Chapter 8: Edge of the Line

Saturday morning dawned crisp and clear, the storm's remnants swept away by a dry desert wind. Tessa rolled into the track at 6:50 AM, her pickup's engine coughing as she parked. The sabotage still gnawed at her—someone had touched her bike, her lifeline, and it felt like a personal gut punch. She'd barely slept, replaying Julian's words from the bar: We both will. It was a promise she didn't know how to trust, but it stuck with her, a tether in the chaos.The pit was buzzing when she arrived—mechanics swarming the bikes, riders gearing up, a nervous energy crackling through the air. Julian stood near her ZX-10R, talking to Pete, the wiry mechanic who'd found the cut. His black jacket was unzipped, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looked more like a racer than a CEO today—focused, hands-on, a man who'd slept less than she had."Morning," she said, dropping her bag. "Bike good?""Checked it twice," Julian replied, nodding at Pete. "New brake line, locked down tight. No one's getting near it again."Pete shuffled, avoiding her eyes. "Triple-checked the others too. Nothing else tampered with. Yet.""Yet," Tessa echoed, her voice flat. She pulled on her gloves, flexing her fingers. "Great. So we're just waiting for the next hit.""Not waiting," Julian said, stepping closer. "We're ready. Today's about speed—full runs, race conditions. Show me what you've got."She smirked, strapping on her helmet. "You can't handle what I've got.""Try me," he shot back, and there it was—that glint in his green eyes, a challenge she couldn't resist.The track was a live wire under her tires. Tessa pushed the ZX-10R hard, hitting 200 mph on the straightaway, the wind a roar in her ears. Julian rode behind, pacing her, his voice steady through the earpiece. "Smooth out the exit, Kane. You're losing time." She adjusted, leaning tighter, the bike responding like it was part of her. Lap after lap, she shaved seconds—1:46, then 1:45—her best yet. The sabotage faded, drowned by the rush, and for those hours, it was just her, the bike, and Julian's quiet presence.They pulled in at 11:00, sweat-soaked and wired. Tessa yanked off her helmet, grinning wide. "How's that?""1:45 flat," he said, dismounting. "You're a machine.""Damn right," she replied, chugging water. Her arms trembled from the strain, but the high was worth it. She caught him watching her—not judging, just… seeing. It threw her, and she looked away, wiping her face with a towel.Marcus interrupted, stomping over with his clipboard. "Sponsors are here," he said, jerking a thumb toward the lot. "Want to see her ride. Now."Julian's jaw tightened. "They're early.""Yeah, well, they're pissed," Marcus said. "That leak's got 'em spooked, and the brake thing didn't help. They're talking contingency plans."Tessa's stomach twisted. "Contingency? Like dumping me?""They won't," Julian said, voice like steel. He turned to her. "Gear up. We're giving 'em a show."Ten minutes later, Tessa was back on the track, a dozen suits in the stands—middle-aged men in polos and sunglasses, whispering behind their hands. She felt their eyes, their doubt, and it lit a fire in her gut. Julian rode beside her, a silent anchor, and she pushed harder than ever. The first lap was 1:44, the second 1:43. On the third, she hit a perfect line through the chicane, the bike singing under her, and crossed at 1:42—a time that made the pit crew whoop.She rolled in, heart pounding, and Julian was there, helmet off, a rare grin breaking through. "That's how you shut 'em up," he said, clapping her shoulder. His hand lingered a beat too long, warm through her jacket, and she didn't pull away.The sponsors approached, led by a guy in a red polo—Tom Hargrove, Julian introduced him as, head of some energy drink empire. "Impressive," Tom said, eyeing Tessa like she was a racehorse. "But one run doesn't erase the risk. We need stability.""She's stable," Julian cut in, stepping forward. "Fastest on the team, adapting every day. You want a winner, she's it."Tom raised an eyebrow. "And the sabotage? Leaks? We're not funding a circus.""It's handled," Julian said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Security's tripled, crew's vetted. She rides, we win, you get your logos plastered everywhere. Deal's still good."Tom studied him, then Tessa, and nodded slowly. "One more slip, Voss, and we're out." He walked off, the others trailing, and Tessa let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding."Thanks," she said, low, to Julian. "Again.""Don't thank me," he replied, meeting her eyes. "You earned it."The afternoon was quieter—maintenance checks, light drills—but the sponsors' visit left a mark. Tessa stayed late, tinkering with her bike alongside Pete, needing the distraction. Julian lingered too, going over data with Marcus, but his eyes kept drifting to her. She felt it, a pull she couldn't shake, and it pissed her off how natural it was starting to feel.At dusk, he found her by the bike, wiping her hands on a rag. "You're still here," he said, leaning against the workbench."So are you," she shot back, tossing the rag aside. "What's up?"He hesitated, then pulled a small keychain from his pocket—a battered metal star, edges worn smooth. "Found this in my desk today. Dad gave it to me when I won my first race. Said it'd bring luck."She took it, turning it over in her fingers. "You believe in luck?""Not really," he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "But I figured you might need it more than me."Her chest tightened, a mix of warmth and wariness. "I make my own luck," she said, but she pocketed it anyway. "Thanks, though."He nodded, and they stood there, the desert wind whistling through the empty stands. "You're more than they think," he said, quiet but firm. "Don't let 'em forget it."She smirked, masking the way his words hit. "Not planning to."That night, Tessa hit Milo's shop, needing his gruff sanity. She told him about the sponsors, the sabotage, Julian's keychain. Milo listened, sipping a beer, then set it down. "He's in deep, huh?""Who?" she asked, though she knew."Voss," Milo said, smirking. "Sticking his neck out, handing you trinkets. Guy's got it bad.""Shut up," she muttered, but her face heated. "It's business.""Sure it is," Milo teased, then sobered. "Watch your back, Tess. Sabotage ain't a prank—it's a threat.""I know," she said, the keychain heavy in her pocket. "I'm ready."Julian didn't go home either. He stayed at the track, walking the empty pit under the floodlights. The sponsors were on edge, Elliot was circling, and someone—someone close—wanted Tessa out. He'd doubled security, but it wasn't enough. She was his shot, his proof, and now—admit it or not—something more. That keychain had been a impulse, a piece of himself he hadn't shared in years. She'd taken it, and it felt like a line crossed.He stopped, staring at her bike, locked in its stall. She was fire—wild, unyielding—and he was starting to burn. He couldn't stop it, didn't want to, but the race loomed, and the shadows were closing in. He'd protect her, whatever it took.Tessa slept fitfully, the star keychain on her nightstand. Dreams mixed with reality—racing, crashing, Julian's voice pulling her through. She woke at 3 AM, heart racing, and gripped the star like an anchor. She didn't need luck, didn't need him—but she was starting to want both, and that scared her more than any cut brake line.