Chapter 1
Gianna
Booker Bay looks different at night.
Show and muscle cars block off the usually quiet street on the outskirts of town. The old blast furnaces were shut down a century ago, and straight down the middle of the two tall brick towers is a strip of asphalt that happens to be a quarter mile long.
It’s now our own personal racetrack.
My foot hovers over the accelerator, guiding my classic ’67 Mustang Fastback through a swarm of people. They slowly part as I join the other waiting racers. We’ve probably got an hour before the police show up – not that they’d catch any of us.
Living coastally, most people develop hobbies like surfing or maybe pottery-making, but it’s the formula of burnt rubber, gasoline and risk that claims my addiction. It’s like a drug, and everyone here is looking for their next hit.
Even if you hate cars, you’d love it here.
In the passenger seat, Chuckie has one front paw out the window, relaxed amid the commotion. His copper-tinged coat shines under the headlights while his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth, enjoying the crisp night air.
I’m waving to some of the regular racers as they stand by their popped hoods, displaying their engines while spectators snap photos on their smartphones, when a sudden flash of black darts in front of me. I slam on the brakes, my hand shooting out to stop Chuckie from jolting forward. I suck in a sharp breath as I miss the motorbike by inches. The rider stops right in front of me, blocking my path. He’s dressed head to toe in black leather. The black chrome visor of his helmet conceals his face, but I feel his gaze zeroed in on me.
A jolt of electricity charges between us. I narrow my eyes and press the clutch in, about to give a few warning revs before I run his ass over, but he waves.
I tilt my head, trying to figure out if I know him, or if he’s mocking me.
He brings his gloved hand to his helmet and blows a kiss. I grip the steering wheel and scowl, pressing down on the accelerator. Hard. The revs boom through the crowd, making those around me jump and hoot, except him. His chest shakes.
Is this asshole laughing at me?
He finally moves his bike to the side and gestures dramatically for me to drive on. I keep my eyes locked on him as I pass, that jolt electrifying me again.
It can’t be … him?
Curiosity rises in me, a slight impulse to see the face under the helmet, but I push the feeling away.
No. He wouldn’t be here.
I focus back on what’s in front of me. The Lost Tropics race runs on random nights throughout the year, with no notice other than a text message the day of the meet. Only the best of the best are invited. It’s like winning the lottery, especially for a 22-year-old, even if I inherited the originalinvite from my brother Jace. Long before my first race, I made a promise to myself: always win.
I park along the kerb and flip down the car’s sun visor – to the right of the mirror is a polaroid of us. Our curly brunette heads are pressed together, mine tipped back, mid-laugh. Jace’s teeth were always a little straighter than mine, a flash of white against golden skin.
I press my fingers to my lips before brushing the glossy image.This race is for you, big bro.They always are.
I step out of the car, gravel crunching beneath my lug sole boots. Chuckie follows close behind. The subwoofers pump so loudly, my chest pulses with the beat.
Fiery red hair bobs my way, catching my attention.
‘Gia!’ Monique shouts over the rap music. ‘It’s about time you showed up. I didn’t think you were going to make it.’
I shrug. ‘I always make it.’
My best friend pulls me into a tight embrace, squeezing the breath from my lungs. When she releases me, I admire her outfit – a hot pink pair of bootcut leather pants styled with a long-sleeved crop that’s distressed in all the right places.
‘Did you just make these?’ I ask, gesturing to her pants. ‘They’re cute.’
She twirls on the spot and I notice theBy Moniquelabel she attaches to all of her designs. The same label is on the black corset top I’m wearing right now, which has delicate lacing at the front.
‘There’s a new fabric store in town. I’ve been going, like, every single day. I’m obsessed.’ Her brows shoot up. ‘Anyway, you feeling good about tonight?’
‘Always.’ The October breeze sends goosebumps over my thighs, and I hug my Booker Bay Kings jacket tighter around me.
