Page 1 of Revv

Chapter One

Cece

Tampa at night is a sweaty bitch.

The air sticks to my skin like it has attachment issues, thick with salt, gasoline, and that burnt rubber smell every biker here wears like it’s designer cologne. Music spills from the open bay doors of the garage behind me, all bass and filthy lyrics, loud enough to make the pavement buzz under my wedge heels.

Motorcycles line the lot in messy rows, chrome flashing beneath cheap string lights while their engines tick as they cool. Helmets hang from handlebars and someone revs a bike for absolutely no reason other than being born with too much audacity and not enough supervision.

Basically, a normal night with this crew.

I lean against the side of Echo’s car with a plastic cup in one hand and my phone in the other, pretending to scroll even though I haven’t read a single thing on my screen in about ten minutes. My long lavender hair is sticking to the back of my neck, my black yoga shorts are riding up just enough to be annoying, and my cute little top was a good idea when there was sunlight.

Out here?

Questionable.

Still hot, though.

Obviously.

I set my cup on the hood of Echo’s car long enough to free my hand, then hook my finger around the little gold locket resting against my chest.

It’s old, scratched, and worth more to me than anything else I’m wearing. It belonged to my abuela, and inside is a tiny picture of my baby, Guacamole, a black Sphynx cat with the face of a sleep-paralysis demon and lives exclusively for snacks, naps, and judging me from his favorite place to sleep—my warm laundry.

The crew is scattered everywhere tonight.

Talon is near the open bay doors of the garage, looking annoyed for no reason, which is honestly just his face at this point. Echo is perched on the edge of a workbench, boots swinging, watching everybody act stupid like it’s her favorite reality show.

Which is fair considering every hangout somehow turns into engines revving, someone bleeding, somebody flirting with someone they shouldn’t, and at least one person saying, “Relax, it’s fine.”

It is never fine.

Nunca.

But it is entertaining.

I take a sip of my drink and look over the lot, because honestly, this group is a mess and I’m nosy. Hot bikers, bad decisions, and way too much testosterone.

A bike rolls in near the far end of the lot, loud enough to cut through the music and make half the girls turn their heads.

Of course.

Because Revel St. Clair doesn’t just show up. He makes an entrance like the world owes him attention and, annoyingly, usually gets it.

He kills the engine, swings off the bike, and pulls his helmet free. Dark hair, his black hoodie stretched across his chest, and like trouble decided to leave a signature.

Then he grins.

The kind of grin that makes smart girls do dumb things and then blame tequila.

I don’t do dumb things.

Not anymore.

Well.

Not unless he’s really hot.