by Dallas Cole
Oh, fuck. My face is bright red. I duck my head farther as I root around for some metal ties.
“Okay, djevojka, monster or not . . . promise me you won’t even think about it. Lennox Solt is bad news. Especially if he’s working for the McManuses. Bad news for all of us.”
“Uh-huh.” I find the metal ties I’m looking for and turn away from him, back to the guts of the Camaro.
Drazic’s silent for a few minutes. I’m hoping we’re done with this interrogation. I can’t stand lying to him anymore. Not that it matters. Lennox doesn’t think he belongs in my life right now, either. Why doesn’t anyone want to see me with him, happy with him, aside from me? Dammit. Powerless. That’s exactly what I am.
I have my family. My crew. My work. I’d be devastated if I lost any of them. Why can’t this be enough for me? Why can’t I be happy with this anymore?
Then Uncle D loops around the Camaro to take a peek at my work. I brace myself again, thinking he might scold me for not spending my time on a paying project, but instead he smiles to himself, assessing my craftsmanship. “It’s looking good,” he says.
“Still has a long way to go before it’s pretty enough to sell.” I crank the metal tie into place around the newly replaced tubing. Then, since I’ve already dug a nice, deep hole for myself this morning, I figure I might as well keep digging. I look away from him. “Actually, I was thinking, um . . . maybe I could start racing, too.”
Drazic sputters. “Who? You?” Then he forces himself to stop laughing. “Oh, come on, djevojka. You can’t be serious.”
I cross my arms and draw myself up to my full height. “Why can’t I? It’s not like I don’t know how these things work, inside and out.” Lennox didn’t laugh at me, I can’t help but recall. When he let me drive the Mustang last night, he said that I had the skill, the intuition, everything I needed to be a good racer. That I just needed a chance to prove myself.
A chance he didn’t think I’d get.
Uncle Drazic jabs a finger my way. “I tell you what. You got the Camaro running?”
“Yeah. It’s not pretty, but the new transmission on her is working out pretty nicely.”
He nods. “Good. Why don’t you take her out to the raceway, then? Burn off some steam. Learn the tracks. Then, maybe some other time we can see about letting you race.”
So no racing tomorrow night, then. Not that I’m surprised. My fate is out of my control. I’m the crew’s pawn, for better or worse. They’re the only family I’ve got, so maybe a dysfunctional family is better than no family at all.
And Lennox thought he’d bring me down. Ha. I was already there.
*
I head out to the tracks once I’m done tweaking the carburetor on the Camaro and run through the circuit, over and over. Even though the Camaro’s in far better shape, it’s not nearly as fun without Lennox here to goad me on. I listen to the roar and clip of the engine, feel all the new parts I put in it working seamlessly together to give me power. The car’s running great. But my thoughts are all over the place.
I want to hold on to the memories I made with Lennox last night. They cemented the life I’d always dreamed I’d have—me and Lennox, racing off into the sunset together, flipping a middle finger to rules and restraints. But we’re both caught up in all kinds of restraints right now, and they’re showing no signs of letting up.
I want to race. I want to be free.
And I want Lennox Solt to be free with me.
Chapter Fourteen
Elena
The next race is downstate, hosted on the Calaveras boys’ turf in another run-down desert town called Villareal. The Camaro still looks like shit on the outside, but I clean it up enough to drive it down with the rest of the crew. We convoy south on the highway, passing each other repeatedly, jockeying for position in the line, laughing and waving at each other all the while. It feels good to be behind the wheel with them—with the guys treating me like I’m their equal in this for once, their partner. Like we’re all in this together.
We park a block from the starting point and wade into the thick crowd already gathered for the race. Nash slings an arm over my shoulder. I try to duck out from under him, but his grip is firm, so I loop my arm around Cyrus’s waist at my other side.
“Nice steering, Ellie,” Nash tells me, shouting to be heard over the thudding dubstep.
“Glad to see you got that little boy to run for you,” Jagger says. Then he cuts his eyes toward Nash and smirks. “That other little boy, I mean.”
Nash releases me and takes a playful punch at Jagger’s gut. “Like you’re one to talk. I could snap you like a breadstick.”
