by Dallas Cole
“Nash.” Uncle Drazic runs up to us, with Jagger and Cyrus in tow. “You need to cool your heels.”
“Drazic, is this fucking runt mouthing off to one of mine?” Mama McManus asks. She spits out the side of her mouth as she looks Uncle D over. “You better get your puppy housebroken if you don’t want me to do it for you.”
“He’ll behave himself,” Drazic says, with a definite edge to his tone. He turns back toward Nash and me with a glower. That’s all we need to slink off after Jagger and Cyrus.
“Brilliant job,” Jagger says, as soon as we reach the entrance to our usual warehouse. “Picking a fight with a McManus. And how did you think that was going to play out?”
“I didn’t know he was a fucking McManus until now,” Nash snaps. “And don’t you lecture me about acting without thinking.”
“Not where Mama McManus is involved! That woman could use me for kindling,” Jagger says.
“And make all our lives hell,” Cyrus adds. “Not just yours. But I see you’re not thinking about that. Again.”
Nash snorts at him and crosses his arms. I reach toward him to rub his shoulder, but he jerks away from me. “Stop being so goddamn clingy. Jesus.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Drazic shoots us both a look. I stuff my hands in my pockets, ashamed. Why can’t I seem to calm him down?
“She’s just worried about you. We’re all worried about you,” Drazic says. “You need to hold your shit together long enough to drive this circuit. If you don’t think you can do that, then I’ll pull you and put Cyrus in the GTO.”
Cyrus ducks his head. “That’s really not necessary, sir—”
“But you’d fucking do it if I asked you to, now, wouldn’t you?” Drazic says. “Because that’s what it means to be a crew. We do what’s best for the crew.”
Nash kicks at the gravel with the toe of his loafers. “Lennox didn’t.”
“Excuse me?” Drazic says, louder.
Nash juts his chin out as he lifts his head. “Lennox didn’t do what was best for the crew. When he got in that car. When he killed my fucking brother—”
“And as far as the crew is concerned, Lennox is dead to us. He no longer exists. Whether he’s in prison or not, with the McManuses or not, he’s fucking dead to us.” Drazic spits onto the pavement. “And there’s no use picking a fight with a corpse. So don’t do it.”
Nash stares him down for a few seconds, but then eases back, slumping against the warehouse wall. “Fine.”
“Fine.” Drazic takes a step back. “Take a few minutes to calm your ass down. Then let’s get ready to crush these fuckers.”
“All right!” Jagger claps enthusiastically, but the rest of us just look at him. None of us are in much of a mood to celebrate. He glances at Nash’s expression, then mine, before turning to Cyrus. “Say, uh . . . why don’t you walk me through the course one more time?”
“Sure. Let’s go over here.” Cyrus beckons him away, leaving me alone with Nash.
I work my jaw back and forth, trying to gather up the nerve to tell him off. What the hell did he mean, I was being clingy? All I’ve been is supportive. The past week, I’ve given him his space, letting him go drinking with the boys every night, or running jobs, whatever the hell it is they’ve been up to. Not spending time with me, that’s for damned sure. But I built him a sick ride out of a hunk of metal, and I’ve done everything I can to help him prep for tonight’s race. Yet the moment I open my mouth to tell him so, the angry twist to his lips makes me think twice.
“What can I do?” I finally manage. “What can I do to help you? Because everything I try to do seems to be just the wrong thing.”
Nash doesn’t look at me for a while. Then he sighs, and runs one hand over my head. Like I’m still a little kid he’s tolerating. It stings. “You don’t need to do anything,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s just get through this race.”
It doesn’t make me feel better.
“All right, my brothers and sisters, my sinister stunters and icy-hot rollers!” Sleazy D bellows through a megaphone. “Racers, get in your slick-ass rides and get ready to roll!”
I squeeze Nash’s hand for good luck. Usually he’ll lean in for a deep kiss, but he just squeezes back and heads toward Uncle D and Jagger for a last-minute pep talk. I clutch my hand to my chest and try not to think about what I could have done differently. I’m not doing anything wrong. Nash just needs time. Right?
