Bad Boy's Last Race

by Dallas Cole

  I don’t want to brag or anything—but she looks just a little bit impressed.

  3

  Sophie

  Darla waltzes into the kitchen, jolting me awake. Shit. I must’ve fallen asleep reading again. I force myself to sit up and feel the outline of my textbook embedded into my cheek. “Evening,” Darla calls, tossing her purse into the kitchen table chair opposite me. Then she notices the pot bubbling away on the stove. “Ooh. Dinner? I could get used to this.”

  “If that’s your way of asking me how long I’m staying . . .”

  “Hey, come on, Sophie. You know I don’t care.” She frowns and grabs a wooden spoon. “Uhh, how long has this been cooking for?”

  “Shit.” I hop up, yank the spoon from her hand, and use it to shoo her away. “I was trying to get through this fucking incomprehensible paper on electroshock convulsion therapy—”

  “Language,” Darla chides. Then she blinked a few times. “Wait. Where are the kids?”

  “Next door. I’ll go get them.” I give the stew a few quick stirs. Fortunately, it was cooking at a low enough heat that I haven’t ruined it entirely. I shut off the gas and reached for my sweatshirt. “Can you set the table?”

  Darla grins. “I always hated setting the table.”

  “That’s because Mom was a tyrant about place settings.” I unlock the kitchen door, only to find Ella and Jack already bounding up the stairs. “Man. You guys have some kind of psychic sense about dinner.”

  Ella regards me and says, in a gravely serious tone, “We don’t mess around.”

  I snort and glance at Darla. “Is that from our side of the family?”

  “What, being a smart-a . . . smart-aleck?” She raises one eyebrow at me. “Are you, of all people, asking me that?”

  “Point taken.”

  I help Ella hike up into her chair, then set to work dishing out the stew. God, it feels good to have a routine again, however briefly. Control—that’s what I’ve been craving. I’d lost my personal autonomy, as my professors would call it, for too long. I need to feel like I’m in control of my life again. I hate imposing on my sister like this—she has enough going on, with her kids and work and her marriage—but nothing makes me feel grounded like my big sister. She’s been my anchor through plenty a storm. I only hope I can make her life a little easier, too.

  “No Dave?” I ask, noticing she’s only set four places.

  Darla shakes her head. “Close of first quarter, plus tax season coming up . . . It’s like this every year. I turn into a widow until April fifteenth.”

  “Sorry. But look at you two, with your . . . corporate jobs, and house, and stuff. It’s adorable.”

  “You think it’s boring,” Darla says, the corners of her mouth twitching.

  “I said adorable. Besides. Boring is way underrated.” And that’s the understatement of the century. I shovel a mouthful of stew in my mouth and moan. “Holy—fudge. I’m stealing all your recipes, Darla.”

  “I’ll find the recipes if you’ll cook them.”

  I grin. “I’m gonna gain twenty pounds living with you, aren’t I?”

  “Welcome to life after grad school.” She glances toward her kids, who’ve practically buried their faces in their bowls. “So, you have any plans for the weekend?”

  I shake my head. “Just working on my thesis. I forgot how boring Ridgecrest is, anyway.”

  “Sophie’s going to a race! Her friend invited her,” Jack announces around a mouthful of stew. It’s dribbling down his chin, and already I’m thinking of how I’m going to use the stain stick to get that out of his shirt. God. Already turned nanny in just a few days.

  I shoot him a death glare. “I was invited to a race. And he’s not my friend.” I wave my spoon in the air. “But I am not going.”

  Darla lifts both eyebrows. “And who’s this friend?”

  “His name’s Jagger and he has a cool car,” Jack says. “He was buying a box of c—”

  “Just an old acquaintance. Ran into him at the gas station yesterday.” I shift in my seat, desperate for a change of subject. “Anyway, my thesis is coming along really well—”

  “Old? As in, you knew him from . . . before?” Darla fixes her dark gaze on me. That’s when I know I’m properly fucked. The Big Sister Death Stare can be lethal.

  “No, not . . . before.” I curl my arms around myself and try to shrink into my sweatshirt. “It’s—it’s really not a big deal—”

  “Is he nice?” Darla asks, tone softening. Somehow, that kills me more than the Death Stare. Because she thinks I’m breakable. Thinks I’m broken still.

