CENTURY
Levi “Century” Wharton built his reputation on lightning-fast custom builds and stayed far away from drama. Until Saylor Everett walked into The Burnout, and he mistook her for her evil twin.
As soon as he realized his mistake, Century knew the pretty teacher was his. But when her sister stirs up dangerous trouble, Saylor gets pulled into the crosshairs. Century will do whatever it takes to protect her the only woman who’s ever made him want to slow down.
1
CENTURY
The neon sign over The Burnout glowed red through the humid Crossbend night. I parked my bike near the front, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment while the familiar noise of the place spilled through the door. Music thumped low from the jukebox inside, with enough bass to rattle the bottles behind the bar if Fury had the system cranked the way he usually did.
The place belonged to the Redline Kings MC and my club brother. Fury ran it like an extension of himself, which meant it was public enough for locals and racers to drink there, but everyone who walked through the door knew whose turf they were stepping onto.
I’d come by to drop off the keys to Fury’s motorcycle. He’d brought it to me earlier in the week after complaining that the throttle response felt off, which was Fury-speak for “I’m trusting you with my baby. Don’t make me say that out loud.”
The bike hadn’t needed much, just some fine adjustment, a little custom work on the intake, and a few tweaks because Fury liked his machines the same way as his bar—loud and not friendly to idiots.
I worked on custom bikes at The Pit, the garage owned by the club. I built the shit people remembered—especially my custom paint jobs. Customers who wanted something no one else had usually ended up in my bay sooner or later.
Inside, a scarred bar stretched along the right wall. Chrome stools lined the counter, pool tables sat beneath hanging lamps toward the back, and racing memorabilia, club photos, busted helmets, bent rims, and parts of wrecked cars mounted like trophies covered the walls. It was the kind of place where races were celebrated, grudges were buried if everyone was feeling generous, and new ones started if someone had more mouth than sense.
Fury was behind the bar when I walked in, wiping down the counter with a towel. When he saw the keys dangling from my hand, his mouth curved up. He looked like the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid, which was convenient since he usually preferred it that way. The regulars knew better than to make trouble in his bar and outsiders learned quick. Anybody short-sighted enough to disrespect a brother, an old lady, or our colors either apologized fast or found out how hard pavement felt when Fury helped them leave.
I tossed the keys onto the bar in front of him. “She’s done.”
He caught them before they slid too far and turned them over in his hand, his thumb brushing the worn leather keychain. “You fix the hesitation?”
“Yeah. Cleaned up the throttle response, adjusted the intake, and corrected the timing issue you kept pretending wasn’t there.”
His brows lifted slightly, but his mouth twitched because we both knew he hadn’t fooled me for a second. “Bike was fine.”
“Bike was annoyed you were neglecting her.”
He huffed a laugh and tucked the keys into his pocket. “You spend too much time sweet-talking machines.”
I shrugged. “Machines listen better than people.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Fury jerked his chin toward the taps behind him. “You staying for one?”
I should’ve headed back to the garage. I had a custom build waiting, three customer calls to return, and a parts order that Gauge wanted me to double-check before some supplier tried to charge us for imported bullshit that wouldn’t hold up under real speed. But a beer sounded damn good.
“Yeah.” I slid onto a stool near the end of the bar. “One.”
Fury poured a pint and set it in front of me. “Famous last words.”
“I’m not an overeager prospect trying to prove I’m not a lightweight. One means one.”
“Half the people sitting at my bar say that before they start making bad choices.”
“Half those assholes have poor impulse control.”
Fury barked a laugh. “And the other half lies.”
I shook my head, my lips tipped up in amusement before I took a drink. The beer was cold and felt good going down my throat after being out in the humidity that was always around in late August in Florida. A couple of brothers were playing pool near the back while a group of young, local racers argued over a replay on one of the big screens mounted over the far wall.
I was halfway through the beer when trouble walked up wearing too much perfume and stumbling slightly in high heels that didn’t belong in a place like this. Her body was poured into a short, tight dress that was low enough not to even pretend to be subtle. She probably would’ve attracted plenty of men but did absolutely nothing for me except make me wary of the fact that she was drunk, swaying, and headed straight into my space.
“Hi.” She drew the word out as she slid onto the stool beside mine without waiting for an invitation. “You’re hard to miss.”
