by Tracy Wolff
Not that that matters, I tell myself firmly. Because I’m never going to meet him, never going to say a word to him. Most days it’s all I can do to get up and go to work and try to build some semblance of a normal life for myself. Adding in a guy, any guy, let alone one who is as hot and sexy and dangerous as Nic Medina, is totally out of the question. Especially since I’m pretty sure I’d never be able to work up the nerve to so much as talk to him.
“I’m positive,” I tell him. “He’s not my type.”
“Are you kidding me?” Vi snorts. “Nic is every girl’s type.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cris asks, looking a little disappointed.
“From afar,” she rushes to assure him. “Up close I’m pretty sure he’d scare the hell out of me.” She loops her arm through his as she bats her fake eyelashes hard enough to take flight.
It must be the reassurance Cris needs, though, because he begins ushering us deeper into the crowd. “Let’s find Raul before Nic’s race starts, get that over with. Then we’ll see if we can find a good spot to watch it from.”
A couple minutes later—after I’ve bumped into and rubbed up against more people than I want to think about—we come to a stop in front of a bright green Honda with fins and a purple stripe down the side. Thank God.
“Raul!” Cris exclaims. Vi and I watch as he participates in some kind of elaborate handshake–fist bump thing with a short, skinny guy who has huge gauges in his ears and more facial piercings than the average person has fingers. “We been looking for you, man!”
“Oh, yeah?” He smiles at us and though I expect it to be creepy considering the number of rings he’s got in his lips, he actually comes across as friendly instead. At least until I look into his eyes, which are as flat and cold as a snake’s. “What have you brought me?”
I shrink back a little at his words. Okay, strike friendly and go with sleazy instead. And because I want nothing more than to let Cris deal with it—or even better, to turn around and walk away—I force myself to step forward. Force myself to speak.
“Actually, my friend Victor sent me. He told me he talked to you about repairing the seats in my 370Z. I’m—”
“Jordan! Vic told me to be on the lookout for a gorgeous redhead.” He holds his hand out to me. I take it reluctantly, but he doesn’t do anything weird. Just shakes my hand firmly before letting it go. Thank God. “Did you bring the car?”
“Yeah. I parked it over there.” I point in the general vicinity of where I think I parked. It’s hard to tell because there are no defining markers out here—we’re on some guy’s private land and once you get past the cars and track, there’s just a bunch of empty space in all directions.
“Cool. We’ll check it out after Nic races. I can’t give you a price until I see the damage.”
“It’s pretty much total. The police destroyed the front and back upholstery when they were searching it.”
Raul mutters something less than complimentary about cops under his breath, but he moves on pretty quickly. “Victor says it’s a 370Z, right? Leather interior?”
“Yeah.”
“And the padding’s all ripped up, too?”
I nod.
He mutters something else I can’t quite catch. Then, “I can probably do it for twelve hundred.”
“Twelve hundred?” My stomach sinks. I was hoping for more along the lines of nine hundred. Which, I know, is super cheap considering the three shops I brought it to asked for between fifteen hundred and two thousand dollars. I’ve got the money, but that extra three hundred is what I have earmarked for my books next semester. If I spend it on my seats, I’m going to be struggling to find copies in the library once January comes.
But if I don’t spend it on my seats I’m going to be driving around in a seat that murders my back every time I get in the car. It’s pretty much a no-win situation.
Raul’s face falls a little at my prolonged silence—or maybe it’s just that I look as upset as I feel. Either way, he sighs and says, “Let me look at the car. You’re a friend of Victor’s, so maybe I can do it for a thousand.”
Relief sweeps through me, followed closely by shame. I know twelve hundred is a really good deal and I want to tell him that it’s fine, that I can pay it. But the truth is I can’t and I really appreciate the fact that he’s willing to drop the price even more. Maybe he’s not as sleazy as he looks.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.”
He shrugs a little, plays it off. “Just don’t let it get around, okay?”