“Let’s go!” Jagger whoops, shoving his sunglasses up on top of his head. “Hey, ladies, who wants to place their bets on me to kick this pretty boy’s ass? Winner gets to take me home!”
A couple of the girls around us snicker and exchange glances; more than a few others give Jagger and Nash both a second look. Jagger bounces on the balls of his feet, fists curled, and throws some air punches while Nash laughs and dodges out of the way.
“Better watch it,” Cyrus tells me. “Looks like you might have some competition.”
I grit my teeth and shrug him off. They can have him. I’m done.
Uncle Drazic weaves his way through the crowd toward us after checking in with Sleazy D. “Calm your tits, Jagger. Gather ‘round.” He pulls us into a huddle. “I locked us in for two spots. Tried to argue for three—sorry, Cy—but they’re adamant this circuit is only good for ten racers, max.”
“It’s cool, man,” Cyrus says. “I’ll get next pick. I like runnin’ point for you boys, anyway.”
“Are you going to race this time, D?” I ask.
Drazic shakes his head. “Nash and Jagger again. It’s a good track for you both. I’m confident we can place both of you, and one of you can take top prize.”
Nash and Jagger. Always them. “What about . . . what you and I talked about?” I ask, hesitant. “About letting me race.”
All eyes turn toward me; Nash’s brow is furrowed, while Jagger’s eyes are wide with disbelief.
“Real funny, El,” Nash finally says, and pulls me in for an embrace. I squirm against him, but it’s no use. “We need you back here, keeping us on track. Right, Drazic?”
Uncle D frowns. Nash lets go of me. “Wait. You’re not serious, are you?” He spits onto the gravel. “You’re not actually considering letting her race?”
I jut my chin out, defiant. “I’ve seen you losers walk away from plenty of crashes. I know how it works. And I want to race, too. The Camaro runs like a champ now. Besides, this is an easy track—lots of straightaways, only a few switchbacks.”
“The fuck?” Nash straightens up. “You told my girl she could race? The fuck’s wrong with you?” He jabs a finger at Uncle D. “You tryin’ to get her killed?”
“I think she deserves a chance,” Cyrus says.
Jagger crosses his arms over his chest. “Fuck that. It’s not fair. She hasn’t even run trials on this track before.”
“I’ve helped you run trials,” I say.
“Nash and I have been practicing this for weeks. For weeks. If you’re gonna sub anyone in, it should be Cyrus. At least he’s waited his turn,” Jagger says.
“All right, all right, that’s fair.” Drazic holds up his hands. “Nash and Jagger this race. Cyrus, you’re a lock for next. If we can get three next race, maybe Elena can join us then, too. Fair enough, djevojka?”
I grimace and glance away. “Sure. It’s fine.”
“All right. You know what to do, then. Get lined up.” Drazic claps Jagger and Nash on the shoulders and our huddle dissolves.
Nash snags me in his arms. “C’mon, baby. You don’t want to risk that sweet ass of yours getting splayed out on the pavement,” he murmurs. “Besides, I run my best times with you right in my ear.”
Great. I’m so glad I can be the puppet master behind the scenes for him. I take a deep breath. “You’d b
e just fine without me.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m nothing without my best girl. C’mon. I know you said we’d take it a day at a time, but . . . I sure do miss this nice, hard body of yours.”
He presses me closer, but all I can think of is Lennox. The thought of Nash holding me now is making my skin crawl. I have to tell him off. I have to. Maybe if I wait until after the race, when it won’t impact the crew, his trial times . . .
He grins, sly and sinister. “Maybe after the race, I can make you scream my name again, huh?” He nuzzles his nose against my neck. “For now, I’d settle for a good-luck kiss.”
I set my jaw firm and lean away from him. “Maybe after the race.”
“Okay. Yeah. Something to look forward to, right?” He squeezes my ass, then releases me. I stagger backward, sucking for fresh air. My chest feels too tight. All I want is Lennox. All I want is Lennox, and he doesn’t think he deserves me. As if that’s his choice to make! Why the hell won’t anyone let me choose my life for myself? Why won’t they give me that control?