Cyrus taps me on the shoulder. “Let’s stake our claim on the roof.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I follow him up the fire escape to our usual spot on top of the S&P building. We’ve got a great view of the starting and finish line, as well as several sections leading out toward the ridgeway drive. What we can’t see from here, the drones will make up for; we’re facing the projections from two of them, currently showing the twinkling streetlights of downtown and the ridgeway as their operators maneuver them into place.
Nash pulls the GTO into the starting line, right next to Jagger’s Mitsubishi. The Calaveras boys are both in Mazdas, while Rory McManus is riding in an apple-green Viper. On the other side of Rory, I spot Lennox. No more piece of shit Camry for him—he’s in a sleek black vintage Mustang, purring and eager to run. Damn. The McManuses loaned him that? They’re doing even better than I thought.
Uncle Drazic joins us on the roof and we all pop in our Bluetooth earpieces. “You copy, Nash, Jagger?” Drazic asks.
“Jagger copies.”
There’s silence for a moment, then Nash answers with a short, sullen “Yeah.”
“All right, boys, you got this.” Drazic cracks his knuckles. “Take it steady like we practiced, and don’t get too greedy on the ridgeway. Right?”
“Right on, D,” Jagger says.
Nash doesn’t respond.
One of Sleazy D’s girls, wearing metallic silver hot pants and a tie-front bikini top, sashays out front of the line of racers. “Racers, start your engines!”
The starting line roars with all the different engine tones. For a moment, I close my eyes and relish that noise: hot, smoky, and laden with potential.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . GO!”
The tires squeal against the broken pavement as they lurch into a start. The crowd fills in the space the cars just vacated as everyone strains to watch the race. I follow Drazic to the corner of the rooftop to watch the first stretch.
Nash easily nabs an early lead, deftly making the tight turns along the empty downtown grid of streets: up Third, down Caverns, up Fourth, down Desperado. Lennox’s Mustang is rumbling with throaty, bone-rattling engine sounds, but he’s way too heavy around the turns. I’m already mentally cataloguing all the ways he could probably stand to shave some weight off his rig before I catch myself. Rory McManus is fighting to stay relevant, but Miguel seems to always be right there to block him. From what little of his expression the drones capture, he’s none too pleased about it.
“Fucking upstate asswipes,” Jagger shouts into the earpiece. “Give me an opening, Cy.”
“Hold tight, I’m looking.” Cyrus glances from the streets to the projectors. “Okay, if you can squeeze past Miguel . . .”
“Left. Pass him on the left,” I shout.
Cy nods at me, approving. “What the lady said.”
“Thanks, Elena.” The distant high-pitched zip of Jagger’s Mitsubishi engine ricochets over the rooftops. I turn toward the projectors just in time to catch sight of him surging past Miguel’s left side to take third place.
They’re out of the grid, and winding around the bypass on their way toward the ridge. We’re blind except for the drones’ footage now. The lead drone catches sight of Nash through his side window, and his expression is like a lance through my heart. He’s so goddamned tense. His lips are curled back, and he’s got a death grip on the steering wheel. One hard bump and he’s liable to crack his teeth.
“Loosen up, Nash,” Drazic tells him over the earpiece, but he doesn’t change a thi
ng. I remember this expression all too well from Troy’s funeral, back before Nash and I were together. His hatred is like a laser, burning a hole through anything that gets in his way.
A wide shot from one of the drones catches a glimpse of Nash as he swings onto the ridgeway. He’s still in the lead, but Lennox is quickly gaining ground. Looks like he’s found the right balance between the Mustang’s weight and its engine, because he’s definitely putting it to work. Nash never seems to make up time on the straightaways like this. Lennox may not know it, but he’s got a real chance here to pull into the lead.
My breath hitches as the lead drone swings over Lennox’s car, blasting his face all over the warehouse walls. The fading sunset light glitters against his face. His expression is determined, too, but it’s a different intensity from Nash’s. He’s projecting an easy, quiet strength, despite whatever else lies beneath the surface.