“Of course not. I won’t tell anyone. I mean, I don’t even know anyone to tell except for Victor. Who I won’t tell if you don’t want me to. I mean—”
He laughs. “It’s all good, girl. I trust you.” He wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me close.
I stiffen as disappointment sweeps through me. If he thinks that’s how I’m going to pay for the extra three hundred dollars he took off, he’s sadly mistaken. I pull away, but before I can set him straight, the noise around us suddenly swells. The music gets louder and so do people’s voices, and underpinning all of that is the dark and rumbly sound of engines winding up.
“It’s about to start,” Cris exclaims as he wraps an arm around Vi’s shoulder and propels her forward.
I follow because I want to see the race. And because I want another look at Nic Medina—but nobody needs to know that but me.
“How long’s the race?” I shout as we press as close to the front as we can get.
I’m talking to Cris but Raul is the one who answers even as he looks at me like I’m crazy. “You really are new to this, aren’t you?”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks for the second time tonight. Is that something I should have known? Is it something else I missed out on because—
I slam on the brakes, stop myself from going there. I start every day thinking about it, end every night the same way. But I promised myself a long time ago that that was it. Beginning of the day when I’m still too vulnerable to block it. End of the day when I’m half awake, half asleep, and I can’t avoid it anymore. But the rest of the time—when my conscious brain is in control—I don’t think about it. Ever. It’s how I stay sane. How I try to build a life for myself despite everything.
“I am new,” I tell him after I shove the past down deep and find my voice again. “I’ve never been to a drag race before.”
“Never?” He looks shocked, like he can’t imagine anyone living her life without the thrill of the races. And maybe he’s right to feel that way because now that I’m here—now that the sights and sounds and smells are working their way inside me—I’m not sure I’ll be able to live without the thrill, either. This place is fun. And the people I’ve met are a lot nicer than I ever would have anticipated.
“Never.”
He shakes his head. “Well, you’re here now. I guess that’s all that matters, right?”
“Right.”
“Each loop of the track is a mile. But most of the time people don’t run the whole track. They run one straightaway, which is a quarter mile.” He points at the long straight line between the curves at either end of the racetrack.
“So each race is a quarter mile long?”
“Yeah. Sometimes they’re an eighth of a mile, sometimes they’re longer—especially when you’re street racing. But here, on the track, most of the time they’re a quarter of a mile.”
I look at where the five cars are lined up at what I can only assume is the starting line. A bright orange Honda is the first car. An electric blue Camaro is second. Nic’s sleek, black muscle car is third. Then there’s a purple Mitsubishi, followed by a yellow Honda that looks vaguely like the first one, but it’s been so customized that it’s hard to imagine it’s the same kind of car.
Which is what this whole world seems to be about. Each person’s car looks a little different than anyone else’s. Designs, spoilers, wheels, bumpers, stickers, colors…there’s something for everyone. And judging from all the talk o
f engines I heard as I walked through the crowd, everyone is running something a little different under their hoods, too.
It’s crazy. The 370Z is the second car I’ve owned—my first died a terrible death in an accident a couple weeks ago on Mission Boulevard. It wasn’t a fancy car, just a used Toyota Camry that was as dependable as it was boring. It was also nearly ten years old with close to two hundred thousand miles on it, so the insurance company totaled it out without a second thought. Hence the reason I bought my new car at the police auction. It was the best shot I had of stretching the insurance money enough to get something that wouldn’t break down on me.
The noise around me reaches a crescendo as the five cars on the track start revving their engines and Vi reaches back, grabs my hand excitedly. I nearly laugh—for someone who had been so disdainful of the whole drag racing thing barely an hour ago, she’s certainly gotten into the spirit of it. Of course, I think that has as much to do with the way Cris’s hand is looped around her waist as it does the actual race, but who am I to judge? She came here with me, she’s having a good time…what more can I ask for?
Just then, the flag goes down on the track and the cars take off. Fast.
“How fast are they going?” I ask Cris, yelling to be heard above the screams of the crowd.
