He touched the spot as she walked inside, fingers resting there like he could hold the warmth a little longer.
For the first time since he'd signed up for this season’s circuit, Hank James headed back to the track thinking about something other than the Copper Moon Cup.
He was thinking about a painter with sea-green eyes, and a hidden strip of beach that didn't feel like his alone anymore.
Chapter 9
Hank tightened the last bolt on Julie’s rear set and sat back on his heels. The afternoon sun had climbed high enough that heat baked off the packed sand of the pit area; sweat slid down his spine under his T-shirt. Around him, the controlled chaos of race prep had settled into a steady rhythm. Engines revved, air guns chattered, and someone shouted for a torque wrench.
He liked this part. The checklists, the mechanics, the way everything had a place and a purpose. It kept his mind focused; it kept the noise in his head down to something manageable.
“You keep crawling around on the ground like that, old man, we’re going to need a crane to get you up,” Brian said.
Hank glanced over his shoulder. Brian leaned against the trailer, water bottle tipped up, sweat darkening his ball cap. Colby sat on a folding chair with a laptop balanced on his knees, logging times and adjustments from the morning runs.
“Keep talking, Viking,” Hank said. “I’ve got a list of jobs with your name on them.”
“Make sure one of them is a taste tester when those food trucks open.” Brian crumpled his empty bottle and lobbed it toward the trash can. It hit the rim, bounced out, and rolled. “Close enough.”
Colby didn’t look up from the screen. “You’re a disgrace to the Navy. Pick it up.”
“You’re a disgrace to fun,” Brian shot back, but he bent to snag the bottle anyway.
Hank grinned and stood, stretching his back until his spine popped. The familiar ache in his right leg complained, but it was a background grumble now; he could work with that.
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.