I remember that look all too well—the one that pulled me out of a tear-stained sorrow so long ago. A few of them, in fact. Lennox never talked down to me, or tried to sugarcoat anything, but he also never expected me to handle more than I could bear. He was my hero, patching up my wounds, helping me choose my battles with Uncle D, even letting me cry over how much I missed my parents from time to time, long after I thought I’d lost the right to mourn them. Lennox was my hero. How could he be anything else?
But my hero wouldn’t do what he did. He didn’t just kill Nash’s brother. He wrecked our crew. Destroyed the family we’d built. The only family I’ve ever had since moving here. I still have Uncle D; I still have Nash and Cyrus and Jagger. But it’s never been the same. The man who’d keep his promises to me would never do something like that.
Then again . . . Nash doesn’t seem to be the man I thought he was, either. I watch Nash’s GTO aggressively bounce across the road, blocking every shot Lennox has at passing him. This isn’t the Nash I fell for at all. He’s angry and vindictive and out of control, and I feel helpless to contain him.
They’ve almost reached the end of the ridgeway. It’s a couple tight turns to start swooping along the access road that’ll lead them back to the warehouses. One of them is completely blind, yanking around the broad First Bank building, hulking on the edge of downtown, empty and looming.
“Keep it steady,” Uncle D tells Nash over the earpieces. “Don’t take any risks right here. We’re going to lose sight of you.”
“No. He’s not getting the lead from me,” fights Nash.
I grit my teeth. “Nash . . .”
One of the Calaveras riders is gaining on Nash and Lennox, even as Lennox fights Nash for the lead; both of the Upstate boys are surging forward as well, with Jagger hot on their tails. I know Jagger can pull ahead of them on the access road, but this turn is too risky. Nash had better watch his ass.
The First Bank building blots out our view as they take the turn. The drones surge forward, trying to swing around the building’s frame. But they’re too late. Metal screams against metal; the horrible screech of tires echoes throughout downtown. I grip the edge of the rooftop, screaming. No. No.
A pillar of smoke curls around the First Bank building and swallows up one of the drones. It’s too thick to reveal the wreckage below.
My heart is lodged firmly in my throat. Cyrus is at my side in an instant, tugging me away, but I can’t pull my eyes from that dark column. Already I can imagine its smell, hot oil and metallic tang, searing my nostrils.
Lennox.
Nash.
I sag forward against the roof ledge. Dammit, Nash.
What the hell have you done?
Chapter Five
Elena
The smoke pours, thicker, curling around the building facades, but in the distance, I can still hear engines roar. Did the other racers bypass the crash? Was it not as serious as it looked? I wouldn’t expect someone like Rory McManus to pull over and help, even if it was Lennox who was hurt. But we have to do something—
The second drone catches up to the access road and approaches the slow rolls of smoke. A dark metallic hood emerges from the thick of it, unscathed.
Lennox’s Mustang.
I sag forward, more relieved than I should be. Lennox wasn’t in the crash. But what about Nash?
No sooner do I think it than I spot the GTO emerging, as well. A few streaks of chipped paint line his driver’s side, but he’s maneuvering just fine. More than fine—he’s determined to snatch the lead away from Lennox. But they only have a few blocks left.
I look from the wall projection to the streets as they hum into view, neck and neck. Lennox maneuvers the Mustang with grace, as if it’s a thousand pounds lighter than it really is, and whips his way around the block toward the entrance to the alleyway. His grumbling engine is swallowed up in the sounds of the crowd’s cheers. I can’t cheer for him—I don’t dare do it in front of Uncle D and the rest—but I can’t stop the grin from spreading on my face. He’s safe. He did it.
The Mustang pulls to a stop, just as Nash’s GTO swings into the alley. Nash screeches to a halt behind Lennox. Before the crowd can close in around them, Nash flies out of the GTO and storms toward Lennox.
“And—and our first place winner is Lennox, repping for the McManus crew!” Sleazy D announces.
Nash shoots him a death glare and shoves Sleazy D out of the way. Grabs the driver’s side door of the Mustang and yanks it open.
