Travis notices too. His eyes flick around the store before his whole expression changes into one I remember way too fucking well.

Calm and patient.

Reasonable foster dad dealing with a difficult kid.

I fucking hated that face.

“Revel, I know things were complicated back then. You kids had already been through a lot.”

You kids.

Like we were the fucking problem.

Like Lena and I arrived broken and he was just another poor adult trying his best.

I set the flowers and wine down on the nearest display before I crush one and smash the other across the floor.

Travis watches me put the flowers and wine down, and whatever fake patience he was wearing finally cracks.

“You always were a fucking problem,” he mutters. “You and that lying little bitch.”

Everything in me goes still.

“What did you call her?”

His jaw tightens, like now that the nice-guy act is gone, he can’t be bothered putting it back on. “Lena. Always crying, always making shit up when she didn’t get her way. You both knew exactly what to say to those caseworkers.”

I step toward him before I even realize I’m moving. “She wasn’t fucking lying.”

“Oh, please.”

“I heard her.”

That shuts him up.

“I was right across the hall, remember?” My voice drops, but there’s nothing calm about it. “I heard her crying through those walls while you did shit to her no adult should ever do to a kid. I heard her trying not to make noise because she was fucking terrified of you.”

His face changes, but he covers it fast with anger.

“You don’t know what the fuck you heard.”

“I heard enough.”

“You were thirteen. You were a fucked-up foster kid looking for someone to blame.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“And you were the grown fucking man who was supposed to protect us.”

Travis steps closer now, defensive and pissed instead of pretending to be reasonable.

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

I almost laugh.

As a kid, that voice could freeze me in place.

Now I’m six-three, standing over him, and all I can see is how fucking small he actually is.

“Or what?”

His nostrils flare.

I lean closer. “Go ahead. Call Lena a liar again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Say it.”

Travis’s face twists, and whatever restraint he had left finally drops.

“Fine. She didn’t lie.” His mouth curls. “I went into her room. I touched her. I hurt her. I knew exactly how scared she was, and I did it anyway.”

Everything inside me goes dead quiet.

He keeps going, almost sneering now.

“You wanna know the worst part? I knew nobody would believe her. Or you. You were foster kids. Angry, damaged, always causing problems. I knew exactly what I could get away with.”

My grip tightens.

“You raped her.”

Travis barely flinches.

“Call it whatever the fuck you want. Didn’t change anything then, did it?”

That’s the moment something in me snaps.

Not because he admits it.

Because all these years later, Lena is still just something he thinks he got away with.

My fist hits his face before he can say another word.

People scream somewhere behind me, but the sound barely registers. Travis stumbles into the shelving, blood already running over his mouth, and for one second I just stare at him while every fucking memory I’ve spent years trying to bury tears its way back to the surface.

Then he looks at me like I’m still that kid he used to scare.

Wrong fucking move.

I hit him again.

And again.

There’s no rhythm to it, no thought beyond the rage that has been sitting inside me since I was thirteen years old and too fucking small to do anything useful with it. I grab the front of his shirt when he starts to fold and slam him back against the shelving hard enough to rattle the whole aisle, cans crashing around our feet while people scatter and somebody starts yelling for security.

I don’t care.

All I can see is Lena.

Lena sitting on the bathroom floor with her knees pulled tight against her chest. Lena flinching when footsteps stopped outside her room. The dresser I helped shove against her door because we didn’t have a fucking lock.

Me sleeping with a kitchen knife under my pillow because every adult I told decided forms and interviews and waiting were somehow more important than making sure she survived another night in that house.

I was thirteen years old staying awake until two, three in the morning, listening for floorboards and trying to be a fucking guard dog when I was still just a kid too.

Travis tries to swing back, catches me across the cheek, and it barely fucking registers.

A laugh rips out of my chest.

Not that any of this bullshit is funny.

But because this is the man who used to fill entire doorways in my head.

The monster who made both of us scared to breathe too loudly, and now he’s bleeding on the floor beneath me.

Security finally gets there before I can hit him again.

Hands hook under my arms and drag me backward while I fight against them on instinct, still trying to get to him even after they’ve put several feet between us.

Travis is sprawled beside the shelving, blood smeared over his face and shirt, trying to push himself upright while someone crouches near him.

I’m still shouting.

Don’t even know what anymore.

Lena’s name.

What he did.

How everybody fucking knew enough to ask questions and somehow nobody did enough to stop it.

Then the cops come.

Everything after that moves too fast and not fast enough at the same time. My wrists are pulled behind me, metal closes around them, and suddenly I’m being walked through a grocery store with half the place staring while Travis stays on the floor behind us.

I should feel better.

I don’t.

The cruiser door shuts beside me and the silence inside hits harder than anything else has.

My hands are cuffed behind my back. My knuckles are split and throbbing. My cheek is starting to ache where he caught me.

None of it matters.

All I can think about is Lena.

How young she was.

How fucking young we both were and how many times I told someone.

All the nights she had to survive something because the adults around us fucking failed.

Then another thought punches straight through everything.

Cece.

Dinner with her mom.

I twist enough to see the time on the dash through the divider.

Fuck.

I promised her.

Not just dinner.

I fucking looked her in the eyes hours ago and told her I’d always come back. Told her I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Fuck!”

I drive my heel into the back of the seat hard enough to rattle the partition, then let my head fall back against the headrest and stare up at the roof of the cruiser.

Because this isn’t just me missing dinner.

I looked Cece in the fucking eyes and told her I’d be there. Told her I wasn’t going anywhere. Told her she could count on me.

And now I’ve done the exact thing I promised I wouldn’t.

I let her down.

Chapter Twenty

Cece

I’m so fucking stupid.

That’s the thought that keeps circling while I stand in Mami’s kitchen pretending I’m not waiting for a man who said he’d be here an hour and a half ago.

Stupid for believing him when he looked me in the eyes at the track and promised he’d show. For letting that promise settle somewhere soft in me like it meant more because it came from him. And for thinking maybe Revel was different enough that I could stop waiting for the part where wanting me became inconvenient.

But the worst part is, I didn’t even question it.

I believed him.

By eight-thirty, dinner is cold. Not we can toss it back in the oven and pretend nothing happened cold either.

The chicken has gone dry around the edges, the rice is starting to clump, and the sauce Mami spent half the afternoon making has that thin little skin forming across the top.

I’m standing at her kitchen counter with a dish towel in my hand, wiping down the same spot for what has to be the third time while she rinses plates at the sink.

Qué vergüenza.

My phone is facedown beside me, but I flip it over again anyway.

Eight thirty four.

Nothing comes through.

My screen stays stubbornly empty—no missed call, no text, not even one of his stupid memes or a quick running late, mama from the man who usually answers me so fast I’ve accused him of having no fucking life.

I stare at it a second longer than I should, then lock the screen and set it down harder than necessary.

Mami glances over her shoulder. “Cece.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ajá.” She looks at the counter, then back at me. “You’ve cleaned that same spot three times.”

“Maybe I want it clean.”

“Mija, you hate cleaning.”

“I hate dirty counters more.”

That earns me the look.

The mom look.

The one that somehow digs through every layer of bullshit without her having to say a word.

I turn away before she can get too far.

“He probably forgot.”

The second it leaves her mouth, my chest aches.

Mami dries her hands slowly and leans back against the sink.

“Do you really believe that?” I ask.

“No. I’ve told you, that man looks at you like you hung the fucking moon, mija. He sounded happier about dinner than you did.”

My throat tightens. Mami reaches over and squeezes my arm.

“Whatever happened, forgetting you was not it.”

And somehow that hurts even fucking worse.

Because I know she’s right. Revel doesn’t forget. Not when it comes to me.

He remembers stupid shit I say once and never bring up again. He remembers how I take my coffee, what candy I like, what time I need to leave, and what side of the bed I sleep on. He remembers every little thing like it matters.

And today, he looked me in the eyes and promised he’d be here.

I reach for the towel again, mostly because I need something to do with my hands, but Mami catches it before I can start wiping down the same spotless counter for the fourth time.

“Mija.”

“What?”

She takes the towel from me and sets it aside. “Stop trying to keep yourself busy so you don’t have to feel this.”

A laugh slips out, dry and completely humorless, but my throat is already tightening.

“Feel what?”

Her expression softens in that way that somehow makes it worse, because now she’s looking at me like she knows exactly what I’m trying not to say.

Absolutely fucking not.

We are not doing this.

I grab one of the containers off Mami’s counter and start shoveling rice into it because apparently if my hands are busy enough, my brain can’t spiral.

