“Two.”
That means Chino won’t be able to go in with us, and I didn’t think I could ever be so grateful to hear that. I’ve already dragged him around enough. The last thing I need is for him to get in the way and die.
Or worse, having to watch him die.
Roman presses the gas, revving the car as we listen to the muffler’s loud roar while smoke spills from the back. “Let’s get moving, pretty boy.”
I hate it when he calls me that; it makes me feel like a bitch. With a smile, I flip him off and walk towards my car, where Chino already waits in the passenger seat.
The engine of my car idles beneath my feet, and the smell of oil and burnt rubber fills the night air. My heart flutters inside my chest, the normal dose of adrenaline that happens with each race. From the corner of my eye, I see the tiniest glimpse ofblue two cars down, and the lover boy inside of me jumps at the thought that it could be her.
I am expecting to see her here after all...
But it’s just snobby rich boys and people invited to Fright Night who fill the lot. Chino thought that we could find some answers if we infiltrated their circles, which is how we ended up in Cedarvale. Now we just follow the small breadcrumbs Alec is leaving for us. The truth is, we are also at his mercy, not just the girls. He’s just fucking with us in different ways. My hands begin to shake, the tremor runs through each digit for a moment, and I just watch the quake of my hand.
Before shifting my focus back to the race. Roman will be racing in the Mustang of one of the ODM assholes he beat up, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.
“What’s gonna happen next?” Chino asks, lowering the volume of the Bad Bunny song playing on the radio.
“You’re going to go home.”
Chino’s breathing becomes heavy, and then he smacks the dashboard. “Fuck you! After everything, I just get to go home?”
“Yes,” I say flatly, trying to control the pain in my voice. He’s right to be angry, but this is how he stays safe and out of the way. I will have to match Roman’s freak inside Fright Night. I’ll make it out of that hell hole either a new man or a dead man.
“I can’t keep exposing you, man.”
He scoffs, leaning his body into the seat. “Fuck you,” is all he says before the light turns green and the tires spin as I let go of the clutch and launch forward. Tires spinning, the car’s tail shifting to the side as my hand battles to straighten it.
This is the rush I live for ...the need for speed.
Roman is already ahead, tailing the silver Mitsubishi Eclipse in front of us—the car of another rich snob. I can safely assume it is part of ODM; they all have the same look. White pearly teeth, colored eyes, designer clothing, and the same body type. All ofthem are a copy and paste of some model in a magazine. All too naive to face someone like Roman Delgado, who lives off the violence.
“Yo, what’s this fool doing?” Chino blurts out, inching closer to the dash as the Mustang closes in, pushing the Mitsubishi into the guardrail.
“Isn’t it obvious what he’s trying to do?” My tone comes harsher than I intend, and I’m not necessarily okay with the things Roman does, but what can I truly do to stop him? He will get to Xena even if he has to leave a trail of bodies—he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Tokyo. And I can’t stand by that. Roman might have the brutality, but I have the patience. It’s just a matter of time before I have to dance with the devil myself.
Chapter Ten
Roman
The man inside the silver car beside me flips me off, trying to show some kind of machismo, some sort of strength in an already doomed situation. I jerk the steering wheel to the left, giving him room to inch ahead, pretending to let him pull forward. I want him to believe for a second that he might actually outrun me, lose me around the curves—but monsters are relentless.
Drawing a deep breath, I glance up at the moon through the open Mustang sunroof. Despite my actions, killing means nothing to me—I can live without it. But I cannot live without Xena. I refuse. As the other driver inches ahead, I veer hard right, ramming my bumper into his tail.
The car jerks, fishtails, then launches into the trees.
It hits the shoulder, flips twice, and crashes into a tree with a sound similar to a spine snapping in half.
Glass scatters. Metal shrieks.
And then silence.
Thankfully, the roads are deserted, and the cops were paid off by the sick rich bitches who host the fucking raves. According to Kai, the raves aren’t parties. They’re hunting grounds—bloodsport masked with lights and bass. The rich don’t dance. They devour.
Smoke curls around the car, hissing sounds fill the air—something's about to explode, that’s for sure.
I put the car in park, step out, and slam the door. My bad leg sears as I put weight on it, and branches splinter under my boots. The man groans—his face bloodied, about to get worse. I yank open his door, letting him tumble onto the grass, as the air grows thicker with smoke and gasoline.
