[This story is complete and being edited.]
Armed racing is Atropellado's deadliest and most profitable sport. And wherever there is profit in Atro, there is crime.
Gervassio Blaze has left his most prized possession - ownership of the armed racing f...
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When Lancet finally threw open his front door, Rose's mind blanked. In all of his shirtless glory, the armed racing champion leaned against the doorframe, teasing one of his knives along his fingers as he seemingly stared into her soul.
Away from the public eye, the man wasn't shy when it came to showing off his Blaze family ink. The flames and symbols clutched over his neck and down his arms proudly.
Rose hadn't realized she was staring (or drooling maybe) until his smooth voice addressed her.
"Rose. It's a little late for a heart to heart, don't you think? Or is this another one of your ventures from back when you were a schoolgirl — seeking escape was it?"
His voice was inviting, but she didn't miss the dark intent lacing his every word.
She'd brought ten suited heavies with her, all itching to claim the bounty on his head at the snap of her fingers. The racer appeared unfazed, however, as if she'd arrived on his doorstep with holiday carolers instead of a small army.
"I was hoping, that the newly appointed boss of the Blaze family, would humor a girl of my caliber in spite of the late hour?"
The man didn't answer right away, and just as she got the twitch in her fingers to signal her men, he moved aside for her to come in.
"For you, Rose Gloxinia? Of course."
At her nod, there was a chorus of weapons being holstered and safeties being clicked back in.
"Stay here," she instructed them.
Her chamberlain was perched on a nearby roof, sniper rifle in hand. She could almost hear Isaac scolding her, but she blotted out the voice in her mind.
The door closing behind her was soft. The Grand Champion's home was just as she imagined: modern, designer labels and without any authentic signs of life.
A single, crisp magazine lay perfectly centered on the coffee table in the living room. Not a single dish in the kitchen's rack or sink.
Surfaces were lightly glazed in a thin film of dust.
The only evidence of life was the crumpled up button down, haphazardly strewn at the kitchen's entryway.
Rose was inwardly debating on how to broach what was going to be a "sensitive" topic with the racer, when he offered, "Coffee?"
When she hesitated, he said, "If an espresso is the last thing I drink tonight, I'd be satisfied."
"The last thing you-"
"I doubt you've showed up on my lawn with snipers and goons because you wanted a poker companion, unless?"
Rose fought the heat in her face with every reference he made to their encounter before her graduation. Their secret "thrill" ride.
