Page 233 of Bend

“I am a mechanic.”

“No, today, you’re a rider.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Andre stares at me for a long second, looking increasingly like he regrets every decision that led to putting a number on my back.

“Echo, if I see a fucking tool in your hand again before this race, I’m zip-tying your gloves together.”

A laugh comes from the bay beside mine, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Talon.

“Enjoying yourself over there?”

“Fucking right I am,”

I glance over and find him leaning against his bike with his helmet tucked beneath one arm, looking entirely too pleased with my suffering. Four months ago, I probably would’ve thrown something at him.

Now I just smile sweetly and say, “Remember when I beat you at the TT?”

The smile drops off his face so quickly it almost makes Andre’s threats worth it.

“You beat me by less than a half a second.”

“Still beat you.”

“You’ve been saying that for four months.”

“And I’m going to keep saying it for the next sixty years, so you should probably start working on acceptance.”

Sayshen walks past at exactly the wrong moment and catches enough of the conversation to immediately side with me, because apparently older brothers are legally obligated to make things worse.

“She does have a point.”

Talon looks between us with complete betrayal.

“Whose brother are you?”

“Both of yours, unfortunately.”

I grin and start to turn back toward the bike before Andre clears his throat loudly enough to remind me that I’m apparently forbidden from touching anything mechanical until after the race. He points toward the rider area, and I lift both hands in surrender before walking away.

Honestly, he’s probably right.

Today is my third race weekend as an official Speed Demon, and Andre is still adjusting to the fact that hiring a rider who can also tear down half the motorcycles in his garage means occasionally having to physically stop her from doing both jobs at once.

I’m working on boundaries, though.

Very slowly.

The number three stretches across the front of my leathers now, bright against the Speed Demons logo, and even after months of wearing it, sometimes I still catch myself looking down at it.

Three.

The first time I wore it, it felt like grief stitched into leather.

Wolfe had just died, his place on the TT grid was empty, and I chose three because three men had somehow managed to make me feel wanted before I ever understood how badly I needed that. One of them never got to see what came after.

Now the number belongs to something else too.