Page 63 of Bend

It’s under my skin.

That’s the fucking problem.

I’ve spent the entire afternoon trying to shove it aside. Tried to tell myself it doesn’t matter, that whatever weird little grenade she dropped into the middle of the team this morning can wait. Except it didn’t wait.

It followed me straight onto the track, sat in the back of my head through every lap, every corner, every straight. I was still riding clean, still fast, but not clean enough for me. Not fucking sharp enough.

I missed my marks twice. Braked late way too many times and came in hotter than I meant to and knew it the second my tires hit the line.

That shit doesn’t happen, not with me.

Sure, I’m pissed she kept something from me.

But underneath all that, there’s something else chewing at me too. Curiosity. The kind that makes anger harder to hold onto cleanly. Was she actually fucking playing all of us? Did she know exactly what she was doing every step of the way? Or did this get away from her the same way it got away from the rest of us?

That’s the part I can’t leave alone.

Because what I don’t want to admit is that this feels personal in a way I didn’t allow for.

I’m not used to being caught off guard, not by anyone, let alone a woman.

And yet Echo’s been catching me off guard since the second she opened her mouth and looked entirely too unimpressed by me.

The garage is quieter than usual by this point in the day. Most of the guys have either fucked off already or disappeared into whatever corner of work they’ve got left. The place has settled into that low industrial hum I know better than my own goddamn pulse.

Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The occasional clang of metal from deeper in the bays. Oil, rubber, grease, heat, and old concrete baked by years of engines and friction. This place is noise and grit and movement.

But it’s home.

I’m still in my race suit, but only halfway. The top half is peeled down and hanging at my waist, the legs still on, tank underneath damp and clinging to my back after the track. I should’ve showered. Fuck I should’ve just stripped out of my suit, cleaned up my station and gone home. Should’ve let this sit until tomorrow when I had a cooler head and a better excuse to ask the questions I need answered.

But I can’t.

Because if I leave here without talking to her, I’m just gonna spend all night replaying this shit anyway.

I check the office first.

Then the break room.

Then the side bay where Wolfe usually ends up when he wants to pretend he isn’t hovering around everybody else’s shit.

No Echo.

I finally spot her through the open side door near the edge of the lot, standing by the chain-link fence with her arms folded tight over herself, staring out toward the street like she’s halfway gone already. The wind keeps catching her hair and tossing it around her shoulders, dark and thick and loose down her back. She’s still in those black denim shorts, the kind that hug her just enough to be distracting without looking like they’re trying. Long legs. Bare skin. Grease still smudged faintly on one arm like she forgot to clean all the way up.

And for one stupid second, I just stand there looking at her.

I hate how easy it is now, recognizing her shape before I’ve even fully thought about it. The tilt of her head. The stubborn line of her shoulders. The way she always looks like she’s either about to say something that’ll get under your skin or disappear so far into herself you’ll never reach her.

Then I shove the door open harder than I need to.

It bangs against the wall.

She turns fast, and the second her eyes land on me I see it—that small flicker of expectation, like she knows why I’m here.

Good.

I head straight for her.