Page 318 of Rogue Riders Duet

I pull my laptop from my backpack, open the folder, and pass it over. “Knock yourself out.”

Dane sets it across his lap, clicking through the files. “Huh.” His voice is thoughtful. “This is actually pretty damn impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“You really want this,” he murmurs, and it’s not a question.

I glance at Alaina again.

“More than almost anything.”

Dane clicks on something and frowns. “There are a few things we could clean up in here. Streamline the numbers. Make your sponsor pitch tighter.”

I raise an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yeah, we. Don’t look so shocked. Show me the plan, Greer, I’ll help you make it happen.”

TWENTY-SIX

At the beginning of this season, all I wanted was to make that money for Dad. To get him somewhere nice to sleep, a real bed, and maybe scrape the mud from the Payne name in the process.

And somehow, I’ve ended up here.

I’m lying on the hotel bed, still a little damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweats. The room is warm, the sheets soft in that expensive way I’ve never really felt before. I’ve got my arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling, but I can’t wrap my head around this.

This shit is fancy.

Not one of those moldy motels Dad and I would have booked overseas. No, this is bloody ridiculous like five-star spa bullshit. Everything smells like clean wood and too much money. There are even complimentary robes. Robes.

And Dad got his own room.

His own fucking room.

All of it paid for by Alaina’s dad, who apparently owns half the goddamn world and flies around in a private jet like he’s too good for first class. Because that’s how we got here. In his fucking jet. I didn’t even know people outside of movies actually did that.

I hated it at first. Felt too much like charity, like we were being bought, but then Luc leaned in while we were hauling our shit up the stairs and muttered, “Take everything he gives. He’s a fucking dick. Petite deserves to milk him a little, so let her. You don’t owe him a damn thing.”

And, yeah, that helped.

It still feels weird, but at least it doesn’t feel wrong. Especially not when I think about what the other option would’ve been—Dad and I crammed into some Airbnb with one creaky bed and no heating. We would’ve made it work, but this? This feels like breathing room, and we haven’t had that in a long time.

I roll over and grab my phone off the bedside table, opening my music app and tapping on “Rollin’ ” by Limp Bizkit. The beat kicks in fast and loud, and I settle back into the pillows, letting it fill the room.

Greer swears this is my song.

“Aggressive, but fun,” he said during track walk. “Like you, man. Not angry, just got that drive. That grit. That don’t-fuck-with-me energy.”

Still not sure I get his whole melody theory. I don’t usually listen to this kind of stuff. My dad raised me on AC/DC and Metallica, not this weird growl-pop rap shit.

But it’s not bad. There’s a rhythm to it, something in the beat that makes my foot tap against the mattress, allowing me to feel an echo of that adrenaline I only get when I’m racing or tuning my suspension, and I can’t exactly argue with the results of Greer’s coaching.

I fucking won Val di Sole.

A track I’ve hated since juniors. I’ve crashed there more times than I can count, but this time, with Greer’s line choices, I nailed it.

So yeah, I’ll keep listening to the song. Try to get into the melody. Even if the chorus still makes me feel like I’m about to get into a bar fight in a monster truck arena.

I listen over and over as the jetlag crawls under my skin.