Chapter 3 THE MAN CALLED JAX

The abandoned warehouse district hummed with the roar of engines and fuel fumes.

Laura Montez cut through the maze of cracked roads on her matte-black bike, the machine vibrating beneath her. 

Floodlights rigged to generator towers threw harsh white beams across concrete lots and crumbling loading docks. Music thundered from somewhere unseen, bass rattling old metal walls.

Hundreds of people swarmed the central yard. Gamblers in leather jackets. Rich thrill-seekers. Girls in glitter and boots. Racers. 

Heads turned as Laura rolled in, voices rising from the crowd.

“Montez?”

“She’s back!”

“No damn way.”

“Thought you retired!”

Laura ignored them all. Respect in places like this lasted exactly until the flag dropped.

At the far end of the lot, a portable office trailer had been converted into headquarters. Leaning against it was the man everyone called King. Owner of the underground racing circuit. 

Massive shoulders. Thick beard. Gold chains. He spread his arms when he saw her.

“Well, hell. The prodigal daughter returns.”

Laura killed the engine and swung off the bike. “Save the sermon.”

King laughed and crushed her in a one-armed hug before she could dodge. “You are still tiny and angry.”

“You are still ugly and loud.” She eyed him, stepping back.

He grinned. “That’s affection where I come from.”

She crossed her arms. “So, what’s the payout?”

“Straight to business. Good. High-stakes pot tonight. Buy-ins from some rich idiots looking to feel alive. Winner clears seventy grand.”

Relief nearly knocked the breath from her. It was more than enough to bury Rafe’s debt and buy time for Sofia’s next treatment.

“Who’s riding?”

King’s grin sharpened. “Usual sharks. Two newcomers. And one problem.”

Laura raised an eyebrow. “One problem?”

King jerked his chin toward the lineup area. “Calls himself Jax,” his voice dropped. “Dark horse. Appeared three nights ago. Won every race. Doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t talk. Pays cash. Rides like he’s got a death wish.”

Laura felt a wave of nerves hit but swallowed. “Sounds dramatic.”

“Sounds expensive,” King corrected, nudging ahead. “Bike alone could buy this whole block.”

She followed his gaze. The lineup sat behind steel barriers, riders prepping machines under floodlights. Chrome flashed. Tools clinked. Engines revved in angry bursts.

And then she saw it. A black superbike with custom carbon detailing so clean it looked poured from shadow itself.

The machine was obscene. Elegant. Lethal. Beside it stood a rider in full black gear. Tall. Still. Helmet visor tinted dark.

“Honestly, the guy gives me the creeps,” King muttered. 

It was finally time. The course for the night was rather brutal. A five-mile loop through the industrial ruins: collapsed streets, sharp turns between warehouse walls, a stretch of loose gravel, then a straight run across cracked concrete.

Three laps. Last rider breathing loses.

Laura pulled on her helmet and mounted her bike. Around her, engines screamed awake one by one. Crowds pressed against barriers chanting names, waving cash, shoving phones into the air.

King walked down the row collecting final bets. When he reached Laura, he leaned close.

“Need me to sabotage rich boy?”

She sneered. “Need you to stay out of my way.”

“That’s my girl.” He slapped her shoulder and moved on.

To Laura’s left, the man called Jax, climbed onto his bike stealthily. Laura eyed him.

The starter girl stepped between the front tires, red flag in hand. The flag rose.

Engines roared. Laura leaned low over the tank.

The flag dropped and chaos exploded. Bikes launched forward in a shriek of rubber and smoke.

Laura hit first gear hard, then second, slicing between two riders before they’d cleared the gate. Wind punched at her shoulders. 

Left turn. Brake. Lean. Throttle. She knew this language better than speech.

Three riders jostled behind her. One surged past on the inside. Then a black shadow ghosted by them both. Jax.

He moved through the pack without aggression or panic, simply appearing where space should not exist.

Laura cursed into her helmet and chased. They tore between warehouses, headlights strobing across graffiti and broken brick. Sparks flew when someone clipped a barrier behind them.

Lap one blurred into speed.

Laura took the gravel section wide, letting the rear tire slide exactly enough before correcting. Jax mirrored her line half a second later. As if mocking her.

Lap two. Two riders crashed out near turn three, metal skidding in showers of sparks. Laura barely missed them.

Jax didn't even flinch. He stayed glued to her blind spot.

Who was this man? Laura hissed through clenched teeth. No wealthy tourist rode like this. No bored trust-fund boy had instincts this sharp. 

He rode like someone trained. Someone disciplined. Someone dangerous.

By lap three, it was down to just two of them.

Laura’s lungs burned. Her wrists ached. Her bike trembled under strain.

Then came the final hairpin turn. She braked late. Too late.

Rear tire fishtailed. For one deadly second, her bike nearly slid out from under her. But then, a gloved hand slammed against her tail frame, steadying her.

Jax. He had touched her bike mid-turn just enough to save the slide without wrecking them both. Insane.

She straightened out with a gasp and shot forward.

The finish line waited down the last concrete stretch, floodlights flashing. 

Jax pulled beside her again. Laura could hear his engine. She dropped a gear and pushed her bike beyond the redline.

The machine howled in protest.

“Come on. Come on.”

The finish line was just ahead of them.

The crowd was wild, screaming. The lights were blinding.

They crossed nearly together but Laura’s front tire hit first. Barely. By inches.

She coasted hard, chest heaving, then skidded sideways into the winner’s lane and killed the engine.

The yard erupted.

“Montez!”

“She took him!”

“Holy hell!”

“Dead heat!”

King was losing his mind near the betting tables.

Laura ripped off her helmet, dragging in air.

Sweat dampened her hairline. Her hands shook from adrenaline.

Jax rolled in beside her and dismounted. She turned to him, furious and especially humiliated because she needed to thank him for saving her. Like she had asked him too! What a busy body!

He removed his helmet slowly. His chestnut-brown hair fell back. His familiar Gray eyes met hers. Storm-cold.

It was the same man from her garage. The rich customer. 

He glanced at the officials arguing over timing. Then back at her.

“You’re fast.” 

Laura laughed harshly. “I’m faster than a spoiled rich ghost, you mean?”

A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. He stepped closer. Too close. 

The crowd seemed to fade around them. Again, Laura became very aware of her own height. Of the heat his closeness seemed to be provoking. 

“I believe you owe me thanks.” His voice was quiet, almost taunting. 

“Well, I don't believe I owe you anything,” was her stubborn retort.

His gaze dropped to the grease stain on her wrist, then rose again to her face, his eyes watching her with a predatory curiosity. 

“Well, we'll see, Little Mechanic. I think you're exactly what I've been looking for.”

Laura wasn't sure if it was his heated gaze on her or his words or maybe even his rich baritone voice.

Her breath hitched.