I smirk sideways. “I race all the time, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” she says, brushing hair off her cheek, “but this one matters.”
“How?”
“Winner takes ten grand. Cash. No trail. And the Camaro?” Her smile is sharp. “She’ll devour the lineup. Was thinking we could run together and split the money.”
I freeze. Five grand. That’s a lot. With the cash and the parts I fenced, I could finally fix Gran’s headstone—replace the cracked marble the cemetery shoved her under. Took me years to scrape together what I did the last time, but it’s all gone to shit again. If I don’t fix it soon, they’ll move her. Unmarked.
The only red light flashing in my head: if a race this big was happening, Fisher would want me on it.
“Where?” I ask.
“North industrial strip,” Lark replies.
Fuck.
North end. Rey’s backyard. His real backyard. No wonder Fisher said nothing.
My hands itch. Five grand. Maybe it’s worth the risk. But someone’s bound to recognize me, even if I dyed my hair.
And if my crew found out, they’d want a cut. That’s how it works. But only after skinning me alive for going against Fisher.
Fifty-fifty I win or die.
“Why tell me?” I ask, forcing a smirk. “You could have the ten grand all to yourself.”
“Come on,” she says, swinging her legs. “I know I drive good, but you’re the real deal. You’d do all the work. I just figured, as the owner of the car, I deserve the half.”
Yeah, the logic’s not bad.
“Look at you, bargaining like a loan shark,” I tease. “Sharp, aren’t you?”
“What can I say?” She shrugs. “An asset’s an asset.”
“Please, I could steal this car from you in minutes.”
“And I could track you down and put a bullet in your head just as fast,” she snaps.
My heart thunders. There’s a reason I don’t stay long with any woman. Commitment, complications... But the longer I hang out with Lark, the more I see she’s just like me.
We make a great team. Maybe it could work.
Somehow, I’m not scared she’ll rip me off.
“You sure you’re ready to risk your precious baby?” I ask. “Ten grand’s a good payday, but bent frames don’t spend so well.”
“Why, you scared?” She scoffs. “If you don’t want in, just say it.”
Yeah, I should.
I should tell her no.
Tell her I’ve got other jobs.
Tell her the Camaro’s got one more thing wrong with her.
But I don’t.
