Chapter 3 Dirt Roads and Detours

Savannah sat at a corner table in the student library, her earbuds in, her laptop open to a half-written essay on 20th-century journalism, and her brain somewhere completely else.

She'd been typing the same sentence over and over for fifteen minutes, deleting it each time. No matter how hard she tried to focus, her thoughts kept drifting back to the way Jace looked after the race-dust on his skin, fire in his eyes, sweat clinging to the collar of his shirt like he belonged to the wild.

She hated how he had that effect on her.

This wasn't the plan.

He wasn't the plan.

She closed her laptop and sighed.

A text popped up.

> Unknown Number:

Still think I race angry? Or have I won you over yet?

Savannah stared.

She didn't remember giving Jace her number.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

> You found my number. Impressive.

A few seconds later:

> Jace:

I'm very resourceful.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smirk tugging at her lips.

> Savannah:

What do you want?

> Jace:

Coffee. Or lunch. Or just to see if you're as hard to crack as you pretend to be.

> Savannah:

I don't date motocross royalty.

> Jace:

Lucky for you, I'm not asking for a date.

She stared at the last message for a long moment. She didn't owe him anything. But something in her-curiosity, maybe, or that dangerous thrum of possibility-made her type back:

> Savannah:

One hour. Jupiter's Café. Come alone.

---

Jupiter's was tucked between an indie record store and a dusty vintage shop. It was Savannah's favorite kind of place: quiet, cluttered with secondhand furniture, and always smelling like cinnamon and roasted espresso.

She was already sipping an iced latte when the bell above the door jingled.

Jace walked in like he owned the place-like he owned every place-and spotted her instantly.

"Wow," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. "No boots today."

She glanced at her sneakers. "Not all of us make fashion statements when we leave the house."

"I like the boots. They're real."

Savannah raised an eyebrow. "You seem to think you know a lot about me."

"I know enough to see through the walls." His eyes narrowed slightly, that usual cocky gleam replaced by something more serious. "You don't let people in, do you?"

"Is that what this is? Psychoanalysis over coffee?"

"No. This is me trying to figure out why someone like you is wasting her time trying to 'understand' someone like me."

Savannah put her cup down. "I don't waste time."

"Good. Then let's cut through the crap."

He leaned in, close enough she could see the gold flecks in his green eyes.

"You're the first person who's looked at me like I wasn't just another headline. I'm not used to that."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she said nothing.

After a moment, he sat back and took a sip of her drink without asking. She swatted his hand, but he just grinned.

"You're infuriating."

"I try."

They sat in a silence that was more loaded than awkward. Savannah stared at him, genuinely unsure what he wanted from her. She didn't do casual hangouts. She didn't do guys like Jace Callahan.

She'd spent too long building herself out of the rubble to let someone like him knock her down again.

But then he said, "Come with me."

"What?"

"After your classes tomorrow. Come see the ranch."

She blinked. "You want me to come to your home?"

"It's not a date," he said. "It's a story. The real one. The part they don't print."

---

Savannah didn't know what possessed her to say yes. Maybe it was the way his voice dropped when he said "real." Maybe it was the fire in her gut, the journalist in her unable to resist the scent of something deeper.

Or maybe-maybe-she just wanted to understand him.

The next day, he picked her up in a beat-up Chevy truck that rumbled like thunder and smelled faintly of gasoline and cedar.

The drive out of the city was long and winding, full of red dirt roads and open skies. Texas bloomed around them-fields of wildflowers, crumbling barns, and cows lazing beneath mesquite trees.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, his eyes on the road, not saying much. She didn't, either.

They arrived just as the sun began to dip behind a ridge. The Callahan ranch spread out like a scene from an old western: acres of fenced-in land, two stables, a barn that looked older than time, and a farmhouse that stood like a proud giant in the distance.

"This is... not what I expected," she said.

Jace killed the engine. "Most people expect marble floors and oil paintings."

"Don't you have those?"

"Sure. In the house, I don't stay in."

He led her to the back of the barn, where the light filtered through in dusty shafts.

"This is where I keep my real bikes," he said, sliding open the old door.

Inside was a shrine to metal and speed. Racks of helmets, framed racing photos, and three bikes-sleek, polished, and clearly loved.

Savannah ran her fingers over the handlebars of one. "You do your own repairs?"

"Every nut and bolt."

She nodded, then looked at him. "Why bring me here?"

"Because the press always paints me one way. You're different."

She tilted her head. "I'm still press."

"Maybe. But you see past the noise."

He was too close now. Not physically, but emotionally. Peeling away layers she didn't let people near.

Savannah stepped back. "You keep trying to prove something to me."

"Maybe I am."

"Why?"

"Because you're the only person I've met who doesn't want anything from me."

She didn't know what to say.

He walked closer.

And then-quietly-he asked, "What happened in Lubbock?"

Her heart froze.

He noticed.

"You don't have to tell me. I just know there's something. In your eyes."

Savannah looked away.

"You're not the only one trying to outrun something, Jace."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward.

It was honest.

Two broken people standing in a barn full of machines meant to escape.

And for the first time, she didn't want to run.

---