The Peer and the Puppet (When Rivals Play, #1) (3)

Don’t win.




I could feel the wind whipping against the sliver of exposed skin on my nape and the rider on my right closing in as we approached the first turn. I wasn’t worried about losing any more than I was worried about winning. What the man wielding the gun didn’t know was I didn’t race for the money. I raced for the addiction. He should have known better. Someone daring enough to chase a high at one hundred and eight miles per hour wouldn’t be too concerned with self-preservation. I wouldn’t be sticking around to collect my cut of the winnings anyway. After my third win, Mickey and I agreed it was best if I kept riding once I crossed the finish line. It also didn’t give anyone a chance to follow me home. I didn’t worry about Mickey cheating me, either. He may have been a thug, but he wasn’t stupid enough to double-cross the person fattening his pockets.

We took the first turn neck and neck after I slowed just enough not to lose control. Once we’d straightened, I retook the lead, though I didn’t have as much gain on him as before. His bike was faster, but it seemed the lion had no courage. The world blurred as I accelerated until he was no longer on my tail, but desperation had him accelerating too, and we began to battle for the lead. I played it cool, already thinking about the second turn, which was narrow and twice as sharp. Taking the corner on the inside at high speed would be tantamount to suicide. The rider would be forced to take up the rear in order to safely execute the turn without losing enough speed to cost him the race. The advantage wouldn’t be much, but it was the only chance I had.

With only a couple hundred feet left between the turn and us, the rider finally pulled back. Smiling hard and already feeling the victory in my veins, I prepared to corner the bike. No sooner had I adjusted my weight than a man stepped from a grove of black willow, and the flash of stainless steel in the moonlight caught my eye. The leering face of the gunman didn’t belong to the man at the starting line. This one was sent to make certain I didn’t win…or finish at all. My euphoria vanished as I jerked the bike across the invisible centerline and into the right lane just as we took the turn.

I was airborne only for a moment.

The cry that ravaged my throat as I crashed and tumbled down the unpaved road, the crunch of metal as the bike skidded off the road, and my opponent accelerating down the straightaway was mostly drowned by my earplugs and helmet.

Somehow, the silence made me feel all the more helpless.

Finally, I lost momentum as the edge of the road met grass but not before the bone in my leg gave with a sickening crack against a rock the size of my head, ripping one last scream from me. I was aware of each breath I took, fearing the one that would be my last. I didn’t think anyone could survive that turn.

I ripped off my helmet just as a rock was kicked toward me, and dirt clouded the air. Edging away, I screamed in frustration and pain when the broken bone in my leg protested.

Maybe my death would be quick.

Sorrow crept inside and mingled amongst pain and fear. I never thought I’d go out in a blaze of glory—I was just another fish trapped in a small pond—but I never expected to be killed over a lousy three grand. The only fight I had left was to scream and hope someone heard. I took a deep breath, readying my vocal chords, only to cough and choke when dust found its way into my throat.

Scuffed brown boots stopped near my head. Not wanting his face to be the last I saw, I stared at the stars. “Lose or die. I thought we made it clear?”

“Couldn’t lose to a pussy,” I croaked. Begging was pointless, and consciousness was a tide drifting further and further away. Fuck it. Maybe Rosalyn would finally have peace.

With two clicks of his tongue, he lifted the gun, but the last thing I heard wasn’t his voice or the bullet leaving the chamber. It was a racing engine.

Hmm…much better.





“THE GOOD NEWS IS YOU’LL certainly walk again.” The tall, bubbly redhead discarded her gloves and smiled.

“And the bad?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be taking midnight rides for quite some time.”

I sunk back against the reclined hospital bed and sighed. I should be happy just to be alive, but all I could think about was how I would explain all of this to Gruff. I’d lose my job for sure and rightly so, but would he forgive me? Would I forgive me?

I was mindlessly flipping through channels after the doctor promised to return with my discharge papers when the door opened, and Rosalyn rushed to my bedside.

“I thought I’d never see you again!” she said with a sob.

Confusion and guilt kept me from responding. Had it been unfair to think she might be happy if I died? She definitely would have been better off. I looked away before her tears undid me, and that was when the large hands holding Rosalyn’s petite shoulders and the man they belonged to captured my attention.

He wasn’t dressed in a lab coat or nurse’s scrubs. Even if he had, his touch was too familiar to be that of a polite stranger. He wore a white dress shirt that would have stretched tight over his broad chest if it weren’t slightly gaped and wrinkled. I could see a light splattering of tawny-colored hair that matched his full head. The charcoal slacks he wore were also wrinkled, but the matching dress shoes were still perfectly polished and scuff free. Even with the neatly lined scruff on his lower face, this man looked expensive and exactly the kind of man Rosalyn usually courted. My eyes rolled, which didn’t go unnoticed if the amused smile toying at the man’s lips was any clue.