Page 181 of Revv

Guac hisses again.

“I guess not.”

Revel mutters something about him being an ungrateful little asshole and heads back outside for the rest of the bags.

I stand there with Guac in my arms while Revel brings in the last bag, his duffel still hanging off one shoulder.

He looks at me like he’s waiting for instructions.

I jerk my chin toward the door. “Close it behind you, Papi.”

His brows lift.

Then that slow, cocky smirk spreads across his face.

“Oh, shit. I get to stay?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” He reaches back and shuts the door, still grinning. “You let me in.”

“Temporarily.”

“Mhm.” He drops his duffel by the wall. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Mama.”

“Cabrón.”

His laugh follows me farther into the house.

And somehow, hearing the door click shut behind both of us feels exactly right.

Chapter Eighteen

Revel

Race mornings usually fix whatever the fuck is wrong with my head.

By the time I’m suited up and the paddock is alive around me, everything narrows down to things that make sense—tire temperature, braking points, track conditions, the weight of the bike beneath me, who’s starting where and how much room I can steal before somebody decides they want it back. It’s clean. Simple. Fast enough that there isn’t space for anything else.

Usually.

Today, Cece is standing in our paddock wearing a Demons pass around her neck, and apparently even race day isn’t enough to get that woman out of my fucking head.

She’s leaning against one of the workbenches while Echo finishes checking something near my bike, black shorts showing off those legs I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about, hair pulled into a high ponytail and the worlds tightest fucking jeans.

She looks comfortable here now, talking to Bex like she’s been hanging around race paddocks her whole life instead of pretending a few weeks ago that she only tolerated us because the girls kept inviting her.

I catch myself staring.

Again and unsurprisingly, Talon notices.

“So,” he says from the folding chair beside me, dragging the word out while I tighten the cuff of my undersuit. “Miami.”

I don’t even bother looking at him. “Beautiful city. Highly recommend.”

Across from us, Thorne snorts into whatever protein bullshit he’s drinking. “That all you’ve got, bruv?”

“What do you want, a fuckin’ TripAdvisor review?”