#Junkie (GearShark #1)

by Cambria Hebert

But Ivy gave me courage and so did the taste of the life I could have here.

  He hadn’t been happy about it, but it wasn’t the fight I’d imagined it would be. He was a lot quieter about my choice, a lot more accepting. Even Ivy seemed mildly surprised.

  I didn’t question it.

  Why would I?

  What kind of man looks for trouble when it’s the last thing he wants?

  A dumb one.

  It’s already been noted I’m not dumb.

  The sound of cars putting the pedal to the metal and squealing off the starting line brought me back to the present.

  It was rare for me to lose focus here at the speedway.

  Clearly, I was bored.

  I guess drag racing wasn’t the rush I needed tonight.

  Or maybe it was the fact I’d already won both times I’d raced tonight.

  I watched the two cars—an older model Camaro and a Monte Carlo SS—battle it out on the quarter mile straightaway.

  The Monte Carlo backed off the gas just a smidge toward the finish line.

  It cost him the win.

  The Camaro went full throttle all the way through. Fully committed every time. It was exactly why it had yet to lose a race tonight.

  Until now.

  I slid my Mustang up to the starting line before being motioned to do so. The man regulating the line gave me a glare and was about to tell me to move back, but I threw it in park and flung open the driver’s door.

  “What the—” he called out, stepping toward me.

  I lifted a hand and waved him off. The Camaro had turned and was looping around to likely get back in line for another run.

  I planted the boots I was wearing on the pavement and met the driver’s eyes even across the way. It was a challenge, direct and clear.

  I already decided I was done tonight, but since I was already in line, since it was already my turn, I’d have one last run.

  It was going to be a good one.

  I felt the eyes of the crowd watching, and I knew they were confused. So I lifted my arm, held out my hand, and pointed at the sleek black car, undefeated tonight.

  I hadn’t seen that Camaro here before; this driver wasn’t a regular.

  That meant he was new to the scene or just passing through. Either way, I was going to make use of the chance to race someone new.

  The people watching nearby all started cheering and yelling, clearly entertained by my challenge. Drag races at this track on a night like tonight weren’t like this. It was get in line, wait your turn, and race the guy beside you.

  The driver didn’t pick his opponent. He raced who was there. Our times got written on the window in white, and we all tried to beat each other’s times.

  Well, mainly, I just tried to beat my time.

  I was very competitive with myself.

  Then later, on more planned-out nights, the drivers with the best times would come back and race, sort of like the best racing the best.

  I glanced at the man regulating the line to see if he would object, but he seemed rather amused I called out someone the way I had.

  I dropped my arm and stared at the Camaro. It slowed, and I could feel the eyes of the driver. I watched him; he hesitated. I was surprised.

  Wasn’t he here to race?

  The outline of his head and shoulders twisted around like he was looking over his shoulder for something or someone.

  I looked beyond his car, beyond the crowd. There were a ton of cars parked around. There was no way for me to know what he was looking for.

  Just as quickly as he turned around, he came back. The Camaro changed direction and cut across the median between the road and the drag strip.

  Everyone cheered.

  I grinned and turned back to the Mustang.

  As the Camaro rumbled past, I waved to the car I was supposed to race, still back at the holding line. I gave them a mock salute to thank them for letting this guy cut the line.

  Before strapping into my ‘Stang, I turned to look over my shoulder, spotting Trent, who was standing nearby. There was a backward black baseball hat on his head, his arms crossed over his chest, and he was grinning.

  I laughed and climbed in.

  A few moments later, both our cars were checked to make sure they were at the same place at the starting line, and then some chick with a tiny spandex skirt, a crop top, and sky-high heels stepped up between us. In her hand was a checkered flag.

  She pointed first at the driver behind the wheel of the Camaro.

  In response, his engine gunned loudly, but it was a smooth and powerful sound. Then the flag girl pointed at me. The Mustang growled in response.

  I gripped the steering wheel as a surge of excitement peppered my insides.

  This was what it was all about.

  The woman held up both her hands. The flag fluttered off to the right with the wind.

  I slipped the pair of sunglasses propped on my head down over my eyes. Yeah, it was night and it wasn’t sunny. But the sunglasses gave me an edge.

  It darkened everything around me just a little. To anyone else, that might have been an inconvenience.

  The fact was wearing shades to race helped my reaction time. Yeah, I know. I sound like some superstitious old granny touting the benefits of sleeping with garlic in your sock drawer or some shit.

  But this was for real.

  It’s actually a proven fact that wearing sunglasses can help a driver with their reaction time. The human eye catches light better in the dark. Meaning the very second I was signaled to go, I could see it. There would be no precious seconds lost while I waited for my mind to catch up.

  Knowing we were both ready to fly, the flag girl pointed to a stop light nearby, the one that would signal the second we could take off.

  Once the track was clear, I took a breath and gripped the wheel, letting the familiar surge of adrenaline rush my limbs.

