Racing The Beast (Dirt Track Dogs #2) by P. Jameson Page A

words around the lump in his throat, “I’ve had trouble controlling my anger. I’ve spent many years learning to tame my temper, but sometimes… some things make me…”
    “Hulk the fuck up?”
    His breath rushed out of him. “Yes.”
    Punk was quiet, staring at their linked hands. “Have you ever hurt anyone?”
    He’d been lucky. They’d made the pact before he’d gotten that far out of control.
    “No. Besides a few fights with the guys, no. I’ve never let it get that far. But shit, I’ve wanted to before.”
    She didn’t say a word. Not a fucking word.
    “Does that scare you?”
    “There isn’t much that scares me.”
    “That’s not true.”
    More silence.
    “I don’t want you to be scared of me, Punk.”
    She lifted her head to look at him. “I’m not. Like I said, you’re different.”
    Her tone was sure, and it gave him a sense of security he needed.
    “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
    She raised one pierced eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
    Shit, shit, shit. He couldn’t tell her what he wanted to. Not yet. He couldn’t tell her she was his and that soon he would show her just what it meant to belong to a wolf.
    He’d tell her a different truth.
    “Holding your hand is the best fucking feeling I’ve had in a very long time.”
    Her eyes widened, her eyebrow jewelry catching in the light of the nearly expired sun.
    “Can… can I keep doing it?”
    He was asking. It wasn’t in his nature, but his wolf didn’t own her yet. Not her heart or her mind. For now, he had to ask.
    Punk’s teeth came down on her lip to toy with the ring there.
    She nodded.
    It was a baby step, but he fucking loved her for it.
    He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back. Then before she could say anything about it, he released her and got out of the truck. He helped Sharkie from the back and retrieved Punk’s crutches.
    He’d parked as close as he could to the patio and grill so she didn’t have far to go.
    “What’s your real name?” he asked as they walked. “Why do they call you Punk?”
    She tipped her head to one side, thinking, and then finally deciding to let him in on the secret.
    “It’s short for Punkin, but you’re the only one I’ve ever told, and if you blab a word about it, I’ll stab your eyeballs out.”
    Beast grinned. “You’re secret is safe with me. I swear.”
    Sighing, she continued. “I was named after my Nana, Eleanor. But since we shared a name, they always called me Punkin. When I grew up, I shortened it.”
    “Eleanor,” he murmured. It was classic. Beautiful.
    “Yeah, keep that one to yourself too.”
    “You don’t like it?”
    She shrugged. “Eleanor was my Nana. I’m Punk.”
    Everyone else was already gathered, sipping on drinks, and Surge was well into the grilling of the meat. Blister was the only one missing. And Diz, because he was on the track.
    He slid around the corner, his car spitting dirt five feet high, and Surge let out a hoot of approval.
    “Wooooooo, son! Did you see that?” He grinned as he turned the steaks. Smoke billowed in his face. “Having a contest. The one who can spit the best dirt gets the biggest steak. Ella’s next. Drake’s out of the running. Diz just stomped him. I’ll ride for Annie and you can ride for Punk.”
    Beast grinned. “Sounds good.”
    Punk maneuvered into one of the chairs and Annie and Ella were chatting her up.
    Diz jogged toward them. “That was bomb right? I beat Drake for sure.”
    Surge nodded. “It was the straight up boom fuckity boom, man.”
    They slapped high fives over the grill.
    “Your turn, Ella,” Diz said, grinning. He rubbed his belly obnoxiously. “That fucking steak is mine. I want it rare, Surge.”
    She sauntered over. “We’ll see about that.”
    “Big words considering there are five more chances to lose,” Beast joked.
    “I’m not worried.”
    “You should be,” Drake sidled up to them, an icy coke in his hand. “That’s my girl