The Misfire
The raw horsepower of a CBR1000RR-RFireblade SP didn’t just make noise—it vibrated straight through the concretepit lane, rattling the ribs of everyone inside the HRC US garage.
Emma Carter stood near the back, a heavygrease rag clutched in her hand. Her coveralls were two sizes too big, pooledat her ankles, but her eyes were locked on the screaming inline-four engineroaring on the hydraulic lift.
For two months, her internship hadconsisted of picking up discarded torque wrenches, scrubbing tire marks off thefloor, and cleaning visor grime off the helmets of men who barely looked her inthe eye. They saw a twenty-two-year-old girl with dirt on her cheek. Theydidn’t see the CalTech mechanical engineering degree hanging on her bedroomwall, or the thousands of hours she’d spent knee-deep in engine grease with herfather back in Daytona.
"Hold the revs at twelve thousand,Marcus!" Frank Delgado, the chief mechanic, barked over the deafeningwhine. He leaned against the pit workbench with his arms crossed, chewing on atoothless grin. "Sounds clean to me. Throttle's smooth. Lock her up forthe afternoon."
"Wait," Emma called out beforeshe could stop herself.
The entire garage went dead quiet.Mechanics stopped wiping down socket sets. Marcus paused with his hand on thethrottle.
Frank turned slowly, his eyes narrowing ather. "What did you just say, intern?"
"Cylinder three," Emma said,stepping past a stack of fresh Dunlop slicks. She didn't flinch. "It’sdropping cycles on the intake sweep. There’s a micro-delay in the ignitioncoil. It’s running lean."
Frank snorted, let out a harsh laugh, andlooked around at the crew. "Listen to Chen's pity-hire. She’s been wipingvisors for six weeks and now she thinks she’s a dyno computer."
"I don't need a dyno computer to heara two-millisecond stutter," Emma said, her voice dropping, cool andsteady. "If Jake Morrison takes that bike onto turn four at hundred andeighty miles an hour with a lean burn on cylinder three, the engine will droppower mid-lean. He’ll lowside into the barrier."
"Get out of my garage, Carter,"Frank hissed, stepping into her space, his breath smelling of stale coffee andtobacco. "Go wipe some visors before I have Rick throw you back towhatever trade school you crawled out of."
"She’s right."
The low, rasping voice came from theglass-walled office at the back.
Jake Morrison walked out.
He was halfway out of his leather racesuit, the heavy top folded down around his waist, exposing a tight blackcompression shirt that clung to broad shoulders and the hard, corded muscles ofhis chest. Sweat glistened at the base of his throat, tracing down toward hisstomach. His dark hair was messy from the helmet, his jaw tight, eyes dark asoil.
The air in the garage shifted instantly.Heavy. Charged.
Jake didn't look at Frank. His dark gazedrifted over to Emma, scanning her face, taking in the grease smudge on hernose and the fierce, unyielding spark in her eyes.
"I felt the hesitation on the backstraight during practice," Jake said, his voice a low rumble thatresonated right in Emma’s chest. He stepped closer to her, bringing with himthe rich, suffocating heat of his body—mixed with high-octane fuel, hotleather, and fresh sweat. "Everyone told me I was imagining things."
"You weren't," Emma murmured, herthroat suddenly dry. Up close, Jake Morrison was overwhelming. The championshipleader wasn't just a rider; he was a force of nature.
Jake held her gaze for a long, heavyheartbeat, his eyes dipping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
"Pull the head off cylinderthree," Jake ordered softly, never looking away from Emma. "Fixit."
"Jake, she’s a kid—" Frankstarted.
"Fix it," Jake repeated, his toneleaving zero room for debate. Then he leaned in just an inch closer to Emma,his voice dropping so low only she could hear it over the hum of the coolingfans. "If you're wrong, Carter... we're both going down."