Before he can answer, the race is done. Nic came in first—no surprise there, according to Cris, followed closely by the yellow Honda and the purple Mitsubishi.
“That’s it?” I have to admit I’m a little astonished. “All that buildup and it’s over in ten seconds?”
“Nine,” Cris tells me. “Not bad considering Nic just made a hundred grand.”
“A hundred thousand dollars.” I know he told us the buy-in was thirty thousand dollars, but there was a part of me that had thought he was joking.
He grins at Vi, who looks almost as shocked as I feel. “Yeah. The buy-in is thirty thousand each and Crusher gets ten percent. Winner takes the rest. One hundred and five thousand dollars.”
I make less than a third of that in a year as a waitress-student and Nic Medina just made it in nine seconds? How is that even possible?
“How often does he race?” I ask, fascinated, as he pulls back around to where his friends are waiting for him. As he climbs out of his car, he looks even sexier than he did earlier. I’m not sure if that’s because of the adrenaline that still has to be coursing through him from the race or because of the fact that he’s now a hundred thousand dollars richer than he was ten minutes ago.
“He’ll probably go two or three more times tonight. There’s always a bunch of idiots who think they can beat him with whatever bullshit they’ve pumped into their engines.”
“Two or three more times?” Vi’s eyes widen incredulously. “With a thirty thousand dollar buy-in each time?”
Raul joins in the conversation for the first time since the race ended. “The buy-in will fluctuate a little, but yeah. He’ll probably make three hundred thousand dollars before he leaves tonight.”
“Drag racing.” I can’t wrap my head around it.
He grins at me. “Drag racing.”
“Why doesn’t he race once a week then?” Vi demands. “If he can make that much?”
“It doesn’t work that way. Just like everything else, the higher the demand the more it costs,” Cris tells her.
“So the longer he makes people wait to race him, the more money the buy-in is.”
Raul nods. “Exactly.”
“It makes sense, I guess. But I still think it sounds crazy.” He’s going to make one third of a million dollars tonight. Why the hell does the guy even need to work in a garage?
I’m about to ask that question when a tingle works its way down my spine. It’s the same tingle I get whenever I sense danger—just one more thing left over from my life before I moved to San Diego two years ago.
Glancing around surreptitiously, I try to find the source of my discomfort. Which is hard considering no one seems to be paying the least bit of attention to me. I’m about to shrug it off—it wouldn’t be the first time my imagination got the best of me, even this week—when I glance back at Nic Medina’s group.
And realize that he’s looking straight at me.
Chapter 2
Nic
“I haven’t seen her around before.” Jace nudges me as he follows my gaze. “You going to go say something to her?”
“Nothing to say. She’s with Raul.” But she’s looking my way, her big, brown eyes staring straight at me despite the crowds that separate us.
“I don’t know about that. I saw him earlier and he didn’t have anyone with him.”
“Things change. Obviously.” I watch through narrowed eyes as Raul moves in. He runs a hand down her back, wraps his arm around her waist. It makes me want to smash his face in. Then again, I have that response pretty much every time I see Raul. That doesn’t mean it has anything to do with her.
“Yeah, well, if she likes that asshole, then she’s not worth it, man. Even if she is hot as fuck.” He claps me on the back before turning around to join in Payton and Sean’s conversation.
I tend to agree with him—any girl who hangs around with Raul has got really shitty taste in men. But still…I don’t know. There’s something about her that keeps me looking. And it’s not just her red hair that makes her stand out, either, though I’d be a liar if I said it wasn’t what I noticed first about her.
She isn’t reacting to Raul’s touch—doesn’t look to be rejecting or accepting it. But that could be because she’s too busy staring at me, her eyes so wide it’s a miracle they haven’t swallowed half her face by now. Too bad I can’t tell if she likes what she sees.
