One

Drake sighed, leaning back against the cool metal side of his sweet, sweet Blue. His baby. His race car. She’d gotten him the win last night, somehow, even with the challenger so tight on his tracks he was nearly rubbing Blue’s tires. He had the boys checking, but they still didn’t know who drove red 57.

Didn’t matter. A win was a win. That’s what he told himself anyway.

Reaching into the pocket of his grease-stained t-shirt, he pulled out his sour apple Bubblicious and popped a new piece in his mouth. He was running out and could only find the damn stuff at one convenience store. It happened to be in the next town over. So not too convenient.

Drake listened carefully to the conversation happening on the other side of the swinging garage door.

“What the hell do you mean there are no women? Racing isn’t just a man’s sport, you know.” Whoever she was, that deep, sassy voice sounded like sex on a stick to Drake. Every note and inflection danced along his too-sensitive skin begging for a reaction.

“Drake!” Beast called for the second time.

“No, seriously,” the woman continued. “Are you telling me Dirt Track Dogs discriminates against women? Because that is against—”

“It’s not that,” Beast interrupted her tirade. “We just don’t need any women on the team.”

“You don’t need any women? Like you don’t need new tires or another damn hole in your head?”

“Jesus…” Beast muttered while another familiar and distinctive laugh bounced along the steel walls of the club.

“Look,” she said, her tone leveling to sound appeasing. As if that would work on Beast. “Just tell me how to apply for membership and I’ll be on my way, okay?”

“It doesn’t work like that, lady.”

“Then tell me how it works, would ya?”

“Drake!” Beast called again. “For fuck’s sake, would you get in here?”

Drake pushed through the door and into the main room of the club. The place was littered with barrels and spare tires and extra car parts. It smelled like grease and oil and gasoline. It smelled like home sweet fucking home.

“You said the magic word.” Drake smirked at the wolf standing behind the counter.

“Oh, yeah. What’s that?” Beast looked bemused.

“Fuck of course.”

The woman Beast argued with turned to Drake with hands planted on her ample hips. “You the president?”

He popped his gum obnoxiously while he considered her. She sure was a sexy little thing. Her jeans and t-shirt couldn’t hide it. Too bad women were off limits. No chicks. That was the agreement they’d all made. “Something like that.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “What can I do for you?”

She straightened her shoulders. “I want in the club. I’m qualified. I’m willing to work. I can be an asset. Tell me how to get in.”

He gave her a sly grin, sweeping his arms out to indicate their surroundings. “You’re already standing in it, babe.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Not what I meant. Babe.”

The side of his mouth quirked at her tone. Okay. So she didn’t take shit. Good to know. He gave it to her straight this time. “I’m sure Beast told you, there are no women in our club.”

She nodded. “Yes, he did. But who says there can’t be a first? This guy…” she jerked one thumb over her shoulder to their wild card member, “Surge is it? He says you could use the help.”

Drake glared at his rowdiest wolf. Fucking Surge. He got his nickname from that radioactive green drink from the 90s that made you a little crazy if you drank it. That was him, a little crazy and always looking for a way to shake things up. What better way to do that than convince some wannabe race chick she needs to step up with five competitive males. Perfect. Recipe. For. Disaster.

Surge cackled, relishing the mess he’d created. Drake could swear the guy was more hyena than wolf.

“Sorry, honey. Surge is wrong.”

“I tried to tell her,” Beast muttered.

“Why don’t you just go down to Red Cap and chat up some of the girls there. They can set you up with any kind of racing shit you wanna play with—”

“I’m not here to play,” she snapped. “I’m here to race. I’m here to win. And I want to do it on your team. You’d be an idiot not to let me.”

Drake’s vision was drawn to the back of the room. Blister was standing in the shadows, arms crossed, taking in the scene. The look on his face was wary, the blotchy burn scar that took up most of his left cheek and forehead, scrunching with his frown. He knew something, but Drake didn’t have time to dig to the bottom of it now.

“Why?” Drake bit out. “Why are you here?”

She shrugged, her eyebrows raising and waving the you’re-an-imbecile flag.

“Because you have the best setup here. Your practice track, your shop, everything is top of the line. Your training is sound from what I can see. I want to take advantage of what Dirt Track Dogs has to offer. And in return, I’ll make it worth your while.”

There was a slight pause, and Drake knew each of the guys’ brains went exactly where his went. Straight into the fucking gutter. Worth their while. It made him uneasy. But then Surge started in with the cackling again.

Beast seemed ready to strangle the race chick. Drake could hardly blame him. Not a single one of them were mated yet. And it’d been a while since any of them had enjoyed pleasures of the carnal variety. A very, very long while.

This female with her delectable body and sassy mouth was a temptation they couldn’t risk.

Fucking hell.

“You can’t possibly be considering this,” Beast said, turning away from her.

He wasn’t. No women. That was the rule.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she interrupted. “Three laps around your track, right now. If I win, I’m in.”

“And if you lose?”

Her jaw clenched tight as if she was reconsidering her choices. “If I lose… you get my car.”

“I don’t need another car.”

Her eyes narrowed. They were the palest shade of blue. She almost looked like a shifter. If she didn’t smell so human, he’d assume she was.

“True,” she mused. “You don’t need my car. But you do need me out of next week’s race. Either that… or on your team. I’d bet my mother on that.”

An eerie feeling snaked up Drake’s spine.

“You’re signed up for next week?”

She tossed him a shit-eating grin. “Oh, absolutely.”

Damn. She thought she was race-ready? She must know a thing or two, but that didn’t mean she was ready to scrape dirt.

Or was she?

His curiosity got the best of him. She wouldn’t win those three laps anyways, so it didn’t matter, but he wanted to see what she could do. And also, maybe teach her a lesson. It’d be a shame for her to jump into a race that would eat her alive. He’d be doing her a favor by accepting this dare and kicking her ass on the track.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, nodding. “Three laps. Right now.”

Her face spread in a grin, and he nearly had to catch himself on the counter. But damn, she was a stunner. And when she smiled it was like a blast from the fucking sun. Bright and soul-moving. He waited to be incinerated, and it happened, but only from the inside. White-hot desire raked him, and his animal stood at attention.

Down boy.

“What’s your name?” he rumbled.

“Ella. Ella Freeman.”

Ella. What a perfect fucking name, Ella.

Mine, his wolf whispered, but Drake ignored it with all the effort of a stubborn alpha intent on keeping his boys—and their hearts—safe from harm.

Racing was their drug. They drowned their sorrows and past mistakes in racing fuel and mud. They hit the throttle not the bottle. Winning was what kept them sane. There wasn’t room for any distractions. Including mates.

“Let’s go,” he said, marching for the front door.

He passed Blister on the way out and the wolf seemed to be sending him a warning through his glare, but hell if Drake knew what it was.

The feeling stinging the back of his neck intensified as he swung the door open and stared out into the orange dusky sky. Then his eyes landed on Ella’s car and a whole lotta Oh Fuck hit him in the chest.

Parked in front of the club was the car that almost beat him. Red 57.

And Ella… Ella was the mystery driver.