POV Ajax
The Ducati's engine growled beneath me, a restless beast marking time. Two blocks from the Sinclair estate—the designated corner where their security cameras couldn't reach, where their neighbors wouldn't report seeing the Spencer family disappointment corrupting their precious daughter.
"Stay here," she'd texted. "Corner of Exeter and Third. Please."
Please. Like I was doing her a favor by hiding in shadows.
My phone lit up with my father's name. I declined the call, knowing exactly what lecture awaited—another board meeting missed, another family obligation ignored, another reminder that my brothers would never skulk in darkness waiting for anyone.
Movement caught my eye. Bella emerged from the tree line, my leather jacket drowning her frame, transforming her into something wild and untamed. The sight punched through my chest harder than any racing crash.
Before logic could intervene, I'd pulled her against me, lips finding her cheek. She gasped, soft and startled.
"Ajax—"
"We've done more than cheek kisses, starlight." The words scraped rough against her skin. "Or did you forget?"
"I remember." Her whisper carried weight, promise, danger. "I remember everything."
"Good." I handed her the spare helmet, fingers brushing deliberately. "Then you remember how to hold on."
She mounted the bike with surprising grace, arms circling my waist. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see." I revved the engine. "Hold tight."
The city blurred past—neon bleeding into shadow, her body pressed against mine at every turn. Her laugh rang through the helmet when I took corners sharp enough to make her grip turn crushing.
Three months without sex—a personal record since freshman year. Laila had tried last week, practically climbing into my lap, but all I could think about was Bella's mouth, Bella's skin, Bella's everything.
"You're going too fast!" she shouted over the engine.
"Thought you liked danger now!"
Her answer was to press closer, and I nearly crashed into a streetlight. But the ride to the destination was safe.
The observation deck stretched empty before us, city lights scattered below like broken glass. Bella pulled off her helmet, hair wild, cheeks flushed.
"That was insane."
"That was nothing." I leaned against the barrier beside her. "You should see me race."
"I have." She turned, studying me with those devastating eyes. "You're different when you race. Like nothing else exists."
"Nothing else does." The admission slipped out before I could stop it. "When I'm on that bike, doing a hundred and fifty, everything else disappears. Family disappointment, expectations, all of it."
"Must be nice." Her voice carried an edge. "Having an escape."
"What's yours?"
"I used to paint." She traced patterns on the railing. "Before. Hidden in the pool house where Mother couldn't find me. Terrible abstract things, all color and chaos."
"Why'd you stop?"
"Painting requires believing in a future to create for." She shrugged, but the gesture carried tonnage. "Hard to create when you're just trying to survive each day."
"Bullshit." I moved closer. "You're scared. Scared to want things, scared to dream—"
"Easy for you to say!" She whirled on me. "You have time to waste. I have months, maybe weeks—"
"So spend them." I caught her shoulders. "Paint. Dance. Live. What are you saving yourself for?"
"I want to swim with sharks." The confession burst out. "In Australia. In a cage, watching them circle. And eat street food in Bangkok without caring if it's proper. And learn to ride a motorcycle myself instead of just being a passenger."
"I'll teach you."
"Ajax—"
The ringtone cut through our conversation, yanking my focus away. The screen lit up—Jake’s face filling it.
"Where the fuck are you?" His voice carried over speaker. "The race starts in two hours! Everyone's already at the warehouse placing bets."
The race. Christ, I'd completely forgotten.
"I'll be there."
"You better be. Marco's running his new Kawasaki, talking shit about taking your crown." Jake paused. "Unless you're balls deep in the ice princess. Is that why you're MIA?"
Bella stiffened beside me.
"I'll be there," I repeated, ending the call.
"Big race tonight?" Her tone had returned to carefully neutral.
"The biggest. Been preparing for months." I studied her face, watching walls rebuild. "Come with me."
"To an illegal street race?"
"To my garage first. Need to check the bike." I stepped closer. "Unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared of your garage."
"Then what are you scared of?"
"You." The honesty stunned us both. "I'm scared of how you make me forget I'm dying."
"Good." I pulled her against me. "Forget more. Forget everything except right now."
"I can't—"
"You can." My hand cupped her face. "Do you know what I dream about? I dream about building custom bikes. Opening my own shop. Proving I'm more than the family fuck-up who crashes into champagne towers."
"Ajax—"
"I dream about other things too." My thumb traced her cheekbone. "Things I shouldn't. Things involving you."
"Don't." But she didn't pull away.
"Come to the garage." I pressed my forehead to hers. "I'll show you the bikes. No pressure, no games. Just... come."
"Why?"
The truth burned—because I needed her there, needed her presence like a drug. Because somewhere between the bet and now, she'd become essential. Because Jake could wait, the race could wait, everything could wait except this moment with her.
"Because you've never seen one," I lied smoothly. "And everyone should see a garage at least once."
She laughed, soft and disbelieving. "That's your pitch? Educational garage tours?"
"I'm told I'm very educational."
"You're impossible."
"And you're stalling." I pulled back, extending my hand. "Yes or no, Bella. Stop overthinking and just choose."
She stared at my hand for three heartbeats. Then: "Show me your garage, Ajax Spencer."
The victory tasted sweeter than any race win. I helped her onto the bike, her arms resuming their position around my waist.
As we roared toward my garage, her grip tightening on curves, I told myself this was strategy. More time meant more attachment. More attachment meant winning the bet.
But her laugh in my ear, her trust in my hands—those had nothing to do with bets and everything to do with the dangerous truth that Bella Sinclair had become my newest addiction.
And unlike racing, this one might actually kill me.