Brad's blood was on fire. His pulse raced as fast as the bike beneath him.
God, he'd missed this. That speed, that rush…
Dylan wasn't letting up. Brad caught him in the corner of his eye—curled low over the seat, slicing through the air just like he did. Two men riding the high, racing…
No, not racing the wind. The wind was too damn slow for them. They were racing their own impulses.
Hell, he'd kill to make this feeling his everyday reality again.
Engines roared, and the world streaked past in blurs of lights, colors, shadows. This—this was something he could live for. This was what he loved. What he craved. That adrenaline hitting harder than a tornado. That competition filling him like fuel filling an engine. It was like air—only when he inhaled it deep did he feel alive.
He opened the throttle. Gained the lead. Just by inches. Just for a heartbeat. Dylan's bike still had power left. So did Dylan. He pushed forward like he was fighting for his life.
You want me to get into your ass that badly? flashed through Lipski's mind. Hell, why not. He felt it too. That hunger to be with someone, in someone, wrapped in arms, in heat, in—
Fuck, what are you doing? he snapped at himself when he realized he'd eased off the throttle. Forgot what's at stake?
He clenched his teeth in embarrassment. Tightened his grip.
He couldn't forget. The stakes were too damn high. If he let the West Vikings serve Anders, let them destroy him…
No.
Aunt Sally couldn't pay for her kindness. And she wouldn't.
He leaned lower to cut the air even more. Hit the gas—
He caught up with Dylan. They were neck and neck. A blonde with a black flag stood on the roadside, ahead of the line of bikers so they'd see her clearly.
Just one more moment. The finish line was seconds away…
Five seconds.
The crowd rippled with excitement.
Four seconds.
The girl raised the flag.
Three seconds.
He slammed the throttle all the way down and held his breath.
Two seconds.
He glanced toward Dylan's bike.
One.
Dylan fell back.
The bikes shot past the flag-waving blonde. Flew past the cheering crowd at full speed. Then began to slow.
Brad didn't feel satisfaction. Didn't feel joy. He could swear that a split second before the finish line his opponent had eased off the throttle. On purpose.
They should've regrouped at the finish, but Lipski slowed farther away from the crowd. He waited for the West Vikings lieutenant. Stopped. Pulled off his helmet. Glared at Dylan.
"What the hell was that?" he hissed when Svenson stopped beside him.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Dylan yanked off his helmet too. They stared each other down. Dylan looked like he had no clue why Brad was pissed—but he was clearly pissed himself.
Did Brad only think he'd eased off? Or had the West Vikings lieutenant done it by accident, just made a normal, human mistake?
Lipski wanted to ask, but didn't want the answer. Hell. Because if Dylan really did let up…
He ground his teeth.
Maybe someday, he thought. In another situation.
Svenson's expression showed only competitive frustration. He'd lost. He'd given everything and still lost. But…
"Dylan…"
Dylan put his helmet back on. "Let's head back. The win's yours."
His engine roared to life, and Brad's mouth twisted. He should be happy. Aunt Sally's diner was safe. By showing up for this race and the stakes attached to it, the West Vikings lieutenant had done him a massive favor. One you don't forget.
"Thanks!" Brad called out.
Svenson lifted his hand.
"If you want, I can give you a consolation prize and get into your ass," Lipski added. "You earned it!"
"Maybe next time!" Dylan shouted back. "Right now someone's about to get into yours."
He pointed toward the group of bikers. Figures with red markings on their jackets stepped into the center of the road.
"Fuck," Brad muttered as an icy chill shot down his spine. He'd recognize Sean's silhouette anywhere. "This is going to hurt," he added and pulled his helmet on. He might be screwed six ways to Sunday, but he wasn't about to run.
He had nowhere to run to.
***
Tension was tearing Colin apart. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying to figure out who had won the race. He didn't know what the stakes were, but he felt they had to be high. Otherwise why the hell would Brad get involved in something like this?
For the adrenaline?
Maybe, but he didn't think so. He just didn't see Lipski that way. Maybe he was wrong. But instinctively he sensed there was more behind this race than a simple hunger for speed.
In his mind's eye he saw two men by the wall of the seaside diner. Two men standing too close…
His throat tightened. He swallowed hard. Why was the thought of Brad being close to another man so unpleasant?
He cleared his throat, trying to catch something in the crowd noise, anything that would tell him who won. But the crowd murmured in uncertainty, undecided. As if they didn't have the answer yet.
The racers turned back. Rode toward the gathered onlookers. Stopped their bikes. Killed the engines. Took off their helmets. Every movement was watched with razor-sharp focus. Colin stared tensely at Brad's face, searching for answers in his expression.
But both men looked less than thrilled — Lipski and the redhead from the bar.
The West Vikings lieutenant.
"He won," the redhead said, jerking his chin at Brad. "Boys, we're getting outta this town…"
"Not so fast," a calm, cold voice said.
The crowd parted, revealing a not-very-tall blond man in a black leather jacket and a T-shirt with a red skull. Three others followed him, slowly, all dressed nearly the same. There were only four of them among a dozen or so from the rival gang, and yet no one dared to stop them.
Colin swallowed.
So this wasn't over?
The man—Sean—walked up to Brad. Lipski got off his bike and stood tall in front of him. He had a head of height on him, but somehow he seemed smaller, like the blond's authority, his power, overshadowed even him…
Bam!
Colin sucked in a breath as Sean's fist slammed into Lipski's face. Brad staggered, stumbled, nearly fell… wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened up.
What the hell?
No one said a word. Not even a whisper ran through the bikers. Sean turned slowly toward the redheaded man.
"Tell Kurt that if he ever again gets the idea to mess with someone from my family, he'll have to deal with me directly."
"I will," the man said.
"Great. Then I won't keep you."
Men and women began heading toward their bikes. Engines fired up one by one, and then they rode off, in the direction opposite White Shore.
Only the Red Sculls riders remained along with Colin Stone, and Brad Lipski still standing by his bike.
"Sean, I…" Lipski opened his mouth, but it was clear he had no idea what to say.
"If you ever find yourself in a situation like this again," the blond's cold baritone cut in, "you come directly to me. You may have quit our gang, but you didn't stop being family. Understood?"
Colin couldn't tear his eyes away from Brad's face, and he saw the shift. Something loosened. Softened. His eyes brightened, and his mouth curved in a warm smile.
"Yes. Thank you."
"But you're not getting back on that bike. Larry will load it into the truck. You're going back with Dr. Stone."
Lipski tore his gaze from Sean and seemed to only now notice Colin standing nearby. A flush crept up his cheeks, but his eyes lit with warmth so strong it shot straight through Stone's whole body and hit him right in the heart.
Brad Lipski—or rather, just his look—made Colin's knees turn to water.