It can.

I snap the lid onto the container harder than necessary. “He knew what this meant to me, Mami. He knew it mattered.”

That comes out quieter than everything else, which somehow makes it worse.

Because it did matter.

Not because I’ve been secretly dreaming about introducing some man to my mother like this is a fucking Hallmark movie.

I don’t even know what Revel and I are.

That was kind of the whole point.

I let him into something real.

Dinner at Mami’s house. With my family, you know, normal shit.

The boring shit Revel stood in that hotel room and told me he wanted.

Then the first time I actually give it to him, he doesn’t show.

The ache behind my ribs turns sharp enough that I have to look down at the container in my hands.

This is why I didn’t want to do this shit with him.

I know how this story goes.

I knew what was going to happen when Revel came flying into my life with that stupid fucking grin, chasing me. Like I was the only girl he wanted.

Apparently I’m pendeja enough to believe him.

My eyes start burning.

Nope.

Mami notices anyway because mothers are invasive like that.

“Baby.”

“Don’t.”

She comes around the island, and I immediately step away because if she hugs me, I’m fucked.

“I just feel stupid.”

“You are not stupid.”

“Yeah, I kinda am, because I knew better.” I fold my arms. “He promised he’d be here.”

“I know.”

“And he isn’t, so please stop trying to make me feel better about him.”

“I’m not making you feel better about him. I’m trying to stop you from comparing him to your father after one bad night before you even know what happened.”

I laugh once. “Mami, I literally told Revel my biggest fucking fear was that he’d chase me until he got me and then lose interest. I handed that man the instructions on exactly how to hurt me.”

My voice shakes, and that pisses me off even more. Mami’s expression softens. Ay, no.

“He said he wanted the boring stuff too, and I believed him.”

There it is.

The actual fucking problem.

I believed him enough to stop waiting for the catch.

A tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away immediately.

“Fuck.”

Mami reaches for me again, and this time I let her take my hand.

“You’re allowed to be mad.”

“I am.”

“But trusting him wasn’t stupid, mija.”

I look away. “Feels pretty fucking stupid from where I’m standing.”

My phone is still sitting on the counter.

Dark.

I check the time.

Nine.

For the first time all night, the anger shifts enough to let something colder underneath.

Where the fuck are you?

Revel doesn’t do silence.

The man treats being ignored like a personal fucking challenge. If I leave him on read, I get another message. If I tell him to fuck off, he sends a heart. If I disappear for an hour, suddenly there’s a selfie, a picture of whatever he’s eating or some dumb question about whether Guac misses him.

Months of trying to get that man to leave me alone, and now I suddenly can’t get a fucking text?

I grab my phone and call again.

Straight through to voicemail.

Mami’s brows pinch. “Still nothing?”

“No.”

“How many times have you called?”

I look away.

“Cece.”

“Four.”

“Maybe something happened.”

“Nope.”

“Mija—”

“I’m not doing that.” I shove my phone down onto the counter. “I’m not sitting here building excuses for a grown-ass man who could’ve sent two words if he was running late.”

“I didn’t tell you to make excuses.”

“This is how it starts. Traffic. Dead phone. Lost track of time. Then suddenly I’m doing emotional gymnastics while he gets to do whatever the fuck he wants.”

Mami goes quiet for a second.

“Not every man is your father, Cece.”

“Could’ve fooled me tonight.”

“And I still don’t think Revel is.”

I snort. “You talked to him for five minutes.”

“And he spent all five practically vibrating because I invited him to dinner.”

Despite myself, my mouth twitches.

“That boy is crazy about you.”

“Great. Apparently not crazy enough to read a clock.”

My fingers find the little gold necklace at my throat before I realize I’m touching it. My eyes sting all over again.

Mami pulls me against her before I can stop her, and suddenly I’m crying into her shoulder like I’m sixteen instead of a grown woman who knows better than to lose her shit over a man missing dinner.

Except it isn’t dinner.

It’s Miami. The ocean. Skydiving. Takeout in bed. His stupid shirts. The necklace. The way he told me pieces of himself nobody else gets and somehow got me to hand him mine in return.

I kissed him in front of everyone today.

Me.

I did that because I trusted him.

“I hate him.”

Mami rubs my back. “No, you don’t.”

“I fucking want to.”

“I know.”

“It would be easier.”

“I know, baby.”

Eventually I pull away, wipe my face and grab my phone.

Fuck crying.

Anger I can work with. I unlock my phone and bring up my message thread with Revel.

Me: You know what? Don’t bother coming.

Send.

Me: This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this shit with you.

Another.

Me: You chased me for months, got what you wanted, and the second we get back to real life you can’t even fucking show up when you say you will. Qué sorpresa.

My fingers shake over the keyboard, anger and hurt mixing into something hot enough to make me reckless.

Me: I should’ve known better than to believe all that pretty-boy bullshit.

I stare at the screen for half a second, jaw tight, then type the one I know is going to hurt.

Me: Lose my number, Papi.

Send.

My stomach drops the second it goes through.

Puta madre.

Mami exhales beside me. “You didn’t have to do that tonight.”

“Yes, I fucking did.”

“No, you just wanted to hurt him because you’re hurt.”

“Bueno. Mission accomplished, then. He deserves it.” I shove my phone down onto the counter. “I’m going home.”

“You can stay here.”

“No thanks, Mami. I want my bed and my cat.”

She studies me for a second before coming over and cupping my face.

“You are allowed to be angry with him, but do not turn trusting him into something you should be ashamed of.”

My throat tightens again.

“If he didn’t deserve what you gave him, that is his failure. Not yours.”

I nod because speaking feels dangerous, kiss her cheek and grab the leftovers she packed for me.

The second I step outside, the warm night air hits my face and I stand beside my Honda for a minute trying to get my shit together before climbing in.

Then I see them.

Two empty water bottles sitting in my cup holders.

His.

I stare at them for maybe three seconds before something inside me snaps all over again.

“Are you kidding me?”

I grab both, roll down the window and whip them straight into the trash can beside Mami’s driveway. One hits the rim, bounces once and falls in.

“Fuck you and your stupid fucking hydration.”

Petty?

Absolutely.

Do I feel slightly better?

Also yes.

I start the Honda, turn my music up loud enough to shut my brain up and pull away from Mami’s house.

The whole drive home, I tell myself I’m done.

Done waiting for a text or checking whether he’s read mine.

Done believing anything that comes out of that pretty fucking mouth just because he looks at me like I’m the only woman alive.

My phone stays buried in my purse on the passenger seat.

I don’t touch it.

Even though every fucking part of me wants to.

Chapter Twenty One

Revel

Jail is quieter than I expected.

Not actually quiet. There’s a guy coughing somewhere down the hall, the scrape of rubber soles over concrete, a metal door slamming hard enough to echo through the holding area.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that ugly white glow that makes everybody look sick.

But compared to my head, the place is fucking peaceful.

I’m sitting with my elbows braced on my knees, staring down at my hands. Dried blood is cracked across my knuckles, dark around the split skin.

Some of it is mine, but most of it isn’t.

Every time I flex my fingers, the skin pulls and burns. I rub my thumb over one of the cuts anyway, watching a thin line of fresh red push through.

I should probably care about the fact I’m sitting in a holding cell after beating a man unconscious in the middle of a grocery store.

But I don’t.

All I can think about is Cece.

I was supposed to be at dinner for seven, and I have no idea what time it is now but I’ve been here for what feels like hours.

The cops who arrested me took my phone, wallet, belt, basically anything that might tell me I still belong to my own life, then walked me through enough hallways and processing rooms that time stopped meaning much.

But I know it’s late.

Too late.

I lean back against the concrete wall and close my eyes.

She trusted me.

That thought has been eating through me since the cuffs clicked around my wrists.

Cece stood in that paddock today, kissed me in front of everyone, looked me dead in the face and told me what time to be at her house and I told her I’d be there.

That I would always, be there.

I fucking promised her, and she believed me.

That’s the part that keeps digging the knife in.

“Fuck.”

The guy sitting across from me glances up, but I don’t give a shit. I drop my head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling, jaw tight enough to hurt.

When they finally gave me my one call, I called Lena.

Not Cece.

And fuck if that decision hasn’t been eating me alive ever since.

Every part of me wanted to hear Cece’s voice, tell her I didn’t fucking blow her off, that I wasn’t out somewhere forgetting about her while she sat at her mom’s waiting for me. But this shit with Travis isn’t mine to hand out. Lena lived it. Lena survived it. She deserved to hear from me that I’d found him before I started dragging what happened to her into my relationship just so I could make myself look less like an asshole.

