Fear spikes my heart, but just the right amount keeps my focus sharp. I blow out my cheeks and roll the tension from my neck, satisfied when I hear a pop.
‘Hey, skirt.’ A man whistles from the vehicle beside me, instantly making me regret keeping my windows open. ‘If you can actually handle that stick, maybe you can handle mine.’
I scowl. ‘Dream on.’
A haughty laugh leaves his throat. ‘With pleasure. Want to make it interesting?’
Reluctantly turning my head, I take in his tanned skin, bleached blond hair and green eyes that crinkle around the edges. We’re about the same age, but he looks like he’s seen someshit. Any empathy goes out the window, though, when he smirks and I notice thelook. The same look that flashes across every man’s face when he thinks that, just because I’m a girl, I can’t race.
I fight the satisfaction that pulls at my lips.
New blood.
He lifts a hand, showcasing a few hundred-dollar notes wedged between his fingers. I eye his vehicle, a souped-up Honda Civic CRX Type R. There are probably a few modifications done to the K20 motor, but he’s focused too much on aesthetics, adding chrome accessories that increase weight. The camber of his tyres also won’t help him on the straight.
I can take him.
‘Two,’ I say simply.
‘Done.’ He lets loose a wicked grin. ‘But when I win, I don’t want your money. I want your name. Mine’s Landon, but you can call me daddy if you want. Or maybe you prefer Papacito?’
Gross.
Also, I’m half Filipina, not Hispanic, you asshole.
He rolls to the starting line, leaving laughter in his wake. I position myself beside him. Four sets of headlights light up the asphalt. My attention zeroes in on the finish line. The Mustang has never lost a race, and tonight will be no different. I owe it to Jace.
I reach into the back, turning the knobs for the dual canister nitrous oxide tanks perched in the middle seat. The NOS has a direct fuel line to the engine. All I need to do is flick the switch for a power boost. It’s crazy what a little oxygen can do.
X holds his green bandana above his head, making his way to the middle of the straight with a trail of smoke billowing behind him. Already in first gear, I press down on the accelerator, letting the revs rumble my threat. I usually ignore the onlookers, but for some reason, I’m not in the zone tonight, and I can’t help myself as my eyes flicker across their faces. My breath catches at the sight of one in particular. The motorcyclist in the black helmet.
No. It can’t be him.
I shake my head to blink the vision away and when I look up again, he’s gone.
I swallow, unsticking my tongue from the roof of my dry mouth. ‘He wouldn’t be here,’ I mumble, trying to soothe myself.
The sound of tyres squealing snaps me back to reality. X’s bandana is on the ground, and the other racers have already sped off.
Shit.
My engine roars as I release the clutch and race forward, slamming down on the accelerator to catch up. Revs howl through the night as the Mustang hits the limiter. I upshift to second gear, seeing flashes of Landon’s red Civic in my peripheral.
Third gear.
The other two drivers have fallen behind.
Fourth gear.
I lock my focus dead ahead, not allowing him to distract me.
‘I got this.’ I smile, licking my lips.
Fifth gear.
Few things make my blood rush like this. My entire body feels like it’s both on fire and doused in ice. The crowd blurs on either side of the track, and the red button in the centre of my steering wheel is screaming to be pushed. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s too soon, but that’s all it is, a moment. I hit the NOS and the back of my head smacks into the headrest as my stomach gets left behind. My speedometer reads 160 mph. Now, there’s no one in my peripherals.
I don’t risk it, hitting the NOS once more for the second canister to release. 180.
