She laughed out loud, the sound echoing off porcelain and tile.
You’re not wrong, she sent. Are you done for the day?
Riders’ meeting in ten, he replied. Then we’ll tweak gearing and try not to obsess. You headed to the balcony hideout?
She hesitated. Her sketchbook and pencils sat on the bed, ready. The balcony had the view she loved, the sweep of the track, and the ocean in the same frame.
Before she could answer, a second message appeared.
Wherever you go, stick with Brian or Colby. Promise me.
Warmth and anxiety twisted together under her ribs. He didn’t make it a command; he gave her space, but he still wanted her safe.
She typed, I promise. I’m not wandering into the lion’s den.
There was a knock at her door.
Bree blinked at it, then typed, Someone’s here. Talk later?
Always, he wrote.
She set the phone aside and crossed the room. When she opened the door, Carmen stood in the hallway, barefoot in worn cutoffs and a black tank top, damp hair pulled back in a low knot. A thin gold chain hung at her throat; her expression was already apologetic.
“Hey,” Carmen said. “Got a minute?”
“For you, sure,” Bree said. “What’s up?”
Carmen glanced toward the elevator, then back. “Heidi’s having a moment. A loud, dramatic, potentially wardrobe-related moment. I could use a sane person with eyes who isn’t invested in making Marcus look like a god.”
Bree blinked. “That’s a very specific request.”
“It really is.” Carmen sighed. “She wants a neutral opinion on the suit designs, and I’m apparently biased because I don’t worship at the Red Dragon altar.”
You mean you don’t drool over men who almost decapitate you with loose tools?” Bree asked.
Carmen snorted. “Exactly. Please come. You’ll be my excuse to escape if it goes nuclear. I’ll owe you.”
Bree thought of Hank’s text, of the warning stitched inside the concern. Stick with Brian or Colby. The pits. Needs guarding.
She’d promised.
“Give me thirty seconds,” she said.
Carmen nodded and leaned against the doorframe while Bree grabbed her sketchbook and a light hoodie. As she slid her phone into her back pocket, the image of Einstein’s bowed head and busy hands flitted through her mind, paired with Hank’s quiet certainty that something about the Red Dragons wasn’t right.
Maybe seeing them up close wasn’t the worst idea.
They walked together down the hallway and took the stairs instead of the elevator. The stairwell smelled faintly of concrete dust and salt air. Carmen moved like someone who’d spent years assessing exits and angles, her hand brushing the railing, her gaze tracking automatically to each landing.
“You sure you’re okay being down there?” Carmen asked as they pushed through the ground-floor door into the lobby. “The pits are loud and full of testosterone.”
“I survived dealing with Marcus,” Bree said. “I think I can handle some engine noise.”
Carmen’s mouth twisted. “It’s not the engines I worry about.”
Outside, the late afternoon sun had mellowed, leaving Copper Moon in that soft between-light that painters loved. Long shadows stretched from the trailers and tents; everything looked edged in gold. The crowd that had packed the boardwalk earlier had thinned a little, some people drifting up toward the hotel, others toward their respective hotels.
The pits were still busy.