“In second place, we have Nash from Drazic’s crew . . . third place is still wide open, after Miguel from the Calaveras collided with Kazuo—”
Nash is screaming, reaching inside the Mustang. Oh, god. My stomach turns. He’s going to hurt Lennox. Sure enough, he rips him out of the driver’s side and throws him to the pavement.
“Hang on now, boys—” Sleazy D throws a hand in front of his face to shield himself. “No one likes a sore loser—”
“Nash. Sit your ass down,” Drazic shouts over the earpiece.
Below us, Nash rips his earpiece out and drops it on the ground.
“Fuck.” Drazic and Cyrus sprint toward the roof exit. Heart pounding, I follow them. We have to stop Nash. He’s going to kill him, I’m sure of it.
We burst out of the stairwell onto the alleyway. Nash swings wildly at Lennox, sending the onlookers scrambling out of the way. I press closer, trying to get a better look, but there are too many people in the way. I start elbowing a path toward them. Lennox is on the ground, one arm held up to protect himself. As Nash swings at him again, Lennox deflects the punch. But Nash is determined. Crazed. I have to stop him. Throw myself on him—
“Nash,” Drazic shouts, shoving people aside as he plows toward them. But the crowd is chanting now. Money’s exchanging hands. I want to be sick. People are betting on them.
“Stand up, motherfucker. Stand up and fight me, you fucking coward.”
Lennox staggers to his feet but keeps his distance. “I’m not going to fight you.”
“You killed him,” Nash roars. “You took him from me!”
He charges at Lennox. Lennox covers his head with his arms, but Nash plows into him, knocking them both to the ground. Nash swings at Lennox’s face, but Lennox blocks it with his forearm. A spray of gravel hits the crowd as Nash swings at him again and again, furious and relentless. Nash screams with wordless rage.
“Nash!” I cry. Shoving my way forward, stepping on people’s toes as I go, but I don’t care. I have to end this. “Stop! Leave him alone!”
If Nash hears me, though, he gives no sign of it. He’s laser-focused on Lennox. Streaks of red line one side of Lennox’s face, bright against his tanned skin. “You took everything from me, and what the fuck did you lose?” Nash closes his hands around Lennox’s throat. “Nothing. A couple of years. When Troy is gone.”
“Nash, stop!” I scream.
Lennox twists toward me with dark, dirt-smeared eyes. His expression sags. He doesn’t even try to block Nash’s next punch; he lets it force the wind out of him as it lands straight in his gut.
&nb
sp; “You’re wrong,” Lennox wheezes. “I lost everything.”
“Please, Nash.” I finally break toward the front of the crowd. “Don’t do this.” This isn’t who Nash really is. It can’t be.
“But I see you found it,” Lennox says.
My heart twists. Nash glances up at me with a bitter laugh. Then raises his fist, readying for a punch straight to Lennox’s face—
Police sirens echo through the alley. They’re only a few blocks away, but gaining on us fast. That’s the trouble with Ridgecrest cops—they may be lazy, they may be willing to turn a blind eye to our street races, but when someone crashes on the streets, even they can’t ignore it.
“Shit! It’s the cops!”
The crowd churns as one, boiling over as people scramble in every direction. Everyone’s screaming at everyone else, blaming Nash for drawing heat from the cops by starting a brawl, or the Calaveras crew for crashing. The air buzzes as the drones land and their operators snatch them up. Running, shouting all around. But I’m rooted to the spot.
“Elena!” Drazic seizes me by the arm. “Get yourself home. Let me worry about the crew.”
But what about Lennox? I want to scream. It’s pointless, though. He’s huddled on the ground, crumpled up and forgotten like a piece of trash as everyone else runs off. My uncle seizes Nash by the arm and pries him away; Jagger and Cyrus surround him, blocking his path back to Lennox. Engines roar to life all around us as the crowd piles into their vehicles to pull away.
Get myself home. Great. I rode here with Nash. But now my uncle and the rest of my family, the crew, are hauling him off and leaving me behind. I’m standing stock still as the race audience shoves past me, as red and blue lights wash over the alleyway. This isn’t my first time ducking the police during a raid. I know all the best places to hide. But this is the first time I’ve been left to do it myself.