So I called her.

Even knowing Cece was probably watching the clock.

Even knowing every minute I stayed silent was proving every fucked-up thing she’d ever told me she was scared I’d do.

I hate it, but I’d make the same fucking call again.

Lena had to come first on this.

I just have to pray Cece gives me enough time to explain why.

The door at the far end of holding opens, and when an officer calls my name, my head snaps up.

“You’re being released.”

For half a second, I just stare at him.

Then I’m already on my feet.

Because I’ve got one place I need to fucking be.

My knees bitch the second I push off the metal bench, stiff from sitting hunched against a concrete wall for fuck knows how long, and somehow my entire body feels heavier than it did after hauling ass around a track earlier.

At least race exhaustion makes sense. This is adrenaline burned down to nothing, Travis still crawling around inside my head, and the knowledge that Cece has spent the last few hours thinking I became exactly the kind of asshole I promised her I wouldn’t.

I follow the officer out of the holding cell and through another hallway toward processing, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and making the whole place look even more miserable than it already is.

I’m barely paying attention to where he’s taking me until we round the corner and I see Lena sitting against the wall.

Shit.

Her arms are folded tight across her chest, golden-blonde hair pulled back from a face that’s paler than usual, and her jaw is locked in that particular way I know too fucking well. She’s cried.

Maybe in the car, maybe in a bathroom before she came inside, somewhere private where nobody could see it happen. Now she’s pissed about having cried in the first place, which is about as Lena as it gets.

The second she sees me, her gaze drops straight to my hands.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Revel.”

I glance down at the split skin across my knuckles, the swelling already setting in and dried blood still streaked along the side of my thumb.

“You should see the other guy.”

Her eyes snap back to mine. “That is not funny.”

“Little bit.”

“Revel.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I drag a hand over the back of my neck and wince when my knuckles pull. “I’m fine.”

She gives me a flat look that says I’m, apparently, still stupid enough to try that shit with her.

Lena pushes to her feet and comes closer, her attention dropping back to my hands before she looks up at me again.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

That wipes the grin off my face.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

She swallows, jaw tightening again. “You call me from a fucking police station and tell me you found Travis, and then expect me not to lose my mind?”

“I couldn’t not tell you.”

“No. I know, I’m glad you did, I’m just—I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Me either, but here we are.” I exhale and look away for a second, then back at her as I say, “I’m sorry.”

She studies me, then shakes her head like she has about fifteen different things she wants to scream and no idea which one to start with.

The officer starts going through the paperwork before she can choose. Travis was treated, statements were taken, and the store footage caught everything. They got a crystal-clear view of exactly how the fight started and of exactly how badly I lost my shit afterward.

Lena folds her arms again. “So what now?”

The officer keeps talking, and I catch enough of it to know this isn’t just going away.

There are still charges.

Of course there are.

Apparently, he deserved it is not a recognized legal defense.

Lena gave a statement too.

She told them who Travis was. About our placement in his home. The years of complaints. About what he did to her. The detective said there are likely still old reports somewhere in the system, buried under paperwork but not gone.

I look at her.

She keeps her eyes on the officer.

My chest tightens.

She shouldn't have had to do that tonight.

Shouldn't have had to relive it all because I saw that bastard in a grocery store and ripped all those years of healing we did open with my bare hands.

By the time they return my wallet, keys and phone, I’m vibrating with the need to get the fuck out.

My bike was towed to the station instead of impounded somewhere across town.

Small fucking miracle.

The second the phone lands in my palm, Lena catches my wrist.

“Wait.”

I look at her.

“I need to call Cece.”

“I know.”

Her voice is softer now.

That gets me to stop.

We move away from the desk toward the wall, where the noise of the station fades enough that neither of us has to raise our voice.

Lena looks at my hands again.

“What you did tonight was fucking stupid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You could’ve killed him.”

My jaw tightens.

“I know that.”

She exhales and looks away for a second, eyes shining under the bright lights.

Then she looks back.

“I don’t need you protecting me like we’re kids anymore, Rev.”

Nobody calls me that much anymore.

Not like she does.

Something shifts behind my ribs.

“It wasn’t really a decision.”

“That’s the problem.”

I look away.

She moves closer.

“You always did that.”

I glance back at her.

“Did what?”

“Made yourself the problem so nobody looked at me.”

My throat tightens.

She gives me a sad little smile.

“You’d start fights. Break something. Mouth off until everybody was pissed at you, instead. You thought if you were the difficult kid, maybe they’d leave me alone.”

“It worked sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

Her face folds for half a second before she gets control of it again, and fuck, I’d almost rather she screamed at me. Lena pissed off I can handle. Lena calling me an idiot, telling me I should’ve left Travis bleeding harder, even blaming me for bringing his name back into her life—I could take all of that.

This look on her face? This fucking hurts.

“You were thirteen, Rev.”

“Didn’t fucking matter how old I was. I knew what was happening.”

“It mattered to me.” Her arms finally fall away from where she’s been holding them tight across herself, and she takes a step closer. “You were a kid sleeping outside my door because you were scared to leave me alone. You stayed awake listening for his footsteps, kept a knife under your pillow, told teachers and case workers until they started treating you like you were the problem instead of actually listening to you. None of that should’ve been yours to carry.”

I drag a hand over the back of my neck and drop my eyes to the floor because looking at her is getting harder by the fucking second.

“I still should’ve found a way to stop him.”

You tried.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

“For me, it was.” Her voice cracks slightly, and when I finally look up, she’s closer now. “You keep talking like you failed me, but you were the only person in that house who kept trying. The adults failed us, Revel. You didn’t.”

My jaw locks so hard it aches.

Lena reaches for my forearm instead of my fucked-up hands, her fingers closing gently around the blackout ink.

“You were supposed to have somebody protecting you too.”

Fuck.

That lands somewhere I don’t have armor for and I turn my face away, blinking hard as my throat tightens. “Lena…”

“You didn’t fail me.”

“Don’t.” The word comes out rougher than I mean it to, and I shake my head, staring anywhere but at her. “Don’t fucking make me feel better about this right now.”

“I mean it.”

“You don’t have to thank me for any of that shit.”

“I’m going to anyway.”

I finally look at her, and the second I do, I wish I hadn’t because there’s a tear sliding down her cheek and that somehow hits harder than anything Travis ever said tonight.

“Thank you for always trying to keep me safe.”

“Fuck, Lena.”

I pull her into me before she can say anything else, wrapping both arms around her while she folds into my chest. For a second, the station disappears and all I can see is that shitty hallway, her door across from mine, me sitting on the floor with my back against the wall because I was too fucking scared to sleep.

Except, we’re not kids anymore.

She’s grown, I’m grown, and somehow, I’m still holding on like if I loosen my grip, I’m thirteen again and everything starts over.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter into her hair.

She pulls back enough to look up at me. “For what?”

“All of it. For not stopping him. For not getting us out sooner. For—”

“You didn’t do it, Revel.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t let it happen either.”

My jaw tightens.

“Feels like I fucking did.”

“No.” Her voice sharpens enough to make me look at her properly. “You told people. You fought him. You stayed with me when every adult in that house should’ve been doing the protecting. Stop carrying the part that belongs to them.”

That shuts me up.

Because fuck, I don’t know what to do with that.

Lena lets me stand there with it for a second before her eyes drop to the phone still clenched in my hand.

“Now go deal with your girl.”

Cece.

Fuck.

I hit the power button immediately, and the screen takes its sweet fucking time lighting up while I stare at it like I can force the thing to move faster.

“Come on.”

The second it boots, notifications start stacking across the screen.

Andre.

Thorne.

Talon.

Bex.

Then I see her name.

Four missed calls from Cece.

My stomach drops so fast it feels like I missed a step.

I open our thread.

Cece: You know what? Don’t bother coming.

“Fuck.”

Next one.

Cece: This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this shit with you.

I can hear her saying it. Can see that look she gets when she’s hurt but trying to make it sound like anger because anger is easier.

Then I keep reading.

Cece: You chased me for months, got what you wanted, then the second we get back to real life you can’t even fucking show up when you say you will.

My chest goes tight.

She thinks I did exactly what she warned me not to do.

Exactly what I promised her I wouldn’t.

The next message makes it worse.

Cece: I looked like a fucking idiot waiting for you tonight. My mom waited for you.

