Roland lifts a brow at me, giving me the same pointed look a sibling might. “Don’t get yourself in trouble, little one.”
With a laugh, I toss the rag right back. “No promises.”
***
The car meet is busy as usual, with the familiar roar of engines filling the air surrounding the abandoned lot. It’s in full swing when I pull up on my Ducati. The matte black paint catches the neon lights spilling across the space.
Killing the engine, I swing off, pulling my helmet off as a few familiar faces approach without hesitation.
It doesn’t take long before I’m swept into a group conversation, settling in while the others wander, clusteringaround lowered cars, sleek bikes, and everything else in between. There are more than enough stories being traded, talking shop as expected.
It smells like exhaust and cheap beer while music thumps from someone’s heavy subs. The chatter is familiar, along with the usual edge that comes with it.
This is where I breathe easiest.
Here, nobody knows or cares that I’m Igor Balakin’s daughter. Nobody sees me as a pawn or someone who should be swept into the family empire the moment his body hits the ground.
I get to be just Kat.
Making my rounds, I greet the usual suspects. The guys show off their rebuilds while a few of their girlfriends hang around, some interested and some not. A few people are newer to the group and looking for inspiration. I talk cars, swap a few jokes, and take in the contagious energy.
As night sets in and the floodlights kick on, I feel a flicker of something odd. A shift in the air.
Like someone’s watching me.
I turn casually, scanning the crowd behind me. Most faces are familiar and unassuming, but then my eyes catch on someone I don’t recognize.
A man I’ve never seen before leans against a car several rows down, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. His dark hair is cut close on the sides but is long enough to look almost wind-swept on top. There’s something about the way he carries himself…relaxed and almost careless, but not entirely.
From the look of it, he’s tall with broad shoulders, and everything about his appearance seems intentional.
His gaze brushes over the group, then it lands on me.
For half a second, our eyes lock, and something almost heavy hangs between us.
Given how many meetings I attend, I know he must be new. There’s no way I’ve missed him before.
Almost just as quickly, he looks away like he wasn’t watching at all.
But I know he was.
I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about him that sticks out. He’s almost too well-dressed for this crowd. His dark jeans and leather jacket pass, but they’re too clean. Plus, the watch on his wrist is out of reach for someone detailing cars and fixing engines for a living.
He’s too still, like he’s waiting for something to happen.
Maybe he’s trying to break into the group and find his stride like we all had to at some point, but given how he’s on his own, lounging in the car like he owns the place, I’d say he isn’t too successful so far. He’ll have to try a little harder.
Even if an odd feeling settles in my gut, I force myself to turn back to the car next to my bike, jumping back into the conversation unraveling around me.
Let him look.
I’ve had men stare before, some bold and some subtle. This one, however, I can’t decide which one he is yet. At the very least, he’s easy on the eyes.
But attractive or not, I get the feeling he doesn’t belong here, and that leaves enough unanswered questions to unsettle me.
Chapter 3 - Sergey
The scent of gasoline and hot asphalt clings to the air, thick and acrid like the city itself is sweating.