  “I told him I was going to clean up this city,” Ella says.

  I stifle a laugh. “Yeah, Ella kind of, um . . . ran him over in one of her Wonder Woman frenzies.”

  “Sophie.” Darla reaches across the table and covers my hand with her own. “Do what you want, but . . . you can’t be afraid. Paralyzed, even. You’ve got to get on with your life eventually.”

  “I don’t need to go to some dick-swinging car race,” I mutter. “Err—sorry. Um. Ego-swinging?” Darla gives me a look. “My point is, I need . . . boring.”

  “So you’d rather spend your Saturday night helping me scrub toilets, file coupons, and watching the awful sequel to a mediocre animated movie about talking zoo animals?” Darla asks.

  I grimace. “I do have my thesis to work on.”

  “You also have your life to work on.” Darla withdraws her hand, picks up her spoon, and digs into her stew again. “I’m just saying . . . New experiences. New people. It might do you some good.”

  Good. Sure. I could use something good in my life.

  Whether or not I’ll find it around the likes of Jagger, though . . . I smirk to myself, remembering his sly grin, his filthy mouth, and, fuck, his well-oiled hips . . . How “good” he is remains to be seen.

  The warehouse district on Saturday night is a fucking carnival. I have to park on the periphery, in an unlit lot wedged between what looks like abandoned slaughterhouses, but the moment I climb out of my car I know I’m in the right place. The distant thrum of bass lines draws me toward the crowd like a pied piper, rattling around in my bones. Talking, shouting, singing, hollering—the crowd is doing it all.

  As I walk through the alleyway that leads toward an open plaza in the heart of downtown Ridgecrest, I have to skirt around the edge of what looks like some sort of epic dance-off. A pair of Latina girls are executing an intricately choreographed routine involving a lot of elbow bends and hand-waves, while an Asian guy answers them with slow, loping stomps. The crowd cheers and boos in equal measure while the DJ in his booth behind them weaves the beats.

  Further toward the plaza’s center, I pass a rap battle. Snippets of songs I know from old frat parties stitch themselves into put-downs, brags, and pickup lines. A snaking crowd of people flock around a taco food truck and a stack of kegs. White projector screens hang from the roofline of some of the warehouses, displaying what looks like a live feed from overhead of our plaza. Sure enough, I glance up and spied a trio of drones hovering overhead.

  And then there are the cars.

  Vintage cars, waxed until they glisten. Imported racers with massive foil spoilers and throaty mufflers. Muscle cars. Rusted-out pieces of shit that nonetheless throb with expensive stereo systems. Each cluster of cars sits in a different alley’s mouth, attended by their crew. I wonder what kind of car Jagger drives; what his crew is like. He was supposed to show me the new car he bought when he was in town the other week, but we never did make it that far.

  “Hey.” A voice at my shoulder jars me from my thoughts. “Hey, pretty girl. You wanna drop some E?”

  I wrinkle my nose and pull my shoulder bag tighter toward me. “Fuck off.”

  Dammit. This is such a mistake. I tug at my mini skirt, trying to will it to reach further down my thighs. Yeah, I’d had fun with Jagger—could have fun with him still—but the last thing I need is getting mixed up in a crowd like this, put up
with whatever kinds of scumbags spent their Saturday nights at an illegal, elaborately orchestrated street race—

  Then I see him.

  He’s in the center of a group clustered around a guy who looks to be the organizer, standing on a milk crate against one warehouse’s wall. My breath catches in my throat as Jagger tosses his head back with a laugh. I’d forgotten just how fucking cut he is. Lean, ropy muscles and a jawline carved from granite. He’s wearing mirrored aviators, stylish jeans, and a thin undershirt showing off every firm muscle of his well-tuned abs—

  Nope, Sophie, nope. This is definitely not what I need right now. I mean, look at all those girls crowding around him, their pleated skirts flipping up to reveal flashes of panties, their beestung lips perpetually reaching out for a kiss—I’m not one of those. I’m a little punk rock and a whole lot of damaged. Mansluts like Jagger have no time for girls like me. We’d had our fun, and no matter what he claims, the sooner I get over him, the better.