I press my tongue hard against the inside of my cheek and stare at the words until they blur for a second.

Then I see the last one.

Cece: Lose my number.

Everything in me goes cold.

“No.”

Lena watches me carefully, but I’m already moving, already unlocking the phone again like maybe I read it wrong the first time.

I didn’t.

She thinks I left.

She thinks I got what I wanted and fucked off the second things got real.

And after looking her in the eyes today and promising I’d always come back, I somehow managed to hand her the exact fucking proof she needed to believe I was just another man who wouldn’t stay.

Lena’s expression changes the second I look at my phone.

I call Cece.

Voicemail.

I try again, then open our thread and type instead.

Me: Cece, call me.

It doesn’t deliver.

My stomach drops.

Me: Please.

Still nothing.

“She blocked you,” Lena says quietly.

“Yeah.” I shove the phone into my pocket and drag a hand down my face, because of course she fucking did. After everything she told me about her dad, about men loving the chase and disappearing once they got what they wanted, I handed her the exact nightmare she was waiting for.

“I have to go.”

Lena nods immediately, but before I make it more than a few steps, I stop and glance back at her. Old habit. Doesn’t matter that she’s grown now.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay enough for tonight.” She gives me a tired little smile. “Go, Revel. Fix your own life for once.”

That drags a laugh out of me despite everything.

“Bossy.”

“Yeah well, I learned it from you.”

I kiss the top of her head, tell her I love her, and then I’m gone.

The rain starts before I’m even out of the station lot, Florida apparently deciding tonight needs one more fucking problem.

Within minutes it’s coming down hard enough to turn the streets glossy beneath me, water hammering against my visor while headlights smear across the wet pavement.

My hands ache inside my gloves every time I tighten them around the grips, but I barely notice.

I call Cece through my helmet.

Voicemail.

“Fuck.”

Again.

Same thing.

Every part of me wants to push the bike harder, but the roads are slick and I already broke one promise tonight. I’m not showing up at her house in an ambulance just to prove I’m committed.

So I ride fast enough that Andre would bitch, and careful enough to stay upright while Cece’s messages keep replaying in my head.

Lose my number.

I know how her anger works. It’s the first thing she reaches for when something hurts too much, and tonight I didn’t just piss her off.

I walked straight into the fear she trusted me enough to tell me about and made it look fucking real.

At a red light, I call again and get voicemail before the second ring.

“Come on, Mama.”

Rain streams down my visor while I picture her at her mom’s table, checking the time while she waited.

Every minute making her regret trusting me a little more.

My chest tightens.

I know what waiting does to a person. I spent half my childhood learning not to unpack because there was always another house, another adult, another promise that could disappear without warning.

And tonight I made Cece wait for me.

The light changes, and I take off.

By the time I turn onto her street, it’s almost midnight and the rain has eased into something steadier. Her porch light is on, one lamp glowing through the front window, and the sight of her house hits me with enough relief to make my shoulders finally drop.

I kill the bike in her driveway, pull off my helmet and gloves, then look down at my hands.

My knuckles are split and swollen. Covered in dried blood that's gone dark again from the rain. She’s going to have questions.

Which, could maybe keep her from slamming the door in my face long enough for me to answer them. I take the porch steps two at a time and knock hard enough to send pain through my hand.

“Cece!”

Nothing.

I hit the door again. “Mama!”

Still nothing, and the panic starts climbing until a light flicks on somewhere deeper inside the house.

I put both palms against the door and lower my head between them, rain dripping off my hair and down my jaw while every rehearsed explanation disappears.

When I speak again, there’s none of the usual bullshit left in me.

“Please.”

The lock turns.

I lift my head and wait.

Chapter Twenty Two

Cece

The lock turns beneath my hand, and for one stupid second I just stand there with my palm still wrapped around it, heart pounding so hard it feels like my whole body is trying to warn me before I even open the door.

I know who it is.

Of course I fucking know.

Nobody else pounds on my door like they’re trying to fight the damn thing. Nobody else says my name like that either, all rough and desperate and too familiar, like hearing it from him still has the right to do something to me.

Puta madre.

I open the door anyway, and there he is.

Revel, pretty lying boy, St. Clair.

Soaked through, black shirt plastered to his chest, rain running down his jaw and disappearing beneath his collar.

His hair is darker from the water, one cheek already bruising, there’s a split near his mouth, and both of his hands look like hell.

For half a second, every thought in my head disappears.

My stomach drops so hard it almost hurts.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

The words come out before I can stop them, pure instinct, and I hate myself for it immediately because concern flashes across his face like he caught me caring.

Then I remember the empty chair.

The cold food.

Mami trying not to look worried.

Four calls straight to voicemail.

Seven. I’ll be there. I promise.

All that hurt comes rushing back so fast it burns.

I grab the edge of the door and shove it toward him, but his hand catches it.

“Cece.”

“Ay, no. Absolutely fucking not.”

“Mama, just—”

“Do not call me that.” My voice cracks, and that makes me even angrier. I shove harder against the door. “Get your fucking hand off.”

He doesn’t.

He’s not forcing his way toward me, but he’s holding on like letting that door close might be the end of everything.

“Please.”

The desperation in his voice nearly gets me.

Then I see myself sitting at Mami’s table again, checking my phone while everybody pretends they aren’t watching me get stood up.

“Move, Revel.”

“I need you to let me explain.”

“You had five fucking hours to explain.”

His jaw tightens, rain dripping off his face while he looks at me like I just punched him.

Good.

Let it hurt.

“I couldn’t.”

I laugh, sharp and ugly. “Qué conveniente.”

“Cece—”

“You promised me.” My voice breaks completely this time and fuck him for making me say it out loud. “You looked me right in the fucking face and promised you would be there.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t get to say that like it fixes anything.” I shove at the door again, tears already burning behind my eyes. “I sat there like a fucking idiot waiting for you while my mom kept telling me you wouldn’t just forget me.”

His whole expression changes.

“Cece, I swear to God—”

“I believed you. Trusted you.”

That shuts him up. For one second, all I can hear is the rain.

I shake my head and push the door again. “Get out.”

His hand stays braced against it, but whatever fight was in his face disappears.

“Mama…”

“Don’t.” I wipe angrily beneath one eye. “You do not get to disappear on me and then show up here looking like this expecting me to melt because you’re hurt.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what the fuck are you asking?”

His eyes lock on mine.

“One minute.”

I hate how wrecked he sounds.

I hate even more that some stupid piece of me still wants to give it to him.

“Si me mientes,” I whisper, voice shaking, “I swear to God, Revel, I will never forgive you.”

“I’m not gonna fucking lie to you.”

I stare at him for another long second, then loosen my grip on the door just enough for it to swing inward.

Revel steps inside, dripping rainwater across my floor, but he doesn’t move any closer. For once, he seems to understand that pushing me right now would be a spectacularly bad fucking idea.

I back away until there’s a few feet between us and fold my arms tightly across my chest, partly because I’m pissed and partly because if I don’t hold myself together somehow, I’m pretty sure every emotion I’ve spent the last five hours choking down is going to spill out all over the place.

“Okay, so talk.”

His chest rises with a slow breath, water still running from his hair down the side of his face. He glances toward the door behind him like he’s making sure it actually closed, then looks back at me.

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t ignore you.”

“Really?” I gesture toward him with both hands because apparently looking like he got jumped in an alley is supposed to magically erase the entire night. “Because from where I was sitting at my mother’s house, watching dinner get cold while everybody waited for you, it felt a whole fucking lot like being ignored.”

Something in his expression cracks.

“Cece—”

“You said—” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but once I start, I can’t fucking stop. “You promised. You looked me in the face and promised me you would be there. That you would always be there, and like a fucking idiot, I believed you.”

“You weren’t an idiot.”

“Don’t.” I point at him, eyes already starting to burn. “You do not get to walk in here and tell me how I’m allowed to feel.”

His hands curl at his sides, busted knuckles flexing before he forces them open again.

“I couldn’t text you.”

I laugh, but there’s nothing funny in it. “Right.”

“I mean it.”

“Then explain it, Papi, because whatever the fuck happened better be incredible.”

He stares at me for a beat, and for the first time since he walked through the door, the stubbornness drains out of him.

His shoulders drop slightly, his eyes flick toward the floor, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds rougher.

“I got arrested.”

The anger inside me stutters.

I blink. “You what?”

“I got arrested.”

My gaze immediately drops to his hands again, then travels back up over the bruise spreading along his cheek and the cut near his mouth. Suddenly all the blood and swelling I was too furious to process starts fitting together in a way I really don’t fucking like.