“Ro-ry! Ro-ry! Ro-ry!”
The crowd around us erupts into cheers as the sounds of primal, beefy motors echo through the alleys. A tight knot forms in my stomach. The McManus crew has arrived.
I wonder, with a twist of the knot, if Lennox is with them.
A cluster of women forms around Rory McManus, his lanky form weaving through them as he scans the crowd with those chilly gray eyes. “Thanks, ladies,” he purrs at them, as he makes his way toward Sleazy D. “Don’t worry, I’ll have plenty time for you after the race.”
I shrink back into the crowd. The last thing I need is for him to spot me here, and put two and two together. Bad enough that he’s tied me with Lennox, in his mind. If Rory figures I’m Drazic’s niece, I don’t even want to think how he might use me for leverage over Lennox. Or over Uncle D, for that matter. And if he told Uncle D that he saw me with Lennox . . .
Then the chanting shifts.
“Len-nox! Len-nox! Len-nox!”
It grows even louder, swelling as the crowd presses in. And there Lennox is, that sad smile twisting his lips, waving to the public. Rory can’t be too pleased that Lennox is stealing his thunder. I know I should look away, but I can’t. All I see is him, as if the dozens and dozens of grasping arms and stamping feet aren’t even there. He turns my way and winces, like he’s bumped against an old bruise. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t bear to look anymore.
“What the hell?” Drazic says. I force the smile off my lips. I have an audience. How easily I forget. But Drazic isn’t looking at me—he’s looking at Lennox and his crowd. “He wins one race and they love him?”
“All’s forgiven when rubber meets the road.” Cyrus only shrugs.
We stake out a good position to watch the race. Instead of warehouses, we’re stuck with the emptied-out storefronts of Main Street, Villareal. We crack open the locked door of an old clothing shop and make our way past the husks of dusty clothing racks and shoe boxes until we find the roof access and head up top. The drone operators are out in full force tonight, as well, though they’ve had to set up white sheets in front of the old town square to project their footage.
The drivers pull up to the starting lines. Lennox and Rory for the McManus squad, Jagger and Nash for ours, and the Upstate, Calaveras, and a few other crews mixed in, as well. A crowded field. But Lennox knows how to pull it off.
Dammit—there I am, cheering for him again. I’ll have to cut that out. I pop my earpiece in, though Nash is the last person I want to talk to right now, and ready myself for the race.
Sleazy D launches the racers, to wild screaming and thrashing from the crowd. The cars rip down the town’s main drag, picking up speed at varying rates. Jagger’s Mitsubishi Lancer claims an early lead, but he’s always going to kick ass on the straight shots like that—we’ll see if he can hold onto it. I swap between my view through the binoculars as they tear west and the drone projections once they come up on the first curve to head out to the buttes and back.
On the projector, I spot Rory McManus gunning for Jagger, hard. “Watch, it Jag. McManus on your ass,” I tell him. “Try hugging the right side of the curve. You’ll make up the speed later.”
“Copy, Ellie Bear.” Jagger lags behind Rory as they take the swing, but then the lights gleam beneath his Lancer’s body kit, and he shoots back into the lead once the circuit straightens out.
Then I spy the dark curves of Lennox’s Mustang threading his way through the pack. My heart skips a beat, remembering the time we spent together on the hood of that beast. A flush creeps down my neck. Dammit, Lennox, why can’t you just make up your mind? I want to scream at him that I don’t care, that it doesn’t matter to me what he’s done, what kind of situation he’s in. He’s perfect to me. I don’t need a someday.
I need him now.
Cyrus touches my arm gently, approaching the edge of the roof beside me. “Hey. Are you doing okay?” His eyebrows crease as he studies me. “With you and Nash, or just . . . you. You look a little lost.”
I try to hold it in and be strong for Cyrus. But I can’t handle it anymore. My strength is all gone. I bite my lower lip and shake my head. “I can’t do this anymore, Cy—any of it this.” I draw a ragged breath. “I just want to be my own person. Stop letting other people decide for me, dictate my life to me.”
Cyrus nods and pats my back. “You’re stronger than you realize. I know you’ll get there. It’ll be a rocky road to freedom—not everyone will be happy about it—but it’ll be shorter than you think.”
