by Kami Garcia
“He said to turn on Second Street,” she says finally.
“We just passed it.”
She flips a U-turn and loops back. Three tough-looking men sit on the porch of a boarded-up house, smoking. “I can’t believe he came here.”
The street runs parallel to a set of train tracks rusting on the other side of a chain-link fence. Trains stopped coming through the Downs a decade ago.
“Headlights.” I point at glowing halos in the distance. “Park under a streetlight.”
“I’m not walking all the way over there.”
“If the cars racing here look anything like the ones in Lot B, the Fiat won’t exactly blend in.”
“Fine.” Lex parks next to the curb. “But if it gets stolen, Abel is buying me a new one.”
I hope that’s the least of our problems.
Lex follows me toward the lights. “He said to look for a black car with white racing stripes. I can’t remember what he called it.”
We reach the edge of the crowd and spot the main attraction—dozens of classic muscle cars, like the Camaro in Shop class, and sports cars with flashy paint jobs, lined up a row. Hoods are popped and doors hang open while music pulses from sound systems loud enough to rival the ones in most clubs. Girls dressed in everything from fitted shorts and heels to boyfriend jeans and metallic high-tops mill around between the cars or check out the engines with the guys like they’re at a car show, while the owners lounge in the driver’s seats.
At the end of the row of cars, people are standing along an empty stretch of road.
“Who’s ready to race?” a girl with straight jet-black hair that reaches past her waist shouts from the middle of the street. The combination of knee-high lace-up boots, black tank, shiny black pants, and deep red lipstick against her alabaster skin makes her look like a character from a video game.
People whistle and shout, and the atmosphere instantly changes from street party to casino floor. Bookies rush to collect bets as a midnight-blue Mustang and an iridescent-white Acura line up side by side in front of Video Game Girl. Engines rev, and a surge of energy buzzes through the crowd like an electric current.
Video Game Girl raises her arms.
The moment they drop, tires squeal and clouds of exhaust billow into the air. The whole place smells like burnt rubber and rotten eggs.
I scan the sea of unfamiliar faces, searching for Abel or a car like the one Lex described.
Off to the side of the racing strip, three guys are drinking in front of a black car parked on the grass—a car with white stripes running down the middle. A guy wearing a hooded leather jacket bends down and grabs a huge beer can. I catch a glimpse of another leather jacket—the worn black one that belonged to Abel’s dad.
“I see him.” I’m not about to point at anybody here.
“Where?” Lex pushes up on her toes as people weave in front of us and block her view.
“To my left, by the car. He’s standing between the guy who just grabbed a beer and the one with the writing tattooed on his neck.” I nudge her with my elbow when she stares too long. “Be subtle. They don’t look friendly.”
Lex stops walking, and a girl behind us bumps into me.
“Excuse you!” she snaps.
“Sorry.” I grab Lex’s arm and pull her away from the crowd. “Are you trying to get our asses kicked?”
Lex stares back at me, chin trembling. “What if your dad wasn’t working tonight and you couldn’t get out of the house? I’d be here alone right now.”
“Bullshit. I never would’ve let you come by yourself.”
“But Abel did.” Her eyes well. “He should’ve told me to bring someone. He wasn’t even worried about me.”
I take her by the shoulders. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“Yes, I do.” She swallows hard. “Because I’m here.”
“He knew you’d bring me,” I try to reassure her.
The sound of roaring engines fills the silence, and people yell and whistle near the starting line. The race must be over.
“Let’s pay these guys and get Abel. Then we’ll figure out what’s going on with him. Okay?”
Lex nods and wipes her face, even though she didn’t let a single tear fall. In elementary school, she cried all the time. Her parents traveled constantly, leaving Lex at home with a rotating team of nannies. I got used to her tears, and then one day they stopped. Crying doesn’t make you feel better, Lex told me. It’s just a different kind of miserable.
I never understood what she meant until after Noah died. I sobbed for weeks, but it didn’t dull the pain. I carry it with me. I’m not strong enough to watch anyone else I care about get hurt.