“What the fuck happened?”

Revel drags a hand over the back of his neck, then winces like even that hurts. “I stopped at the store before dinner. I was getting flowers for you and your mom, and wine. I spent twenty minutes standing there wondering what the fuck you’re supposed to bring when you meet your girl’s mother.”

Despite myself, my chest squeezes.

“Revel.”

“I saw someone there that I didn’t expect to ever see again.”

The way his voice changes makes my anger pull back another inch.

“Who?”

He looks at me then.

“One of my old foster dads.”

Everything in me stills.

I knew Revel grew up in the system. I knew he bounced from house to house, never staying anywhere long enough for it to really feel like home, and I knew that somewhere in all of that, he and Lena ended up with the same foster family. That was how they met, how they became whatever they are now—more like siblings forged out of the same shitty circumstances.

“From when you were a kid?”

He nods once, jaw tightening as his eyes drop away from mine. “Yeah. The last one. The house Lena and I were in together.”

Something about the way he says it makes my arms loosen from around myself before I even realize I’m doing it.

“Okay…” I take a small step closer, watching the tension gather through his shoulders. “And what happened?”

Revel looks away.

Not casually either.

His whole face changes, like whatever he’s about to say is something he’s spent years keeping shoved somewhere deep enough that he wouldn’t have to touch it.

And somehow, that scares me more than if he’d just answered.

“He used to hurt her.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean, hurt her?”

Revel doesn’t answer right away, and he doesn’t really have to because the look on his face tells me enough before the words ever come. His jaw is locked so tight it looks painful, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.

“Things no adult should ever fucking do to a kid. I knew enough back then to know something was wrong. I told caseworkers, teachers, anybody who would listen, but nobody did enough. He kept getting away with it while everyone treated us like we were just fucked-up foster kids making trouble.”

All the air leaves my lungs.

“Jesus Christ.”

His gaze drops to his hands, to the split skin and swelling across his knuckles. “Tonight, I saw him standing in the middle of a grocery store buying fucking bread, like he got to have this normal little life after everything he did to her.”

His fingers curl slowly into fists again.

“And then he admitted it.”

I stare at him.

Revel lets out a humorless breath and shakes his head.

“Didn’t even fucking flinch. He called Lena a liar, called her names, then finally admitted what he did like it was nothing. Like she was nothing. No regret, no shame, no fucking remorse. Just this smug look on his face like he’d gotten away with it once and he’d do it all over again if somebody gave him the chance.”

Something cold settles under my skin.

Revel’s eyes lift to mine, and there’s nothing soft in them now.

“I snapped.”

My gaze drops to his hands again. “So you beat him.”

“Yeah.”

“How bad?”

His mouth twists, but there’s no humor in it.

“Bad enough security had to drag me off him and the cops put me in a cruiser.”

For a second, neither of us says anything, and all I can think about is Lena, Revel at thirteen, and some sick fuck standing in a grocery store years later acting like none of it mattered.

Then the rest of the night starts clicking into place—the calls, the unread messages, all that silence. It all starts making sense.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

His eyes lift to mine immediately. “I only got one call, and I called Lena.” His jaw tightens. “Cece, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Shh.” I step closer and put my hand against his chest. “It’s okay.”

He looks at me like he’s waiting for the part where I get mad.

“I mean it, Papi. It’s okay. I get why you called her.”

His shoulders drop a little, but the guilt is still all over his face.

“I had to tell her he was back,” he says quietly. “I had to be the one to do it.”

“I know.” I rub my thumb over his shirt once, softer now. “And you were right.”

He exhales, rough and uneven, and for the first time since he walked through my door, some of that tension finally leaves him.

I look up at him. “I was scared and pissed and losing my fucking mind, but I’m not mad about that. Not even a little.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“Okay?”

He nods once.

“Okay.”

“The chase was never the fucking point.”

I go still.

His thumbs brush beneath my eyes while he stares straight into me.

“Yeah, chasing your stubborn ass was fun, but you know what gets me worse now? Waking up next to you. Watching you make coffee in my shirt. Listening to you argue with your cat like he understands every word. You controlling the music all the time, stealing my food, reaching for my hand without even thinking about it.” His mouth pulls slightly, but there’s nothing cocky about it. “I wanted you before I had you, Cece. But I’m fucking gone for you now that I actually have you.”

My throat tightens painfully.

“You don’t get to fix this by saying pretty shit.”

“I’m not trying to fix it with words.” His forehead almost touches mine. “I’m trying to make sure you understand that tonight wasn’t me leaving.”

I hold his stare, anger still burning under everything else.

“Do you know how fucking scared I was?”

That wipes the last trace of softness from his mouth.

“I thought something happened to you, and then I started thinking maybe nothing happened, which was somehow worse because then it meant you just didn’t care.”

His eyes close briefly.

“I care so fucking much it scares the shit out of me.”

My breath catches.

I look down at his hands because suddenly looking at his face feels dangerous, and that’s when I really notice how bad they are.

“Jesus Christ, Revel.”

I catch his wrist and turn his hand carefully beneath the light. His knuckles are split open, swollen and already bruising purple beneath the skin.

“You destroyed your fucking hands.”

“Nah, it’s just cosmetic, trust me. They still work.” His mouth curves despite the bruise darkening along his cheek. “Want me to prove it to you?”

“You are absolutely shameless, pendejo.” I slap his chest with my free hand.

A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re pissed and getting violent.” His brows bounce once, playful as ever. “Kinda missed it.”

I smack his chest again.

“Cabrón.”

He laughs, and something inside me gives way at the sound because he’s here. Soaked, bruised, bleeding, completely fucking infuriating, but here.

I spent the entire night convincing myself he didn’t come because I wasn’t worth coming back to, and apparently, my mouth decides I haven’t humiliated myself enough yet.

“This is why I didn’t want to fall in love with you.”

The room goes still.

Puta madre.

My entire body locks up while Revel’s expression changes slowly, his eyes sharpening on mine as something dangerously close to pure fucking happiness spreads across his battered face.

I immediately try to step back.

His hand catches my waist.

“You’re in love with me?”

“I said I didn’t want to be.”

His grin grows.

“That ain’t the same thing, Mama.”

I point a finger at him. “If you make this unbearable, I swear to God—”

He kisses me before I can finish.

Hard and desperate, nothing like the smug, cocky kisses he usually gives me. My hands fist in his soaked shirt almost immediately, and I kiss him back because, apparently, pride packed its shit and left sometime around hour three of crying at Mami’s house.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead drops against mine.

“Good.”

I blink at him. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His hands settle carefully around my waist. “Because I’m fucking in love with you too.”

Everything inside me stops.

There’s no grin now. No joke waiting behind his teeth, no smug little comment ready to ruin the moment. Just Revel looking at me like saying it out loud scares him almost as much as hearing it scared me.

“So fucking much, Cece.”

My eyes burn all over again.

“Oh, fuck you.”

A tired laugh slips out of him. “What?”

“You cannot make me cry for five fucking hours and then drop an I love you on me at midnight looking like you got in a bar fight.”

“Technically, it was a supermarket fight.”

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

I let out a breath and cup his bruised cheek carefully, keeping my thumb away from the worst of it. “I’m still really fucking mad at you.”

“I know.”

“She made enough food to feed half of fucking Florida.”

Revel’s mouth twitches. “Tell me she sent some home with you. I’ll eat every bit of it and let her interrogate me while I do.”

“Oh, she’s absolutely going to interrogate you.”

“I deserve it.”

“And I blocked you.”

That gets him. His brows lift, then his mouth pulls to one side. “Yeah. That one fucking hurt.”

“Good.”

“So fucking mean.”

“Thought you liked that.”

“Oh, I do.” His grin turns filthy again, like the bruises and busted knuckles apparently did nothing to damage his ability to be a complete menace. “Been half hard since you slapped my chest the first time.”

I just stare at him.

“Eres un maldito cabrón, descarado de mierda. Te juro que esa boca tuya un día va a conseguir que te maten.”

His grin, somehow, gets wider.

I jab a finger into his chest. “And wipe that stupid fucking look off your face, porque no era un cumplido.”

“No clue what you just said, but fuck Mama, it sounded hot.”

“Dios mío, cállate.” I shake my head at him. “You are literally standing in my house looking like somebody beat the shit out of you and you’re still flirting.”

“Technically, I did most of the beating.”

“Not helping, Papi.”