  But Jagger is looking past the girls. Ignoring them, even. Like he’s searching for someone. For me? Surely not—but I take a step back and let the crowd surround me, all the same.

  The organizer finishes chatting with Jagger and his friends, then motions to the DJ. The electronic music fades down into a low-key bass line and a fanfare of chords. “All right, freaks and geeks, lugnuts and lovely ladies!” The organizer holds a megaphone to his mouth to summon the crowd.

  Conversations die out all around me as everyone presses deeper into the plaza. Some of the girls I’d seen swooning over Jagger start pushing back the crowd and setting up plastic traffic cones to make way for the cars.

  “Tonight’s race isn’t just any old adrenaline-fueled thrill ride. Hell no! Tonight, we ride for privilege. For the right to compete in the tri-state spring invitational! We have a record-breaking fifteen entries tonight, so I guess none of y’all are missing the McManus crew too much, huh?”

  Boos all around. I cock my head to one side. Some sort of Ridgecrest racing crew drama, I gather.

  “But of those fifteen, only the top five hard-assed motherfuckers will qualify for the tri-state. So pick your favorites, place your bets—don’t lie, I know y’all place bets—and bottoms up, bitches! The race is about to begin!”

  Cheers and screams and roars all around me. I muster up some applause. Oh, my god, this is so not my scene, but it’s hard not to get caught up in the enthusiasm. The girl next to me, in cut-off shorts and a bikini top, throws her arm around my shoulder and hugged me tight. “I’m so fucking stoked!” she screams, right in my ear.

  “Yeah!” I shout back, trying to match her tone. To new experiences, right? To my new life. To anything but what I left behind.

  Slowly, the cars roll into place, three across. The narrow alleys leading out of the plaza and into downtown Ridgecrest woudn’t allow for anything more. I spot Jagger at the wheel of what looks, to my untrained eye, like a classic muscle car, something meaty and American. It’s cool in a classic way, old but sturdy, with a deep blue paint that dazzles like it was a sea of stars.

  “Hey,” I ask my new friend. “What kind of car is that?”

  She takes a swig of beer and squints. “Oh! That’s a Firebird. Jagger’s new ride. He’s with the Drazic Muscleworks crew.” She grins at me. “You sweet on Jags?”

  I feel my face flush. “Not exactly.”

  “Yeah, well, get in line.” She gestures toward the track bunnies I’d seen earlier, bouncing and waving at Jagger. “Not my type, personally. But damn if he ain’t pretty to look at.”

  “You got a boy racing tonight?” I ask.

  “Not yet.” Her smile spreads. “But I will.”

  The engines surge to life, their roars bouncing all over the brick and concrete walls. I throw my hands up over my ears and brace myself as the electronic music turns into some twisted dubstep remix of the Chariots of Fire theme.

  “Start your engines! Race begins in five . . . four . . .”

  I hold my breath.

  “Three . . . two . . . one!”

  I lose myself in the avalanche of noise. Muffler exhaust washes over the crowd as my teeth rattle together. Fifteen cars, disappearing down the alleyway and into the abandoned streets of downtown Ridgecrest.

  Hmm. That’s when I realize car races aren’t exactly like the movies. I squint down the alleyway and try to pick apart the different cars’ sounds. Which one is Jagger’s? As they echo through the streets, all the different whines and rumbles and growls mix into one.

  The girl beside me taps my shoulder. “Your best bet is to watch the drones,” she says, and points toward the multiple projection screens. “Sometimes they’ll miss spots when they get stuck behind a building. But it’s better than nothing.”

  “Right.” I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Thanks.”

  “I’m Gwen, by the way.”

  I hesitate. How much do I want to be remembered? If Jagger were the only person I were hiding from, that’d be one thing. But after everything I’ve been through . . .

  Nope. That’s my paranoia talking. Classic textbook paranoid tendencies, antisocial behavior, isolating . . . All the opposites of what I should be doing. I force myself to smile at Gwen. She doesn’t look like the girls back at my university, it’s true, with their trust funds and designer wardrobes and perfect teeth, but that crowd was a sham, anyway. I need friends as far removed from that as I can get.

  “Sophie.”

  She smiles and eases her shoulders back. “Okay. It takes a bit to get the hang of the drone’s paths. You’re watching Jagger’s car, right?”

  “Right.” I laugh at myself.