Abel hasn’t moved from his spot between the two guys, who are still hammering down beers. Not good. Assholes and alcohol don’t mix. Abel crosses and uncrosses his arms, the way he does whenever he’s nervous.
This situation could go bad really fast. People engaging in illegal activities aren’t generally fans of new faces, and I’ve suffered through enough of Dad’s what-if scenarios to recognize a potentially dangerous situation.
The guy with the black letters tattooed around his neck falls into that category. He leans casually against the driver’s-side door of the car. The curved fenders remind me of the Batmobile, but the guy with the neck ink looks more like a prison inmate than a superhero.
Abel notices us walking toward them and says something to him. The guy tips his chin at us. Even in this light, I notice how flushed his face is from drinking.
Shit.
He punches Abel in the arm. “Check it out, Rock Star. Your groupies came to bail out your sorry ass.” His friend laughs as he looks Lex and me up and down.
“Race is starting, Turk.” A third loser climbs out of the passenger seat. He’s taller than his friends, and he smiles at me with a mouthful of crooked teeth.
“We brought the money,” I shout over the engines and the music.
“After the race. I’ve got two fifty riding on this one.” Turk waves us off and angles his body toward the street, offering me a clearer view of the writing wrapped around his throat like a dog collar. It’s hard to read, but I make out two of the words: PLAY HARD.
Abel clears his throat in an obvious move to get our attention. He gives Lex and me a pleading look and mouths, Sorry.
Puppy dog eyes and an apology won’t cut it. This isn’t like the time he called us from the police station after streaking through the mall in his underwear on a dare. Or when he needed a ride home from a club after the two girls he was dating at the same time ran into each other, and one of them left with his car.
A yellow Nissan and a silver Honda hatchback pull up for the next race. Video Game Girl walks between the cars and talks to the drivers. When she returns to her spot on the white starting line, the drivers gun the engines louder, and the crowd snaps to attention.
Conversations stop, and spectators climb onto the roofs of the crappier cars for a better view.
Video Game Girl raises her arms above her head.
When they drop, tires screech and the stench of burnt rubber fills the air again. The cars rocket down the street faster than I’ve ever seen any vehicle move in real life. Their taillights grow smaller and smaller until both cars vanish into the darkness.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Abel, ignoring the guy in the hooded leather jacket next to him.
He shrugs. “I met a girl in class. She told me people were racing tonight.”
Lex’s eyes drill into him. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Abel stares at the ground. “People started taking bets, and one thing led to another.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Lex says.
I jab a finger against his chest. “Save your bullshit for someone who believes it. When we get out of here, you’re going to tell me how long you’ve been doing this.” If I’m risking my dad’s wrath, I want to know why.
Abel’s prison guard smirks.
&nb
sp; Headlights blink in the distance, and a wave of excitement ripples through the crowd. The two cars emerge from the darkness neck and neck. At the last possible second, the yellow Nissan pulls ahead and crosses the line first.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Turk snaps his fingers and points at the tall guy with the crooked teeth. “Shawn? Pass me another forty.”
“Heads up.” Shawn tosses Turk a huge beer can.
He catches it, pops the tab, and chugs the beer, giving me a clear view of his tattoo. The uneven block letters read PLAY HARD. DRIVE HARD.
Turk finishes the beer and gestures at the money rolled up in my hand. “Let’s see what you got.”
I move toward him, holding up the bills between my fingers to avoid touching him. Up close, his eyes are glassy, and his face looks even redder.
“Sung, count it,” Turk says to the guy in the leather jacket.
The bills slide effortlessly between Sung’s fingers as he counts them like a blackjack dealer. He finishes and slaps the money in Turk’s hand. “They’re short three hundred.”
“I thought he owes you five hundred dollars.” I make eye contact with Turk.
“I do.” Abel’s eyes dart between us.
Turk laughs. “You forgot about interest.”
