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HARRISON
The air whips hard enough to lift the collar of my shirt even from behind the barricade.
On the other side of the concrete and mesh, the most highly engineered machines on earth fly past us, one after another. It’s not hard to believe these vehicles generate over 5 Gs of force.
“It looks faster than on TV,” Tyler says.
Sebastian cuts him an amused look. “You’ve never seen an auto race?”
“This is only practice. Race is Sunday,” I remind him.
This week’s event is taking place on a modified road track a few miles from the Strip. Pop-up grandstands have been installed, along with temporary garage facilities to accommodate the teams servicing the cars and drivers in between their high-speed laps. The race is expected to draw a cool quarter of a million spectators, plus international media.
As a VIP sponsor of the team favored to win this year’s championship, Echo has exclusive access to every race, but I haven’t had a chance to take advantage in months. It’s been too long since I've felt the rush of adrenaline brought on by these vehicles and the men and women who pilot and build them.
“I thought it was the Brits’ sport,” Tyler says, scanning the US flags flying high.
“It’s America’s sport now. We saw it. We claimed it. We made a Netflix docuseries about it.” Beck emerges through the crowd wearing a ball cap from the rival team, tucking his VIP pass into his pocket as he takes the empty seat next to Sebastian.
My brother looks accusingly at me before leaning in. “You didn’t say he was coming.”
“He’s a friend of Rae’s. What did you expect?”
“Surprised you could make time with your grueling reality television show,”
Sebastian drawls.
“We ran into an editing issue late last night. I thought you were a professional athlete?” His slow gaze drags down my brother’s body, then back up. “If you need a trainer to get back into shape before the season starts, I can recommend someone.”
Sebastian arches a brow. “Didn’t hear any complaints during my shirtless shoot for People. If you missed out, I can get you a copy for your coffee table.”
Beck grins. “Tell you what, I will take the copy.” He extends his legs, folding his hands behind his head. “Maybe I can find a better use for it than collecting dust on my coffee table.”
My brother’s smug expression evaporates.
Watching the one man on earth capable of turning my own flesh and blood into a fool is fascinating. But there are more important things to discuss.
“Now that everyone is here, I want to inform you that Raegan and I are getting married. Three days from now.”
Another car blazes past, but three sets of eyes are locked on me.
“No shit.” My brother is the first to react. He grabs my arm. “That’s great, Harry.”
Beck’s grin widens.
“And you decided this…” Tyler begins.
“Last night.”
Tyler’s dark eyes stare into mine with unsettling intensity. The man who’s seen and done everything in his short years, surviving a childhood more brutal than mine to emerge as one of the best known guitarists and musicians in the world, reaches for his phone, answering the call none of us heard over the crowd’s noise.
“Hey, Six. We’re at the track.” Tyler hits the speaker button, and Annie’s voice streams out.
“I hope your view of the start line isn’t too obscured by the seating charts you’re working on.”
My mouth curves. “Why, thank you, Annie, your congratulations are appreciated. And the planning is under control.”
“It’s not under control, Harrison, because no wedding is under control. Not even when you have the venue and RSVPs and dresses and tuxes and music and napkin colors—”