“That one sounded affectionate.”

I narrow my eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll make the other side of your face match.”

That finally pulls a real laugh out of him, rough and tired and so fucking familiar that something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.

I hate how badly I needed to hear that sound.

For another second I just look at him, soaked through, bruised, exhausted, still somehow standing here trying to make me laugh after the night we’ve both had, and then I give up fighting the pull toward him.

I step forward and wrap my arms around his middle.

Revel goes completely still.

Only for a second.

Then his arms come around me so carefully it almost wrecks me all over again, one settling around my waist while the other slides up my back like he’s afraid squeezing too hard might make me disappear.

I press my face into his chest and breathe him in beneath the rain and damp cotton. The tears come quietly this time.

Not the angry, humiliating crying from earlier.

Just everything finally draining out of me at once.

Fear. Anger. Relief.

Love, apparently.

Qué horror.

His mouth presses against the top of my head.

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

My fingers tighten in the back of his wet shirt. “I know.”

“I never meant to make you think I left.”

That one gets me, and my eyes close as his arms tighten around me.

“I know.”

“I mean it.” His voice drops against my hair. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

I lean back just enough to look up at him. “Careful, Papi. That sounds suspiciously like another promise.”

“It is.”

My stomach does the stupid little flip it always does when he looks at me like that.

“Then don’t make it unless you can keep it.”

Every trace of teasing disappears from his face. He cups my jaw carefully, thumb brushing beneath my cheekbone while his eyes stay locked on mine.

“This one I can keep.”

And for once, I don’t immediately start picking apart all the ways it could go wrong.

I just believe him.

That might be the scariest part.

I lean up and kiss him again, slower this time, until a deeply offended meow cuts through the room.

We both look toward the hallway.

Guacamole is sitting there staring at Revel like he personally orchestrated every shitty part of tonight.

Revel sighs. “Your son still fucking hates me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s had to listen to me cry for hours because of your dumb ass.”

“Well, shit.” He looks back at me. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“We were. He ruined it.”

Guac meows again.

Revel points at him. “See? Judgmental little bastard.”

A real laugh finally slips out of me, and when I look back, Revel is wearing that stupid soft expression again.

I take his least-destroyed hand carefully and start pulling him toward the kitchen.

“Come on.”

“Where we going?”

“I’m cleaning your hands before you bleed all over my floor.”

His grin comes back instantly. “You gonna kiss them better too?”

I stop and slowly look over my shoulder at him.

“Do you want me to unblock you just so I can block you again?”

He laughs as he follows me into the kitchen. “Missed you too, Mama.”

“Cállate, cabrón.”

Chapter Twenty Three

Revel

The grid feels different today.

Same heat bleeding up through the asphalt. Same engines snarling around me, vibrating through the frame and into my bones. Same sharp smell of fuel, rubber, sweat, sunbaked concrete. Same grandstands packed with people waiting for one of us to do something brilliant or stupid enough to remember.

But I’m different.

That’s the fucking problem.

Or maybe it’s the point.

My hands settle around the grips while the crew finishes clearing away. Andre is somewhere off to the side, watching all of us with that permanently stressed expression that says he’d like one race where nobody tries to shave ten years off his life.

Good luck with that.

I glance toward the paddock where I know Cece is standing with Lena and Bexley.

Her hair blowing in the wind, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head, one hand shielding her eyes from the Florida sun while she watches me from behind the barrier.

That’s my girlfriend.

Still sounds fucking good.

Better now that I know she loves me.

Actually loves me.

Not tolerates me or secretly likes me while threatening to run me over.

Loves me.

Fuck, yeah.

I smile inside my helmet.

Her eyes narrow immediately and she points at the track like she can somehow boss me around from fifty feet away.

Focus.

I lift two fingers from the grip and point at her instead.

She gives me the middle finger.

Yep.

That’s my girl.

For a second, everything else around me fades.

Not completely.

The engines are still screaming. Heat still sits heavy over the track. Someone beside me revs hard enough to shake the air, but my attention keeps drifting back to her.

To everything it took to get here.

Her pretending she couldn’t stand me while tracking every fucking move I made, that first kiss she swore never happened, the beach, Miami, and her Honda choosing the perfect fucking time to strand us there. Takeout in bed, her falling asleep against me, the way she trusted me in the ocean, that little gold wave sitting against her chest, and finally hearing her say she loved me after spending half the night ready to fucking murder me.

Every stupid, messy, perfect piece of it.

I used to think winning meant crossing a finish line first.

Maybe it still does sometimes.

But this?

Cece standing in my paddock like she belongs here.

Knowing I get to go home with her afterward and that I’ve, somehow, gone from chasing the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met to being the guy she chose.

That feels like winning too.

Probably more.

My eyes drop for half a second to her stomach.

Bad fucking idea.

Because apparently my brain has decided this is the perfect time to remember Miami.

Our imaginary daughter.

Tiny and mean. Probably yelling at me in Spanish before she can properly form sentences.

Cece pregnant.

Fuck.

The image hits harder now, because for the first time, the idea doesn’t feel impossible.

A house.

Cece.

Guac judging every life choice we make.

Maybe someday a little girl with streaks in her hair and her mother’s attitude, running around making my life absolute hell.

The thought makes goosebump prickle along my skin.

Jesus Christ.

Focus.

Cece tilts her head like she can somehow tell exactly where my brain just went.

Her mouth curves. That little smug fucking smile.

I shake my head because, yeah, she knows.

Maybe not exactly what I’m thinking. Hopefully not, because I’d never hear the end of it, but she knows enough.

The official starts moving down the grid, final checks happen around us, visors lower, engines climb, and the whole atmosphere tightens until it feels like the air itself is holding its breath.

This moment always does something to me, that tiny stretch of time right before the start where everything is still possible.

I could win. I could lose.

I could make one perfect decision and change the race, or one bad one and fuck the entire thing.

Funny how that’s pretty much life too.

You never really know what’s coming, and that used to piss me off more than anything. I spent half my childhood learning how little control I actually had over my own life, new houses, new rules, new adults deciding where I slept and what happened next while I stood there pretending none of it mattered.

Racing gave me control, or at least I thought it did. Out here, I choose when to brake, when to lean, when to push, how much risk I’m willing to take.

But even here, there are no guarantees. Tires fail, weather changes, people make mistakes, and some asshole you trust can close a gap you were sure was there.

You can do everything right and still end up sliding across asphalt wondering what the fuck just happened.

That doesn’t mean you stop riding.

I think that’s the part I finally understand now.

Andre gives one final signal from the wall, and I drop my visor. The world changes instantly, sound dulling around me while my own breathing gets louder inside the helmet.

My fingers curl around the clutch, the throttle answers beneath my hand, and the bike vibrates between my legs like it’s just as impatient as I am.

Across the barrier, Cece raises her hand. Two fingers touch her lips before she blows me a kiss.

Fuck me.

I catch it against my chest because apparently I’m dramatic now too, and the laugh that breaks across her face is the last thing I see before I force my attention forward.

The starting lights come on one after another, and everything inside me settles into place.

My heartbeat stays steady. My hands are ready. The bike is ready.

I’d like to say there’s no fear, but that would be bullshit.

There’s always fear.

Maybe that’s what makes any of this worth doing.

The lights go dark.

I launch.

The front goes light for half a second before the bike hooks and tears forward, the engine screaming as the entire grid explodes around me.

Everything becomes speed and instinct, but beneath the roar, beneath the adrenaline, beneath every stupid risk I’ve taken and everyone still waiting for me, one thing feels clearer than it ever has.

Life is fucking scary.

It’s supposed to be.

You can spend all of it waiting for the perfect opening, the safest choice, some guarantee that nothing is ever going to hurt, but that guarantee doesn’t exist. At some point, you have to trust the bike, trust yourself, trust the people who have proven they’ll ride beside you, then lean into the turn and fucking commit.

Because if you spend your whole life avoiding the crash, the heartbreak, and everything that scares you enough to actually matter, what the hell was the point?

I tuck lower behind the screen and open the throttle, the bike surging beneath me as everything ahead blurs into speed.

There are never guarantees. There’s no perfect opening, no completely safe way through, no version of life where you get to keep everything you love without risking something in return.

Sometimes, you only get one choice.

And that's to FULL SEND.

THE END

EPILOGUE

Oakley

Miami was supposed to be temporary.

Then again, I say that about almost everything.

Cities. Jobs. Apartments. Hair colors. Men.

Especially fucking men.