CHAPTER 9
JEKYLL AND HYDE
A dangerous situation is like dog crap: You don’t always see it until you’re standing in it. Or, like Lex, Abel, and me, until you are knee-deep.
Nobody knows we came to V Street tonight, and it’s the last place anyone would look for us. Why didn’t I leave Dad a note? Nothing too specific, or he’d send his cop buddies to find me the minute he realized I’d snuck out. Just a trail of bread crumbs to follow in case something went wrong.
Now Turk holds all the cards.
“This is bullshit.” Abel’s jaw twitches. “I only owe you five hundred bucks. You can’t hustle me just because you know I’ve got money.”
“I can do whatever I want because this”—Turk opens his arms wide—“is my house. That means you play by my rules.”
“Fine. Take me to an ATM, and I’ll get the rest,” Abel says.
“You aren’t real smart, are you, Rich Boy? ’Cause we covered this after the race. Do I look like a taxi service?” Turk’s neck muscles bulge, distorting the words on his neck.
Even if I throw in my two hundred, Abel will still be short a hundred dollars. I don’t see Turk giving him a discount.
Calm down and think.
Dad started teaching me his this-might-save-your-life-one-day skills when I was in kindergarten, but none of them helped the night Noah died.
That’s because you didn’t do anything.
I mentally scroll through the list, searching for a way out of this mess. If you’re outnumbered, act crazy, Dad told me at least a dozen times. Start pacing and talking to yourself about crap like aliens and conspiracy theories. No one wants to screw with a crazy person. Unstable equals unpredictable.
Dad demonstrated while I lectured him about the harsh realities of mental illness. His world and mine were so different, and until three months ago, I had never witnessed the kind of violence he faced every day.
Even if I could pull off conspiracy theory–level crazy, the window for convincing Turk I’m unstable has already closed. Dog psychology—Act dominant to establish the alpha position—is also out. Turk looks like the kind of guy who would love to get aggressive.
What he cares about is money.…
“I have two hundred dollars on me.” I pull out the cash I brought and gesture at Lex. “What if we go and get the rest of the money instead? Give us thirty minutes, and we’ll bring you two hundred more.” Maybe the extra hundred will satisfy him.
Turk whips around, invading my personal space. “Nobody’s leaving. You think I’m stupid?” Yes. The suffocating combination of sweat and cheap cologne clings to his body, which is way too close to mine.
“Turk, this is between you and me.” Abel tries to take a step, but Sung throws his arm up in front of Abel, blocking his path.
“Send one of your friends with us if you don’t trust me.” The thought of being in the same car with either of them makes my skin crawl. “If we don’t go, you only get the seven hundred we have on us.”
“Frankie?” Lex sounds like a little girl calling for her mom in the dark. She’s losing it.
I give her a death glare and focus on Turk. “Will that work?”
Come on.… Say yes already.
He nods. “But your friends stay here. Both of them. You’re the only one who goes.”
“Get your ass out of my way,” a girl snaps.
Cruz, the girl from my Shop class, shoves Shawn and heads in our direction. She’s wearing tight jeans, like most of the other girls here tonight. But with her high ponytail, black Lycra tank, and turquoise-silver-and-black Nike basketball high-tops, she comes off as confident and tough.
Abel points at her. “That’s the girl I met in class.”
Cruz looks at Abel like he’s an idiot and stops beside me. Not that she acknowledges my existence. It’s a replay of Shop class.
“Is this a private party, Turk?” She toys with the silver chain around her neck.
“Not without you, baby.” He stares at her chest without bothering to hide it. “Just handling some business.”
“When did you start doing business with the Royals?” She throws a disgusted look at Abel, Lex, and me.
“I don’t discriminate when it comes to money.” Turk rolls his shoulders in an obvious check-out-my-muscles move.
She smiles at him. “Then get your money and send them back to the Heights so we can have a beer.”