Even as I wonder if she knows what she’s getting into with Raul, I lift a brow at her in a silent is-there-something-I-can-help-you-with look. She flushes, her pale skin turning a rosy pink that intrigues me almost as much as those big brown eyes and miles of red hair. But before she can respond—if she’s even going to respond—Raul says something to her. Moves to steer her away. And she lets him.
So that’s one question answered then.
I ignore the little twinge of disappointment inside me—I don’t even know her—and concentrate on something else instead. Something better. Like the one hundred and five thousand dollars Crusher is preparing to hand over to me. Still, it doesn’t stop me from casting one last look her way—and grinning when I realize she’s looking back over her shoulder at me.
“Nice job, my man,” Crusher says as he approaches.
“It was a good race.”
“Yeah, ’cuz you were in it,” Jace agrees, joining the conversation.
“Too true,” Crusher agrees. “You up for another one?”
I start to tell him no, that I’m just here to chill tonight. But she’s still glancing back at me and despite the fact that I don’t normally fall for lookie-loos, there’s something about her that intrigues me. That makes me want to see her face right before—and right after—I win.
“Yeah. I’ll do one more.”
Payton turns to look at me, brows raised and lips twisted in a knowing smirk. I ignore her because why and when I choose to race is nobody’s business but my own.
Behind me, I hear the rev of an all-aluminum supercharged 5.4L V8-engine. Which means my man Ryan’s up next in his Shelby GT. I turn just in time to see the race start—and Ryan roll first across the finish line 10.7 seconds later. It’s a good time, very good, but the car’s capable of more when the driver isn’t so heavy on the throttle. I should know—I built her myself.
I thought I’d compensated for his heavy-handedness—after all, it’s not a surprise. He’s had the same problem since we were joyriding at sixteen. Looks like I’ll need to make a couple more adjustments the next time I’ve got her in the shop.
Crusher snags my attention again, starts giving me the details of my next race. But my phone rings before he can tell me when I’m up. A quick glance lets me know it’s my sister, Lena—and that I
’ve missed three calls from her already. Alarm bells sound all over the place. She knows where I am. If she’s calling, four times, something must be really wrong.
“What’s up?” I ask as soon as I swipe accept. “Benji okay?”
She’s sobbing too hard for me to make out her words. Worry hits me like a sledgehammer and I duck into my car, slamming the door behind me to block some of the noise pouring at me from all sides. “Whoa, slow down, honey. Take a deep breath. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
She chokes out something else, but she’s still crying and between that and the loud music and rev of engines, it’s pretty fucking hopeless. “Come on, Lena. Give me something to work with here.”
Suddenly the sound of her crying is gone and my younger brother is on the phone. “Hey, asshole. This is your fault. You need to fix it.”
Frustration joins the worry as I white-knuckle my steering wheel. “What’s my fault?”
“Cop came to the door a while ago. He’s looking for you.”
“That’s what’s got her so upset?” It wouldn’t be the first time the police have been at my door, but since I’m walking the pretty narrow right now, there’s no cause for anyone to freak out about it. Certainly not Lena.
“He mentioned Benji’s broken arm,” Joe tells me. “The trip you made with him to the emergency room a couple days ago. The one we made last month when we thought he’d gotten a concussion. Said you should give him a call if we don’t want child protective services sniffing around.”
He says more, but I don’t hear much beyond Cop. Benji. Child services. “I’m coming home right now.” I pull my key out of my pocket, slide it into the ignition.
“This is your fault,” he tells me again. “You better find a way to fucking fix it.”
“I said I’m on my way. Get her calmed down and get Benji to bed.”
“He’s already in bed, asshole. You aren’t the only one who knows how to do things around here.”
I grit my teeth, work to keep my cool when what I really want to do is tell him to fuck off. My baby brother and I don’t get along at the best of times—guess the whole me-going-to-jail-during-his-formative-years didn’t really work in our favor—and lately he’s been riding me extra hard. I put up with it to keep the peace, and because I feel guilty as fuck for getting shunted off to prison when he was seven, but I’ve about had enough. Something needs to give.