I sit sideways in the open back doors of my matte-black van with one bare foot buried in the sand and the other hooked over the bumper, eating half a sandwich while downtown Miami glitters in the distance like it has no idea how expensive it is to exist here.

The water stretches out in front of us, blue and bright under the afternoon sun, boats cutting white lines through it while music carries down the beach from somewhere behind the palms.

It’s hot enough that the metal edge beneath my thigh is starting to burn through my shorts, but there’s a breeze coming off the water and I’m still not wearing shoes, so I refuse to complain.

Emma is sprawled across the bench inside my van like she pays rent, one leg tucked beneath her while she digs through a bag of chips and drops crumbs directly onto my thrifted rug.

I stare at her hand.

She catches me looking.

“What?”

“One more crumb and you’re eating outside.”

Her gaze drifts past me toward the beach. “Oakley, we are outside.”

“Then farther outside.”

She snorts and shoves another chip into her mouth.

My van is cleaner than Emma gives me credit for.

Dark wood covers the ceiling and most of the walls, warm little amber lights strung between the panels even though it’s broad daylight. Matte-black cabinets run beneath a butcher-block counter with a small brass sink, and the leather bench Emma is currently disrespecting sits opposite the narrow bed tucked across the back.

There’s an old cream-and-black Persian-style rug running down the middle that I found at a flea market in Ohio, too many pillows, a couple plants I’ve managed not to kill yet and enough hidden storage to hold my clothes, and every other possession I decided was worth bringing with me.

Outside, she’s all black.

Inside, she looks like a tiny witch moved into a cigar lounge.

It’s honestly kinda perfect.

Emma holds up a broken chip. “You know this rug probably survived somebody smoking inside their house for thirty years, right?”

“She’s vintage.”

“She smells like incense.”

“Exactly. Respect her.”

“You’re emotionally attached to carpeting.”

“I’m emotionally attached to very few things, okay. Let me have this.”

Emma laughs, and I steal the bag from her before she can cause any more damage.

She’s been taking advantage of the fact I’m parked close to the beach since I got here, which I guess is fair. And I’ve been taking advantage of the fact she’s the only person in Miami I know well enough to call when I need to shower somewhere with actual water pressure.

Family is about balance.

“So,” she says, reaching across me to steal the bag back, “are we going to talk about how you’ve been here almost three weeks and haven’t made a single attempt to leave?”

I slowly turn my head toward her.

“Why would we ruin lunch like that?”

“Because you’re Oakley.”

“That’s usually how names work.”

“You don’t stay anywhere.”

“I stay in plenty of places, I just don’t stay long.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

She isn’t wrong, though.

Staying has never really been my thing.

I like knowing I can leave.

There’s something comforting about fitting my entire life into a van, turning a key and having the ability to disappear before anyone can make me feel stuck.

Most people hear that and immediately start diagnosing me with commitment issues.

Which is honestly kinda rude, and yet, accurate, sometimes.

Still rude.

I spent almost a year rebuilding this thing myself, though. Gutted it down to bare metal, learned electrical work through online videos, fucked up the first set of cabinets so badly I had to rip them back out, then swore I’d never touch a power tool again before using one the next morning.

By the time I finished, it felt more like mine than any apartment ever had.

Everything I need fits inside, including enough coffee equipment to survive civilization collapsing.

If I wake up tomorrow and decide Miami is done with me, I can be gone before dinner.

Usually knowing I can leave is enough to stop me from wanting to.

Ohio was different.

I didn’t leave because I had some dramatic need to find myself under the Florida sun. I know exactly where I am.

I left because I stayed in a relationship long enough to start pissing myself off.

That’s the embarrassing part.

The breakup itself sucked, sure, but heartbreak is manageable. You drink too much wine once, block a number, delete a few pictures and eventually stop wanting to key someone’s car.

The part that really got under my skin was realizing how long I’d already known it wasn’t working and yet I stayed anyway.

Apparently, one manipulative asshole with good cheekbones was enough to convince me perseverance was a personality trait.

Never again.

When it finally imploded, I didn’t wait for closure because closure is usually just somebody lying to you one last time with better wording.

So, instead, I packed.

Clothes, books, my espresso maker and every tattooed little piece of myself I still liked.

Then I pointed the van south.

Miami was supposed to be somewhere warm to land while I figured out where I wanted to go next.

Except now I’m looking at the water, eating lunch with my cousin in the back of my house, and leaving sounds less appealing than it did three weeks ago.

“I might stick around for a while,” I say.

Emma freezes with her hand halfway inside the chip bag.

Slowly, she looks at me. “Holy shit.”

“Relax.”

“You said ‘stick around.’”

“I said might.”

“That’s basically a marriage proposal coming from you.”

I kick her thigh with my heel. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I should call your mom.”

“I will push you into the ocean.”

“She’d cry.”

“Then definitely don’t call her.”

Emma laughs, but her expression softens anyway.

“You like it here.”

“I like the beach.”

“You like Miami.”

“Oak.”

I sigh and lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “Fine. I maybe, kinda like it here.”

Her grin gets obnoxious.

I point at her. “That does not mean I’m buying property or joining a neighborhood association.”

“You live in a van.”

“Exactly. Property taxes are a scam.”

“You’re such a Capricorn.”

“Hot, financially suspicious and always right?”

“I was going to say stubborn and emotionally unavailable.”

“Wow.” I press a hand to my chest. “And here I thought family was supposed to support you.”

“We are.” She steals another chip. “By telling you when you’re being a pain in the ass.”

“Remind me why I moved closer to you?”

“Because unfortunately for both of us, you love me.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. Don’t say weird shit while I’m eating.”

“Love you too, bitch.”

I take another bite of my sandwich before glancing toward the skyline again.

The only real problem with staying is money.

Turns out Florida still expects me to pay for shit even though I provide the local economy with excellent vibes.

My photography work is enough to keep me alive, but freelance money comes in waves and, apparently, my van also likes having gasoline inside it.

“I need a job.”

Emma stops chewing.

I look at her.

She keeps staring.

“What?”

“I’m just taking this in.”

“Taking what in?”

“The personal growth.”

I smack her knee.

“I have had jobs.”

“You quit the last one because your manager told you your tattoos weren’t client friendly.”

“She told me to cover them.”

“You told her, her eyebrows weren’t client friendly.”

“Well, they weren’t.”

“Oakley.”

“They looked angry all the time.”

Emma starts laughing.

I shrug. “Hostile workplace.”

She shakes her head, then goes suspiciously quiet.

I know that look.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Emma.”

“There might be something.”

“Why does that sound illegal?”

“It isn’t.”

“Disappointing.”

She reaches behind her and grabs her tote bag.

“I know a guy at work who’s been trying to find someone before the season starts.”

Emma works at a track outside the city.

I understand maybe sixty percent of what she actually does there because whenever she starts talking about paddock schedules and operations, my brain eventually replaces her voice with static.

There are bikes.

People race them.

Emma makes shit happen.

Good enough.

“What kind of someone?”

Emma’s mouth curves like she’s been waiting for me to ask. “A nanny.”

I pause with my drink halfway to my mouth, then glance down at myself—tattoos covering both arms, cutoffs, black tank, bare feet still dusted with sand—before looking back at her.

“Be serious. What about me screams nanny?”

She laughs. “You’re good with kids.”

“I’m good with kids because they’re usually less annoying than adults. That doesn’t exactly make me Mary fucking Poppins.”

“Good thing I don’t think he’s looking for Mary Poppins.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper, smoothing it across her thigh before handing it to me. “There’s a race in a couple days, so everyone’s basically living at the track right now getting ready. Stop by this afternoon and talk to him before it gets completely insane.”

I unfold the paper. There’s an address scribbled across the top, followed by a garage number and a name underneath.

Emma taps her finger directly over the name before I can pay much attention to it.

“That’s who you need to find.” She crumples up the wrapper from her lunch and tosses it into the little trash bin beneath my counter. “Worst case, you hate him, tell him to fuck off and drive your house somewhere else.”

Now that sounds more like my kind of job interview.

I fold the paper and shove it into the back pocket of my shorts. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Emma grins.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely fucking are.”

I hop down from the back of the van and brush the sand from my legs, already questioning whatever series of life choices has, apparently, ended with me interviewing to nanny for some guy at a racetrack.

Then again, three weeks ago I was still in Ohio.

Clearly, making questionable decisions is working out pretty well for me.

A few hours later, I’m pulling my black van through the gates of a racetrack wondering how the fuck lunch turned into a job interview.