I want to believe him, but all I can think about is how much bullshit the promise of “someday” is. Someday I’ll be free. Someday I’ll be in control. Just like Lennox promised me he’d be mine. Someday.
Someday’s just a nicer word for never.
“Drazic? Cyrus?” Nash’s voice cuts in, through our earpieces. “A little help here. This cocksucker’s trying to jump my lead.”
I turn back toward the projectors. Sure enough, Nash and Lennox have both squeezed past Jagger and Rory, who are still duking it out for third. And Nash looks livid. As if the past month hasn’t taken any of the sting out of his burning, misguided need to take his revenge. Dammit.
“Ignore him,” I say into the earpiece. “He’s not harassing you, not doing anything aggressive. If you don’t fight back, you’ll keep hold of first. Focus on the race, and not the drivers.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I risk a glance at the middle section of the pack, where Jagger’s clogged up with the Calaveras boys. They’ve got him pretty well boxed in—not much chance he can regain the lead now. Nash is our only shot to score a win for the Drazic crew. But deep in my heart, I want Lennox to win it again.
“You’re doing fine, Nash,” Drazic says over the earpiece. “Just keep it steady. Jagger, don’t get rattled. Hold your ground and they’ll give up.”
Nash’s car wavers for a moment, but then he settles back into a solid pace. Lennox is still ahead of him, but Lennox isn’t trying anything fancy; when they reach another straightaway through a lengthy alley, Nash pulls around him without any aggression and naturally claims first place.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Nash is doing fine. Maybe he will get over this. He’ll win, and Lennox will get second, still quite respectable, and then maybe Nash can start to mend—
Nash abruptly cuts his speed with a scream of his brakes.
“Oh, shit.” I rush toward the other edge of the roof, near where he is. “Nash, what the hell are you doing?”
The drones surge forward to catch up just in time to capture Nash’s GTO slamming into Lennox’s Mustang from the left. Metal screeches against metal as Lennox is crushed up against the cinderblock walls. Smoke pours from beneath the Mustang’s and GTO’s tires.
I scream. Uncle D is shouting into the earpiece, but I can’t make out the words. The whole world goes fuzzy around me. All I see is red, red and the twisted hunk of m
etal that Lennox’s car is quickly becoming—
I swing over the roof and shimmy down the drainpipe. I have to get to the crash. Help Lennox get out. Please, oh, please don’t let his gas tank catch a spark—I know how the tanks and gas lines on those old muscle cars can be—
“What the fuck?” people are shouting, among other things. The crowd is swarming the alleyway, but I clamber over them, unafraid to use my steel-toed boots to help me carve a path through the throng. I have to get to Lennox. Make sure he’s okay. One block over, the rest of the cars scream past, diverted around the alleyway on their quest for the finish line, though I couldn’t care less now who’s going to claim the prize.
The first thing I see is Lennox, wriggling his way out of the crumpled frame of the Mustang as if it were a prison cell. Blood drips down his left side where glass has shattered and studded into his skin. But he’s alive. Oh, god, he’s alive. It takes all of my willpower not to run to him and hug him tight.
Instead, I turn toward Nash, who’s staggering out of the GTO, rubbing at his wrists.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I scream at him. “What’s wrong with you? You could have killed him!”
“So what?” Nash says, then shakes out his hands. Good. It fucking hurt him, driving Lennox’s car into that wall. Serves him right.
“You could have killed you both. If you hadn’t slowed down to take the turn into the alley . . .”
“Whatever. Fuck him.” Nash spits in Lennox’s direction. “He had it coming. He’s got it coming still.”
In the distance, Sleazy D is announcing the winners of the race—Jagger, followed by Miguel Calaveras, then Rory McManus. Drazic will be glad Jagger still pulled it off, but I can’t believe the gall of Nash. Risking his life, and Lennox’s, just to prove some stupid point. And their cars—I bury my face in my hands. We can’t afford to completely overhaul the body I spent so long on for the GTO. And if the McManuses put Nash and the crew on the hook to repair Lennox’s car, as well . . .
