He looked automatically toward the hotel. Third-floor balcony, far right. No Bree in sight. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed.
“She’ll be out there tomorrow,” Colby said quietly, still typing. “If she’s smart, she’ll sleep this afternoon.”
Hank frowned. “You watching my balcony now?”
“Not yours,” Colby said. “Hers. She’s good for you.”
Brian snorted. “She’s bad for his concentration. Did you see his face at breakfast?”
“I qualified just fine,” Hank said. “Julie did exactly what she was supposed to do.”
“Julie always does,” Colby replied. “You, on the other hand, are human. Try not to forget that.”
Hank shook his head, more amused than annoyed. “You two want to run this show without me, feel free. I’ll go find a hammock somewhere.”
“Liar,” Brian said. “You’d last ten minutes before you started worrying we torqued something wrong.”
“Because you would,” Colby said.
Hank turned away before the grin broke free. He checked the pit again. Tools in place, fuel jugs full, spare tires stacked. The Red Dragons had set up at the far end of the row, their massive hauler a gleaming black contrast to everyone else’s trailers.
He tried not to look.
It didn’t work.
The Red Dragons’ area buzzed with a different kind of energy. Loud music blasted from their speakers. Two of their guys leaned against a truck, beers already in hand, even though qualifying had just ended. Someone spun a rear tire in the air, smoke curling up as rubber burned.
Careless. Sloppy. Exactly like last year.
Hank ground his teeth as Marcus strutted between bikes, sunglasses on despite the glare bouncing off chrome, talking with his hands like some kind of celebrity. The man loved a crowd. Loved making everything a performance.
A flash of blue caught Hank’s eye.
His breath hitched.
Bree.
She stood just inside the Red Dragons’ tape line, that soft blue sundress from the café swapped for fitted jeans and a pale shirt that made her eyes look almost turquoise from this distance. Her hair was pulled up in a messy knot, sunglasses perched on her head. She held her sketchbook against her chest, fingers tight on the spiral edge.
Carmen stood beside her, talking, one hand moving as if she were explaining something. On Carmen’s other side, a woman in fire-engine red shorts, four-inch heels, and tanned legs perched on a stool, crossing and uncrossing those legs like she knew exactly who was watching.
Heidi, Hank guessed.
His chest went tight.
“What the hell,” he muttered.
Brian followed his line of sight. “Uh-oh.”
“Don’t start,” Hank said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Colby closed the laptop and stood. “You’re not really surprised, are you? Carmen’s sister works their pit. Of course, she’d drag Bree over there.”
“She didn’t drag her,” Hank said. “Bree’s standing there just fine on her own.”
And she was. She looked a little unsure, but she wasn’t backing away. Marcus stepped closer, shaking Carmen’s hand, leaning in to say something. Heidi’s laugh cut through the distance, high and breathy, as she tossed her hair over one shoulder.