The place is louder than I expected even without a race happening. Somewhere beyond the garages, an engine screams through a gear before cutting sharply, and the sound vibrates straight through the steering wheel.

Okay.

Kind of hot.

The guy at the gate checks my name, hands back my ID and points me toward a row of buildings farther inside.

“Garage four.”

“Thanks.”

I park where he tells me, grab Emma’s folded paper and hop out.

The air smells like hot rubber, fuel and metal, and there are people moving everywhere carrying tires, tools and expensive-looking pieces of machinery I would absolutely drop if someone trusted me to hold them.

I head down the row and find the bay doors to garage four open.

There are several bikes inside on stands, bodywork partly removed while a handful of men work around them.

One guy is crouched near a front tire, another is looking at something on a laptop, and somebody farther inside is swearing at a wrench like it personally betrayed him.

Well, shit. I like this place already.

I step into the entrance and at first nobody notices.

“Hi.”

Nothing.

An engine fires nearby and I jump just enough to piss myself off.

“Okay. Fuck you, too.”

When it shuts off, one of the guys near a workbench finally looks over.

He wipes his hands on a rag. “You lost?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for someone.”

His mouth twitches.

“Who?”

I hold the paper up, and the guy beside the tire glances up.

Someone else turns around and I look between them.

“Why does everyone suddenly look entertained?”

The first guy grins. “No reason.”

“Suspicious.”

He turns toward the back of the garage.

“Yo! Someone’s here for you.”

A metallic clank sounds behind one of the bikes.

Then a man stands.

Well.

That’s fucking irritating.

He’s tall, broad, dark-haired, wearing black riding pants with the top half of his leathers hanging loose around his hips and a fitted shirt that makes it very obvious God has favorites.

Grease streaks one forearm.

Tattoos cover his chest and arms, with a few small ones along the sides of his face, and the expression on his face says he probably considers smiling an unnecessary use of energy.

His gaze moves to me and stays there.

Not sliding down my body.

Just studying me.

Assessing.

I immediately dislike that.

Mostly because now I’m assessing him right back.

He tosses the wrench in his hand onto the workbench and walks over.

Up close, he’s worse.

Or better.

Depends how committed I am to avoiding bad decisions after moving across the country because of my last one.

“You looking for me?”

Deep voice.

Of fucking course.

I glance down at Emma’s paper one more time, mostly to buy myself half a second because apparently the universe thinks handing hot men access to motorcycles and abs is funny.

“Well, that depends.”

“On?”

He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head like he isn’t actively making my afternoon more complicated.

Well.

Fuck me.

My eyes betray me for exactly one second before I drag them back to his face.

“Are you Ajax Sawyer?”

“Yeah.”

I fold the paper and tuck it into my back pocket, giving him a slow once-over now that there’s no point pretending I didn’t already.

“Then unfortunately, yeah. I’m looking for you.”

The name hangs between us for a second while he studies me with that unreadable expression, and something low in my gut tells me this probably isn’t going to be as simple as showing up, watching a kid, collecting a paycheck and moving on.

Typical.

I fold the paper and shove it into my back pocket.

Miami was supposed to be temporary. So was this job, if I even took it, and honestly, temporary has always suited me just fine.

I don’t do roots. I don’t do five-year plans. I sure as hell don’t rearrange my life because some ridiculously hot man in a garage looks at me like he’s already trying to figure out what the fuck to make of me.

I’m Oakley fucking Thomas.

Complicated is usually my cue to leave before anything gets the chance to stick.

Usually.

To be continued…

New Team. New City. New Series.

Are you ready?

And just like that, the engines go quiet.

Full Send was never only about motorcycles.

It was about being brave enough to choose the thing that scared you anyway.

Bexley had to be brave enough to leave Christian, then brave enough to trust a man she knew had the power to hurt her.

Lena and Reign had to let each other in while both of them were still carrying the grief of Cruz, learning that loving someone new didn’t erase who they lost. Thorne had to stop caring what everyone else might think long enough to admit what he felt for Wolfe.

Echo had to go searching for a family she had never known, knowing she might not find what she hoped for when she got there. And Cece had to learn that being chased didn’t always mean being left once the chase was over.

Different fears. Different risks. Same choice.

To stop letting the worst thing that ever happened decide what happened next.

That’s what the Speed Demons became to me.

A bunch of reckless, stubborn, loud-as-fuck people who found each other somewhere between the crashes, the races, the bad decisions and all the shit they were trying to outrun.

They loved hard. They fucked up. They hurt. They healed.

And when it mattered, they stayed.

Maybe that’s what Full Send was always supposed to mean.

Not living without fear.

Living in spite of it.

Taking the risk when there’s no guarantee it works out. Loving people knowing they can hurt you. Choosing family when you’ve spent your whole life believing you’re better off alone.

Because you can spend forever standing at the edge waiting until you aren’t scared anymore.

Or you can jump.

So to everyone who rode with the Speed Demons from the first page to the last, thank you.

The garage doors might be closing here, but I like to think somewhere out there the engines are still running, somebody is talking shit, somebody else is making a terrible decision, and Andre is already getting a headache.

They’ve got it from here.

One last time.

Hold on tight.

Love hard.

Take the risk.

And whatever comes next—

FULL SEND.

Acknowledgements

I fucking hate writing acknowledgements. Because there are so many people behind these books that I already know I’m going to finish this and immediately think, fuck, I forgot someone. So before anything else, if you supported Full Send in any way, whether you read it, shared it, posted about it, screamed about these characters with me, sent me a message when I needed one, made content, offered advice, or simply stuck around while I tried to get these books across the finish line, thank you.

This series became so much bigger than just me sitting behind a laptop writing about motorcycles and fictional men with questionable decision-making skills. The Speed Demons became this entire little world, and somehow, somewhere along the way, a whole bunch of you climbed into it with me.

First, Emma. My PA, my friend, and quite literally one of the people who lived through every fucking second of this series with me. The late-night calls. The content creation, and brainstorming. The spirals, and tears. The chapters I loved, the chapters I hated, and the chapters I was convinced were going to be the death of me. You supported me through all of it. I know this team and their stories have become as close to your heart as they are to mine, and you suffered right alongside me through every single chapter. You’ve listened to me obsess over these characters, panic over deadlines, change my mind approximately four hundred times, and somehow you still answer the phone. I genuinely don’t know what I would do without you.

Emma and Kristen, thank you both for beta reading these books and leaving me hundreds, and I mean literally hundreds—of comments, reactions, screaming, threats, theories, and encouragement along the way. There were moments where writing this series felt really fucking heavy, and seeing you react to the characters and scenes reminded me why I was doing it in the first place. Sometimes those little comments in the margins were exactly what I needed to keep going.

Lori, thank you for supporting this series so fiercely and for helping connect Full Send with so many incredible people in the BikeTok community. You opened doors, made introductions, brought people into this world, and helped turn something I had imagined in my head into something that felt so much bigger and more real. I appreciate you more than you know.

To my Street Team, thank you for never giving up on me or these books. This series wasn’t always easy. There were delays. There were books I had to push back. There were times when things didn’t go according to plan and I know that meant changing content schedules, rearranging promotions, and asking you guys to keep showing up when I was still trying to get my shit together behind the scenes, and you did. You guys continued promoting, creating, sharing, hyping, and supporting me and Full Send through every messy part of it. I hope you know I will never take that for granted.

And then there are the bikers. You guys are so fucking epic. Seriously. Whether you became a cover model, sent me clips for videos, let me use photos for graphics, created your own content, shared the books, talked about them, or simply threw your support behind this chaotic fictional racing team, you pulled through every single time I needed you. There is something incredibly special about having people from the actual motorcycle community embrace a fictional one. Your support helped make Full Send feel different. It helped make it feel alive, and I truly don’t think this series would have become what it did without you.

That goes for everyone who touched these books in some way.

The readers and creators.
The bloggers.
The ARC and beta readers.
The models and bikers.
The friends who listened to me ramble.
The people who shared a post and the ones who recommended the books to someone else.
Those who waited patiently when release dates moved.

There are too many of you to name individually, and that is somehow the most incredible problem to have. So if your name isn’t written on this page, please know that doesn’t mean I forgot what you did. It just means so many people became part of this series that I could never fit all of you here.

Full Send may have been written by me. But The Speed Demons were built by all of us. They wouldn’t be who they are without you, and neither would this series.

Thank you for loving them and for believing in me. For sticking around when it got hard, and thank you for going Full Send with me.

I fucking love you guys.

— Nova