He squints at me, then lowers his voice. “You good, man? You look like death, but, like, the boring kind.”
“Never been better.” It sounds like the worst lie in history, but Lucian’s too polite to call me on it.
I’m not that drunk. And while I may be stupid, I’m not foolish. I’m fine to drive.
We walk to the starting line where the other drivers are already revving their engines. They’ve got their windows down and are blaring music. There are six cars in total, each one with a driver who has something to prove and nothing to lose.
Right at home then.
Someone’s rigged up a starting light with an old traffic signal perched on a crate at the end of the lot. The girl running it is barely out of college, eyes wild, arms wrapped in electrical tape. She counts us down with her fingers then hits the switch.
Green.The cars lurch forward in a chorus of engine and tire. I jam the accelerator. My seatbelt bites into my shoulder as the world flattens to a tunnel of speed and light. The city blurs by, nothing but shapes and motion, the rhythm of the traffic lights keeping time with my pulse.
First turn.The bridge. Lucian’s car hugs the inside, but I cut wide and late, taking the risk for the payoff. The back end fishtails, then catches, and I’m ahead for a second—just long enough to taste the lead before the yellow deathtrap screams past me on the straightaway.
Fuck yes.I smile. For the first time in weeks, I actually fucking smile.
Second turn.The cathedral. It glows white and cold in the dark. Its spires rise like daggers against the sky. The road here is narrow and slick with rain, but I know every crack and pothole. I downshift, glide through the curve, and edge past the green hatchback, its driver howling something obscene through the open window.
Third leg.The final sprint. Here’s where it always goes bad for me. The engine’s screaming, the city is nothing but streaks of gold and blue, and my hands are steady but my vision is starting to swim. I try to focus on the road, but I see flashes of everything I’m running from. My grandfather’s disappointed face. Ranier’s cold logic. Even the stupid, glittery smile of the omega I’m supposed to hate but can’t stop thinking about.
The finish is a sharp left into the old stadium lot. I’m in second, maybe third, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the rush and the noise, the possibility that this time, the story ends differently.
But it doesn’t.
I hit the brakes too late at the final turn. The tires lock, the world spins, and I see the tail lights of Lucian’s car as it whips past and then—impact.
My front-end crunches into the guard rail. Metal shrieks and glass shatters. For a split second, there’s nothing at all. Not pain, not fear, just a perfect blankness.
Then reality comes screaming back in a flood: the hiss of coolant on the engine, the reek of burning oil, blood dripping into my eyes. My head slams forward, then back, and I taste copper and whiskey and something sharp.
Outside, the other cars screech to a halt. Doors open. Feet pound the pavement.
Lucian’s voice is first. “Jesus, Bass. You dead?”
I might wish I was after my family finds out.
I try to answer, but my throat’s full of blood. Instead I just choke out a laugh.
Hands wrench at the door, but it’s jammed. Someone smashes the window. Glass rains down over my lap. Two sets of arms haul me out, feet scraping the ruined metal. I collapse on the cold asphalt. Every part of me hurts, but it’s a distant, echoey thing, like the pain belongs to someone else.
Lucian kneels beside me. His pale face is lined with sweat. “You okay? Say something.”
I spit a tooth onto the ground and grin. “Breakfast is on you, asshole.”
He laughs, the sound shaky but real, and then helps me to my feet. My knees buckle, but I don’t fall.
Sirens blare in the distance, but nobody’s sticking around for that. The other racers are already gone, engines fading into the night.
Lucian gets me to the curb and sits me down. “You should go to the ER. You look like shit.”
I shake my head. “Can’t. They’ll call my grandfather. He’ll kill me twice.”
He hesitates. “Want me to call anyone?”
I think of Ranier, of Wyatt, of the Everhart house and all the ghosts waiting for me. I think of Emery, the look on her face when I told her she’d never win.
“Nah,” I say. “I’ll walk it off.”
