Chapter 4: Friction and Fire

The track hummed under the dawn sky, a faint pink streak bleeding into the horizon as Tessa gunned the ZX-10R through the straightaway. It was day three of training, and her body ached—muscles screaming from hours of riding, bruises from the crash still tender—but she didn't care. The bike was a beast, and she was taming it, lap by lap. Her turns were sharper now, thanks to Julian's pointers, though she'd never admit it out loud. She hit 190 mph on the last stretch, the world blurring into streaks of color, and pulled into the pit with a grin she couldn't shake.Julian was there, stopwatch in hand, sunglasses reflecting the rising sun. "1:52," he called as she yanked off her helmet. "Fastest yet. You're getting it.""Damn right I am," she said, wiping sweat from her brow. Her braid was a mess, strands sticking to her neck, but the high of the run made her feel invincible. She swung a leg off the bike, planting her boots on the ground. "Told you I don't need babysitting."He didn't rise to the bait, just nodded. "Good. Because I've got better things to do than hold your hand." His tone was dry, but there was a glint in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something warmer. It threw her off, and she busied herself with her gloves to avoid looking at him too long.The pit buzzed around them—mechanics tweaking engines, other riders prepping for their runs. Marcus, the team manager, stomped over, his clipboard flapping like a pissed-off bird. "Voss," he barked, ignoring Tessa. "We've got a problem. Sponsors want a meeting—today, noon. They're antsy about the lineup."Julian's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed level. "They'll wait. I'm here 'til ten.""They won't," Marcus shot back. "Big money's threatening to pull if we don't lock in a star. They're not sold on—" He cut a glance at Tessa, then away, but the message was clear.Her stomach twisted. "Say it," she snapped, stepping into his line of sight. "They're not sold on me. That it?"Marcus shifted, uncomfortable but not backing down. "You're untested. No pro circuit, no name. They want a sure thing.""I'm a sure thing," she said, voice low and dangerous. "Put me on that track with their 'stars,' and I'll smoke 'em. You saw my time.""She's right," Julian cut in before Marcus could argue. "She's faster than half the circuit vets we've scouted. The sponsors can shove their doubts—I'm not swapping her out."Tessa blinked, caught off guard by the steel in his tone. Marcus muttered something about "risky bets" and stalked off, leaving them in a charged silence. She turned to Julian, arms crossed. "Didn't need you fighting my battles.""Didn't fight it for you," he replied, meeting her gaze. "Fought it for the team. You're our edge. They'll see it soon enough."She wanted to argue, but the way he said it—calm, certain—shut her down. He wasn't coddling her; he was betting on her. It felt good, too good, and that scared her more than Marcus's skepticism.The morning stretched on, laps blending into drills. Julian stayed, barking orders through the radio, his voice a steady hum in her earpiece. "Ease into the apex, Kane. Don't muscle it." She gritted her teeth but followed, shaving seconds off her time. By 9:30, the other riders had cleared out, and it was just them—her on the track, him in the pit, a rhythm building she didn't want to name.On her last run, she pushed too hard. The back tire skidded on a tight curve, gravel spitting, and she wrestled the bike upright by sheer will. She rolled into the pit, heart pounding, and Julian was there before she could dismount."You okay?" he asked, closer than usual, his hand hovering near her arm but not touching."Fine," she said, breathless. She yanked off her helmet, shaking out her hair. "Just testing the limits.""Test them too far, and you're a smear on the asphalt." His tone was sharp, but his eyes—those damn green eyes—held something else. Worry, maybe. It pissed her off."I know my limits," she shot back, swinging off the bike. "Been pushing 'em since I was a kid. Don't need you playing mom."He stepped closer, voice dropping. "I'm not. But I've seen crashes worse than yours. I don't want you in one."The air thickened, their breaths syncing for a beat too long. She could smell him—sweat, leather, that cedar undertone—and it hit her like a drug. She broke away, grabbing her water bottle. "I can handle myself. Always have.""Not doubting it," he said, stepping back too. "Just don't make me regret this."She didn't answer, chugging water instead, her pulse still racing from more than the skid.Back at her apartment, Tessa paced the tiny living room, restless. The day clung to her—Julian's words, his presence, the way he'd stood up to Marcus. She didn't get it. He was a suit, a control freak, yet he'd backed her without hesitation. It didn't fit the box she'd put him in, and that rattled her.She flopped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Her mom's voice crept in, soft but firm: Don't let 'em tame you, Tess. She hadn't—not her dad's fists, not the pity after the funeral, not the grind of barely making rent. But Julian wasn't trying to tame her. He was… what? Pushing her? Believing in her? It felt foreign, dangerous, like a crack in the armor she'd worn so long it was part of her skin.Her phone buzzed—Milo, checking in. How's the rich boy's bike? She texted back: Fast. Too fast, maybe. He replied with a laughing emoji, then: Don't crash it, dummy. She smirked, but the near-miss replayed in her head. Julian's face, too close, too real.Across town, Julian sat in his office, the sponsor meeting a blur of suits and numbers. He'd smoothed it over—promised results, flashed his trademark confidence—but his mind was on the track. On Tessa. That skid had stopped his heart for a second, and he hated it. He didn't get attached—not to people, not to risks. His life was calculated, every move a step toward erasing his father's failures. Tessa was a variable he hadn't accounted for.He pulled up her file—basic background his team had dug up. Tessa Marie Kane, 28. Born in Reno, single mom, no dad listed after age ten. A string of odd jobs—mechanic, bartender, stunt gigs. No arrests, but a sealed juvie record hinted at trouble. It painted a picture: a fighter, scrappy and self-made. Like him, in a way, but rougher, less guarded.He closed the laptop, rubbing his temples. She'd gotten under his skin—her fire, her defiance, the way she'd looked at him after the skid, all bravado and vulnerability in one breath. He didn't have room for this, not with the race, the board, the empire he'd built. But walking away wasn't an option. Not yet.That night, Tessa hit the bar downstairs, needing noise to drown her thoughts. The jukebox blared Springsteen, and she nursed a beer, watching the regulars—truckers, drunks, a few dancers from the strip clubs down the block. A guy sidled up, all tattoos and cheap cologne, grinning like he'd won the lottery."Hey, sweetheart," he slurred, leaning too close. "Buy you a drink?""Got one," she said, not looking at him. "Beat it."He didn't. His hand grazed her arm, and she was on her feet in a flash, shoving him back. "Touch me again, and you'll be drinking through a straw." Her voice was a blade, and the bar went quiet. He muttered something crude but stumbled off, and she sank back onto her stool, adrenaline buzzing.She didn't need saving—not from drunks, not from skids, not from Julian Voss. But as she finished her beer, his face lingered, and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she'd met someone who didn't want to save her—just ride alongside her.