Chapter 3: The Starting Line

The desert sun was a brutal fist, pounding down on the Voss Grand Prix track at 6:58 AM. Tessa pulled up in her beat-up Toyota pickup, the only vehicle she owned that still ran after the crash. Dust swirled around her boots as she stepped out, squinting at the sprawl of asphalt and bleachers ahead. The track was a beast—two miles of tight curves, banked turns, and a straightaway that begged for speed. It was raw, unfinished, with construction crews still hammering at the grandstands, but it sang to her. This was where she belonged, not in some glass tower kissing a suit's ass.She hauled her gear bag over her shoulder—helmet, gloves, a spare jacket—and headed for the pit area. A dozen bikes gleamed under a canopy, all high-end, all Voss-branded with sleek logos in silver and black. Riders milled around, mostly men in their twenties and thirties, decked out in sponsor gear, laughing too loud and sizing each other up. Tessa felt their eyes slide over her—some curious, some dismissive—and straightened her spine. She'd been the odd one out before. Didn't faze her then, wouldn't now."Ms. Kane." Julian's voice cut through the noise, and she turned to see him striding toward her. He'd traded the suit for something closer to the track—dark jeans, a fitted black polo, sunglasses perched on his head—but he still looked too polished, too in control. A clipboard dangled from one hand, and a radio crackled at his hip. "You're early.""Told you I'm never late," she said, dropping her bag onto a bench. A lie, but he didn't need to know that. She nodded at the bikes. "Which one's mine?"He pointed to a Kawasaki ZX-10R, matte green with a low-slung frame and tires that screamed grip. "Custom-built. Fastest in the lineup. Figured it'd suit you."Tessa ran a hand along the handlebars, her fingers tracing the smooth metal. It was a dream—lighter than her old Ninja, more power in the engine than she'd ever ridden. Her chest tightened, a mix of awe and suspicion. "Nice bribe," she said, glancing at him. "What's it gonna cost me?"Julian's jaw ticked, but his tone stayed even. "It's not a bribe. It's an investment. You ride it, you win, we both get what we want. That's the deal."She held his gaze, searching for the catch she still didn't trust wasn't there. Those green eyes gave nothing away, but the way he stood—shoulders squared, hands loose but ready—told her he wasn't used to being questioned. Too bad for him. "Fine," she said at last, pulling on her gloves. "Let's see what she can do."The track was alive with the roar of engines as Tessa took her first lap. The ZX-10R responded like an extension of her body, hugging the curves with a precision her old bike could only dream of. She pushed it hard, leaning low into the turns, the wind tearing at her jacket. Adrenaline flooded her veins, washing away the ache in her hip and the doubts in her head. This was freedom—pure, unfiltered, hers.From the pit, Julian watched, arms crossed, his sunglasses now shielding his eyes. She was a blur of green and black, cutting through the pack like a blade. The other riders were good—ex-racers, stunt pros—but Tessa was something else. Raw, yes, but calculated too, her moves deliberate even at breakneck speed. He'd seen the stats: her old bike topped out at 180 mph, and she'd crashed at maybe 60. This one could hit 200, and she was already testing its limits."She's reckless," said a voice beside him. Marcus Reed, his team manager, scratched at his graying beard, frowning. "Good, but she doesn't follow lines. She'll burn out or wreck.""She's not reckless," Julian countered, eyes still on her. "She's fearless. There's a difference." He'd seen it in the crash footage—her split-second swerve, the way she'd fought to stay upright even as the bike gave out. Reckless people didn't survive that. Fearless ones did.Marcus grunted, unconvinced. "Your call, boss. Just hope she doesn't take out half the team when she goes down.""She won't," Julian said, but a thread of doubt wormed into his gut. He pushed it aside. Doubt wasn't his style.Tessa pulled into the pit after ten laps, sweat soaking her shirt, her braid unraveling. She yanked off her helmet, grinning despite herself. "This thing's a monster," she said as Julian approached. "Handles like a dream.""Glad you approve." He handed her a water bottle, and she took it, their fingers brushing for a half-second. Her skin tingled, and she cursed inwardly, chugging the water to cover it. "You're fast," he added. "Faster than most of the team. But your turns are sloppy—too tight, too late. We'll work on it."Her grin faded. "Work on it? I just smoked your boys out there.""You did," he agreed, unfazed. "And you'll still lose if you don't refine it. This isn't a street brawl—it's a race. Precision matters."Tessa bristled, stepping closer. "I've been riding since I was sixteen. I don't need a lecture from a guy who probably hasn't touched a bike in his life."Julian didn't flinch, but his eyes darkened. "I rode dirt bikes as a kid. Won a few trophies before I traded them for boardrooms. I know enough to spot a flaw. You want to win, you listen. You don't, you're on your own."The air thickened, their stares locked. She hated his calm, his certainty, the way he made her feel small without even raising his voice. But he wasn't wrong—her turns had felt off, the bike's power almost too much to rein in. She'd felt it, even if she wouldn't admit it."Fine," she muttered, breaking eye contact. "Show me, then."He nodded, clipping the radio to his belt. "Gear up. We're going out together."Twenty minutes later, they were on the track—Julian on a matching ZX-10R, black to her green. He led, setting a pace she matched, then pushed. His lines were textbook—smooth, early apexes, no wasted motion. She followed, grudgingly impressed, mimicking his angles until her own turns sharpened. He wasn't as fast as her, not by a long shot, but he was clean, controlled, everything she wasn't.They pulled back into the pit, and Tessa ripped off her helmet, breathing hard. "Okay, you're not useless," she said, half a smirk tugging at her lips. "Where'd you learn that?"Julian dismounted, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "My dad's garage. He'd bet on anything—horses, cards, me. Pushed me to race until I was better than him. Then he lost the house, and I stopped." His voice was flat, but there was a weight to it, a story he wasn't telling.Tessa tilted her head, curious despite herself. "Sounds like a charmer.""He wasn't." Julian's gaze flicked to the horizon, then back to her. "You?""Mom taught me," she said, surprising herself with the honesty. "She'd sneak me out to an old lot after my dad passed out drunk. Said it was our secret. Kept me sane." She stopped, throat tight, and looked away. Too much, too soon.He didn't push, just nodded. "She did good. You've got instinct—more than I ever had."The compliment caught her off guard, and she covered it with a shrug. "Yeah, well, instinct doesn't pay the bills. Winning does.""Then let's make sure you win." He stepped back, all business again. "Practice is daily, 7 AM. I'll be here. Don't slack.""Wouldn't dream of it," she shot back, echoing his earlier line. He smirked, and damn if it didn't stir something in her chest.That night, Tessa sprawled on her couch, replaying the day. The bike, the track, Julian's voice in her ear—steady, infuriating, magnetic. She didn't like how he'd slipped past her defenses, how he'd seen her flaws and didn't blink. She'd spent years building walls—after her dad's rages, her mom's slow fade, the pity from folks who thought she'd never climb out. Julian didn't pity her. He challenged her. And that was worse.Across town, Julian stood in his penthouse gym, punching a heavy bag until his knuckles ached. Tessa Kane was a puzzle—brash, guarded, but with a fire he couldn't ignore. He'd meant to keep her at arm's length, a tool for his race, his legacy. But today, riding with her, hearing that scrap of her past, he'd felt the ground shift. She wasn't just a rider. She was a force, and he was dangerously close to getting caught in it.