“I need some time. They’re short, but Sung’s gonna take care of it.” Turk’s cell rings, and he checks the display. “I gotta take this,” he tells Cruz, stepping away. “It’s business.”
“You owe him money and you don’t have it?” Cruz hisses under her breath. “Are you crazy?”
Turk’s rejects notice her talking to me, but they seem amused by the dirty looks Cruz keeps throwing my way. I’m not sure if she wants to help me or hurt me.
“My friend Abel owes him money. We brought it down here for him, but Turk changed the amount.”
“Shit.”
Turk pockets his cell and points at Sung with his beer can. “Go get my money.”
“On it.” Sung shoves Abel against the car and heads in my direction. He’s bigger than I thought, and his huge thighs make him bowlegged. As he walks by, his hand clamps around the top of my arm.
“I can walk by myself.” I try to pull away, but he jerks me forward.
Lex watches, frozen in place. I catch a glimpse of something behind her—two silhouettes moving toward us. One is closer and picks up speed.
“Cruz?” a guy calls out.
“Over here!” she shouts.
Deacon Kelley—the guy Miss Lorraine kicked out of the rec center—charges in our direction. He’s wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt, and the lights illuminate his pale skin. And his scars. The gnarled web runs halfway down his arm, twisting through a black tattoo as if it was designed around the scars. On his forearm, a withered hand reaches for a girl trapped in a birdcage inked on his shoulder. The hand strains against the scars wrapped around it like ropes.
Deacon stops short, his ice-blue eyes darting past me to where Cruz is standing. “What’s going on?” Without waiting for a response, he turns on Sung. “Are you assholes messing with my girl?”
Cruz rolls her eyes. “I’m not your girl anymore, Deacon. It’s been two years.”
Deacon takes off his baseball cap and chucks it at the ground, scowling. He paces in a circle, rubbing his hand over the inch of white-blond hair covering his scalp. It blends into his skin perfectly, and at first glance he looks bald.
Cruz’s comment clearly bothered him.
“Stop it, Deacon. Not now,” she says. “Get your shit together.”
Deacon nods, then pi
cks up his cap and puts it back on. Okay, he’s officially crazy—and if his expression is any indication, seriously pissed off. He slides a toothpick into the corner of his mouth and turns his attention back to Sung. “You going somewhere?”
“Why do you care?”
Deacon’s mouth curls into a deranged smile. “I don’t. I’ve just never seen you with a girl before. Did you dose her drink?”
“What did you say just to me?”
The second figure emerges from the glow of the headlights behind Lex.
Marco.
He stops and stares at the spot where Sung’s fingers are pressed against my skin. “Take your hand off her now, or I’ll rip your arm out of its socket.”
Shit.
“I don’t want anyone fighting because of me,” I say. “I’m fine.”
Deacon frowns and hikes up the jeans falling off his hips. “I think we’re working off a different definition of fine.”
I need to get away from Sung fast. “Let go before this gets worse,” I whisper to him.
“Leone!” Turk calls out.
Marco doesn’t look up.
Turk jogs over, holding a beer. Cruz follows, dragging a dazed Lex by the hand, and Abel trails behind them with Shawn.
“What’s the problem?” Turk storms past us and heads for Marco and Deacon.
Marco keeps his eyes trained on Sung. “If he doesn’t let go of her in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to take him apart.”
Turk points at me. “Her boy owes me money. Sung is riding with her to get it. There’s no problem here. Don’t start shit we’ll all have to finish.”
“Twenty seconds.”
Turk and Shawn flank Sung and me like soldiers in a firing line.
Deacon turns his baseball cap around backward. It’s like watching Clark Kent change into Superman … if Superman was a bloodthirsty lunatic. He pounds on his chest. “Who’s up first? ’Cause I haven’t sent anybody to the hospital in a long-ass time.”
Lex gasps, and Cruz rushes toward Deacon like she’s trying to prevent a bomb from detonating.
“Eight seconds.” Marco sounds too calm—the kind of calm that comes from not caring what happens to you. “Seven. Six.”