This race is mine.
Adrenaline hammers my bloodstream as I feel the power of my car begging to be unleashed. The guy with dreads throws both of his arms into the air. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve only built up to fast speeds, never taken off from them, but it can’t be that difficult. Lift the clutch at the exact same time I press the gas while shoving the car into gear.
This is what my Mustang was made to do.
Isaiah’s engine roars again and the sound vibrates between the layers of my skin and muscle. The guy with dreads looks at me once. Then at Isaiah. In a heartbeat, his arms rush down to the ground.
My right foot hits the gas, the other slips off the clutch. Isaiah’s Mustang’s front end rises into the air as I shift into First. His car lunges forward and I’m preparing for the whiplash of speed when my car shudders once and stalls out into silence.
No.
This isn’t happening.
No.
I took my foot off the clutch too quickly.
No.
I didn’t gun the engine in time.
Hell.
I never had a shot.
Isaiah’s already past the halfway point. I turn over the engine, ignore my instincts for a full-on start and focus on getting the car into gear. I’m finishing this race, even though it’s obvious who won.
Chapter 7
Isaiah
IN MY REARVIEW MIRROR, I watch as the angel restarts her car and floors it. Seconds ago, I had my doubts about whether I’d win, but my instincts were right on—she didn’t have the reaction needed to pull off a start at the flag. I won a whopping twenty dollars from the straight bet on this race, but I’m hoping for at least a grand once Eric gives me my take from his winnings.
My lips turn up as I pass the stop sign. My piece of crap beat an ’05 GT. That feat alone deserves a trip to the tattoo parlor. That is if I had money.
I ease off the gas and check the angel’s status. Damn, that car’s fast. I slow to a stop and wait for her to join me. The crowd gathered at the quarter mile calls out smack. A huge part of me wants her to cruise past and head straight home. Girls like her shouldn’t hear the words being tossed into the night. A small part of me wants her to stop so I can see her cute-pissed expression when she realizes that a street punk beat her and her expensive car.
The angel finally catches up and I lose the smirk as I examine her. The streetlamp above us creates a glow around the mess of hair angling her face. She shouldn’t be here. In fact, there’s nothing right about this situation.
My throat moves as I swallow and, suddenly, my skin feels too tight on my body. Instinct? A sixth sense? I learned early in life to never discount the sensation. The noise of the onlookers becomes a shallow buzz as I glance at my side mirrors for the oncoming danger.
That’s when I see it—a faint strobe of light. I ignore all other sounds and strain to hear the one that can ruin my world: a distant wail.
“Cops!” I yell.
Blue and red lights blaze in the distance. Chaos erupts as the bystanders scurry to their cars. Doors slam shut and anxious motors rumble to life. Feet pound against pavement as voices call for others to head into the dark alleys between the warehouses.
I shift my car into First and stomp on the gas. My tires squeal as I peel out. A curse leaves my mouth when I throw the car into Second. Eric has my money and collecting what I fully earned will be a lot more difficult without a crowd to verify the bets made.
No matter how fucking hard I try, I always come out on the bottom.
I check my mirrors to see the direction of the invasion. There’re three ways out of this labyrinth of warehouses and the cops know one, maybe two, but the third will be a hell of a drive.
A solitary white barrier in the middle of the street causes me to hit the brakes. “Fuck!”
She’s still sitting there—the angel—like a damn sacrifice nailed to the ground. I yank on the steering wheel and one-eighty it back to where I started seconds before. What the hell is wrong with her?
My driver’s side mirror barely misses hers as I stop next to her open window. “Get out of here.”
“I don’t know where to go.” Red flushes brightly on her cheeks, in stark contrast to the pale white skin surrounding her eyes. Eyes that are wide and wild with fear.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens. Fuck. Just fuck. Losing the cops in one car is hard enough. Having a tail will only complicate things, but I can’t leave her. “Follow me.”
Chapter 8
Rachel
ISAIAH CIRCLES MY CAR AND speeds off the way he originally came. I chase after him and do my best to shift with arms and legs that no longer want to accept orders. The speedometer climbs in my race to not fall behind.
The police.
Air catches in my lungs and throat, causing me to choke. My brothers are going to murder me. Kill me. Crucify me. And never let this screwup go. My hand slips off the gearshift to press against the nausea eating at my stomach.
My father will take away my car. My baby. He never would have bought it for me if he knew I had an addiction to speed.
And my mother...
How do I explain any of this? Why I’m out past curfew? Why I’m on the south side? Why I’m drag racing? Even worse, how do I explain why I wanted to be drag racing?
Isaiah turns sharply to the left. His brake lights never appear. I reach for the gearshift and switch pedals in order to make the turn. My back wheels slide out from under me and both hands struggle with the wheel as I fight to keep the car from spinning into a Dumpster.
Claustrophobia consumes me as the buildings gradually close in, making the road narrower and almost impossible to navigate. Garbage covers the roadway, and my stomach sinks as I realize there’s no way to avoid the debris. Isaiah runs over it and so must I.
Isaiah’s lights flash off and I follow his lead. The glow of the full moon is the only pathetic light leading us. His Mustang pulls farther away from mine, and I shift into Fourth. We’re going too fast. Too fast on a too-narrow road. I shudder as the wheels roll over trash and a clink from under my car makes me cringe. Did something hit the gas tank? The transmission?
My heart pounds out of my chest when my car becomes airborne through an intersection. From the corner of my eye, I spot police cars running parallel to us on a street much wider than ours. Sirens scream into the night and as my car hammers back into the ground, I wait for that sound to shriek from right behind me.
Darkness envelops me again and I drop gear as Isaiah takes a last-second right. He’s too fast, which is impossible because my car is better than his. I shake my head as I understand the difference: he’s a better driver. It’s not hard to imagine. I’m not good at anything.
Isaiah’s car fishtails and I slam on my brakes to keep from crashing into his rear end. My breath leaves my body in a hiss. On either side of my car, metal warehouse walls threaten to scratch my side mirrors. He slows, and thanks to the dim security light hanging over a bay door, I see the reason for the reduced speed: shredded rubber spikes out from his front driver-side wheel. Isaiah destroyed the tire.
Crap. I’m going to jail and my mother is going to freak. She’ll cry and then she’ll know I’m nothing like the daughter she really loves—that I’m nothing like Colleen.
Isaiah’s arm extends from his window, waving me on as he eases his car into a space between Dumpsters. I pull alongside of him and he hops out. “Two rights. One left. Then hit the freeway. Watch the cops. They’re running on the streets to the left and right of us.”