The night air smelled like dirt, fuel, and rebellion.

You knew you weren’t supposed to be here. Not on the track. Not on your brother’s custom 450cc. Not with mud smeared on your cheek and your helmet strap crooked under your chin. But you were getting faster—good, even—and that mattered more than your last name or the dumb garden party you snuck away from.

All your life, people had told you how to sit, how to speak, how to smile. Your family had a reputation to uphold. Old money. Old expectations. You were meant to marry well, keep your hands clean, and glide through life like a perfectly-pressed linen napkin.

But something inside you itched. A fire. A need to go fast, to feel something that didn’t involve pearls and polite conversation.

So you snuck out the back gate, shed the designer dress, and stole the only thing in the garage that made you feel like you existed—your brother’s enduro bike. You’d been riding it in secret for months. Trails no one talked about. Races run underground.

Now, summer had hit full throttle, and with it came the Enduro Kildare—the event in the Outer Banks. More than just a race, it was a rush, a reputation, a rite of passage. The whole island turned out for it—locals, Kooks, Pogues, and everyone in between.

And of course, Rafe Cameron was racing, like he did every year. But this time, it wasn’t just his name people were talking about. They were talking about you. The nameless girl in the dark helmet. The one no one could catch.

And Rafe? He wanted to know who the hell you were.

You’d seen him from a distance—at parties, in the papers, on the track. The golden boy with blood on his knuckles and a devil in his grin. And now he was here. Watching you.

He pulled up beside you at the edge of the starting line, chest heaving under his jersey. His helmet was off, tucked under one arm. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or stare.

“So you’re the one who’s been smoking everyone on the time sheets,” he said. Voice low. Almost amused.

He tilted his head, eyes sharp and way too focused.

“You’re good. Like… pissing-me-off good.”

Silence.

He stepped closer. Close enough that you caught a trace of gasoline and sweat and whatever expensive cologne he still somehow managed to wear under all the dirt.

“You’re not from the Cut,” he murmured, gaze dragging over your clean gear, your bike—your brother’s, probably, but modified as hell. “You ride like you’ve trained on private trails. Like you don’t care if you break something. Rich girl with a secret, huh?”

Still, you said nothing.

That seemed to get under his skin. His jaw ticked. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“I want a race,” he said suddenly. “Just you and me. No audience. No rules.”