I like spending mine with her.
“Alright,” I hear myself say, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “But if this goes sideways, you never saw me.”
Lark hops down from the hood, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch. She pulls her hands free and leans in until her nose almost brushes mine.
“Knew you weren’t chicken shit.”
Then she’s gone, sliding into the Camaro’s driver’s seat like a queen taking her throne. I stand in the sodium glow, watching my reflection warp across the black paint, wondering if I just signed my own death warrant.
The race night comes faster than I’m ready for. One blink, and it’s time to slide behind the wheel and roll onto the track.
As I said, Lark and time? She’s some kind of fucking time-bender.
The track—technically an old industrial strip—reeks of burnt rubber and grilled sausages. It’s a full-blown party: chrome flashes, a roaring crowd, more engines than should ever be allowed this close together.
Lark’s beside me, leather jacket zipped, hair tied back. She’s twitching in the passenger seat, one leg bouncing nonstop. Every so often she shoots me a grin, like she’s already counting the money.
Me? I’m not smiling.
Not even close.
I know I tend to grin like a maniac—half the time it means nothing—but now it’s gone. Every set of eyes out there could be the one that clocks me. And as I shift gears in the Camaro, I’m hit with this sudden self-awareness: I didn’t think I could be this reckless.
This must be a new record.
If it all works out, maybe I’ll even circle the date.
I should fucking remember it.
“We’ve got this, Tal,” Lark says.
I swallow the nerves clawing at my throat and glance her way. If there’s ever a time to pull off my charm, it’s now. Maybe if anyone spots me through the windshield, the easy grin will throw them off just enough not to recognize me. The black hair dye helps, but who knows?
“If only,” I say, smirking at Lark through my lashes. “I’m gonna wipe them out.”
“Yes!” she giggles, slapping her knees and bouncing in her seat. At least one of us is in a good mood.
The cars line up. The crowd’s roaring. My heartbeat syncs with the engines like it always does. Sparks travel all the way to my knuckles, and I grip the wheel tighter.
Speed, noise, danger—that’s air to me.
All I have to do is what I always do.
What’s the difference? Just the scale of it. Pfft—scale. Fuck the scale. I’ll outscale everyone.
Lark does all the talking. She drops the name we settled on, and just like that, we’re waved into position. It’s almost effortless. Nothing goes wrong. Before long, we’re slid in beside the other drivers.
By the time the starter girl drops the flag, I’m locked in.
It’s just my foot on the pedal, the road, and the competition.
The Camaro lunges forward. Tires scream. The engine roars like a heartbeat made of gunfire. The first stretch is all raw speed, the industrial strip’s cracked asphalt whipping under us. Neon from streetlamps blurs into gold streaks on the hood.
Lark’s laughing beside me, one hand gripping the roll bar, the other pointing ahead like I need directions.
“Take him on the inside!” she yells over the engine.
I do. We slip past a silver Skyline with barely a breath between our mirrors.