  She points to the screen. “He drives fast, but not reckless. There he is—see, with the blue xenon headlights, buzzing past Ricky Calaveras in the Impala. They got a steep turn coming up though—the one that drone’s already covering on the next screen over—so Jagger’ll either have to slow down and fall into line to go through the narrow pass, or he can try to cut to the front of the line.”

  “Okay. I think I get it.” I watch Jagger’s car nose ahead of a spoiler-covered car, something flashy in lime green. “They’re almost at the turn now?”

  “Yep. So watch the next screen.”

  I suck in my breath. Jagger charges forward, like Gwen said he would, but he doesn’t gun it for the front of the line. When the cars reach the hairpin turn, he slows in sync with the others toward the front of the pack and holds onto his spot. Then the road straightens out into a straightaway along Ridgecrest Drive. That’s when Jagger floors it and surges ahead.

  So he drives fast—he isn’t reckless. He knows his strengths and his limits, and plays to them. If I were to analyze him for one of my classes, I’d say he enjoys being in control, but he also knows when to relinquish it if it’s for a better opportunity.

  Ugh. God, Sophie. Chill it with the psychobabble.

  But it makes me feel safe, when I can pry someone apart and see all their little gears turning. If anything, I should have done that more in my life.

  Gwen clasps her hands together suddenly. “Oh, my god! Look, Lennox is gonna win!”

  My phone buzzes in my purse with an incoming text, but I ignore it and try to follow what Gwen is pointing out on the screens. They’re weaving back into downtown Ridgecrest now, taking a tight zig-zag pattern through the grid of streets. Jagger’s car is close behind another muscle car, this one solid black. He keeps looking for an opening, or so it appears to me, but never quite gets the opportunity to shoot ahead.

  Gwen seizes my arm. “Okay. Get back.”

  “What—?”

  Then she yanks me out of the way. A mob of people are crushing into our alleyway, pressing up against the cones. The engine roars grow louder as the cars wind their way back to us. And then—

  The cars pull back onto the plaza, one by one. And Jagger’s is the second to arrive.

  The dubstep music throbs all around us as everyone screams and cheers. The announcer hops back up onto h
is box. “And we have our five qualifying contestants! First and second place, we have Lennox and Jagger, from the Drazic crew! In third, we have Ricky Calaveras . . .”

  Jagger emerges from his car and flashes victory signs to the crowd. My breath catches at the sight of him, practically glowing with victory, as cocksure as ever. On other guys it’s a terrible look, but he makes it work. Oh, does he make it work. He has a grin made for the paparazzi, and the way everyone presses around him, he isn’t just a rock star in his own mind. I feel it; I’m caught up in the allure. Silver and gold flecks of confetti rain down from somewhere overhead.

  I swallow, rocking back on my heels. Should I go congratulate him? Let him know I showed up after all? He looks plenty happy without my help. What would I say, anyway? I’m a poser here, completely out of my element. But I can’t deny the pull I feel toward him.

  And for fuck’s sake, he’s the best lay I’ve had in my life.

  Simple. Sexy. A guy who looks at me like a goddess and bangs me and leaves with a smile, no attachments, no questions asked. There’s nothing wrong with that. I could use a nice distraction. Something to tide me over while I finish my thesis. While I work on feeling safe. I work over the openers in my head—Nice driving, Caesar. No, he wouldn’t remember the reference. So that wasn’t just a line about being tightly tuned.

  My phone buzzes again, reminding me about the text.

  I turn away from the crowd and pulled it out of my purse. Then nearly drop it.

  How’s the weather up north?

  I don’t recognize the number, but I don’t need to. The blood drains from my face. How the fuck does he know? My fist tightens around the phone as I fight against the urge to crush it. To throw it in the nearest trash can and run.

  There’s no escaping him.

  4

  Jagger

  Second place—I can certainly live with that. I never mind coming second. Heh. As soon as I saw Lennox had the lead, I stopped worrying about gunning for first place and instead focused on cementing the Drazic Muscleworks crew’s iron grip on the qualifying slots. I could see Elena creeping up in my rearview mirror, so I was fairly certain she’d stay in the top five. We just had to hold on and coast through the finish line. No need getting into a dick-wagging contest with my own crewmates.