  The light switched to green, and I tore off the starting line immediately. I held the wheel steady to keep the Mustang straight and drove right in the path of the tire marks from past races tonight.

  Rubber sticks to rubber.

  Meaning my tires would get better traction and grip the road better if I drove along them. It was sort of like following someone in a snowstorm. It was easier to walk in their footsteps rather than create your own.

  The driver of the Camaro was quick to act, too. The smell of burning tires and the squeal of two cars taking off was heady.

  I punched the gas, but not all the way to the floor.

  I’d seen this car race several times tonight. I didn’t need to put the V8 in my Mustang to absolute power because I could beat this guy without it.

  It was another one of my tricks. Never show them everything you had; keep a little in reserve until it was absolutely needed. He didn’t need to know my top speed. I just needed to be a second faster.

  One second was all it took.

  One second was the difference between winning and losing.

  We tore down the straightaway, and everything else faded. All I felt was the muscle of the car beneath me, the way my legs vibrated with the speed I was traveling.

  At the halfway point, the Mustang kicked into full speed, no longer trying to gain it. Now I was soaring.

  My loud shout bounced around the interior of the car, and I glanced over briefly at the Camaro. He was right beside me. We were neck and neck.

  Bring it! I silently shouted at him.

  He noted how well matched we were about the same moment I did. I felt the sizzle in the air from our competition.

  Calmly, I glanced back on the road, punched the gas, and ripped forward.

  I gave her just enough to cross the line first.

  I saw the other driver bang on the steering wheel as we flew over the line. He was still going full throttle just like before. I let off the gas and he kept going.

  “Sucker,” I muttered and deep braked into an immediate turn. The back end of my Fastback fishtailed a little with
the force of my turn, but the tires gripped hard, and I slid forward.

  Over the dash, I sought out the person I wanted to share my win with. My best friend. Trent had two fingers in his mouth, whistling in victory. I watched as he pulled his hands down and started clapping.

  A few moments later, I slid to a stop near where he was parked. He pushed off the side of his car and jogged the distance between us. My window slid down, and he rested his palms on the windowsill.

  The dark hat he wore covered most of his forehead and brought attention toward his strong brow and eyes. Usually they were a lighter color, but in the dark tonight, they were like a deep shade of amber.

  “That was some damn good driving!” He banged on the door.

  “I’m bored,” I drawled, tilting my head back against the headrest and grinning at him.

  A wicked smile curved his mouth. The slightly crooked tooth in the front made my own smile grow bigger. “Follow me,” Trent enticed and turned back to his Mustang.

  Seconds later, the steel-colored car whipped out in front of me and tore off down the asphalt.

  I hit the gas and rode his ass all the way out to the main road.

  It was time to have some fun.

  Trent

  We were going to get arrested.

  It was only a matter of time. But when Drew says he’s bored, the mayhem that always ensues is way more fun than worrying about the po-po.

  I should’ve probably cared more than I did. With my status as an Alpha U football player and the president of Alpha Omega, an arrest right now would be the last thing I needed.

  Even so, I didn’t care at all.

  Let the sirens scream and the flashing lights hunt us down. It would probably only make things more exciting.

  We’d been doing this for months, and not once had we been caught. Maybe that was why I didn’t worry at all. I’d gotten comfortable in the chaos Drew seemed to attract.

  And yeah, okay, I started some of it.

  Technically, I’d started it tonight. Yeah, I knew what he was going to do the second he said he was bored, but I pulled out first. I was leading this parade of delinquency.

  His Mustang was so far up my ass the entire way out of the speedway’s lot it was giving me a wedgie. So I peeled out onto the main road and opened her up.

  Drew’s cobalt-blue Mach 1 Fastback was a bitch on wheels, and the way he drove it was even more badass.

  However, I was no granny-driving, Kool-Aid-sipping pansy.

  My Mustang Coupe GT was a V-8 just like his. I admit I didn’t have quite his skill behind the wheel, but I was learning. Ripping up the town on an almost weekly basis sure was good practice.

  Horns blared as I swerved in and out of traffic and down one of the busier streets in town. Drew followed behind; when I swerved out left, he went right.

  It was like freaking Swan Lake with engines.

  We were a fucking beautiful driving sight.

  The other drivers on the road weren’t as impressed, but they were just jealous.

  Up ahead, the light turned yellow, and I punched it.

  Yellow lights = speed up.

  An angry fist shot out of a window when I tore past and vaulted through the intersection. I cut the wheel swiftly and took the turn, sliding around the corner, barely giving the mustang enough time to even out before hitting the gas again.

  I heard the familiar roar of Drew’s souped-up engine and glanced out the driver’s window. For one long second, his car pulled up right alongside mine, and we drove parallel to each other right down the center of the road.

  Angry and frantic beeping pulled my gaze back, and I jolted in surprise.

  “Fuck!” I yelled and pulled the wheel just in time to skirt around a car in a turning lane.

  Even though I wasn’t in the same car as Drew and he’d pulled off to cut around it on the other side, I could still hear his laughter. I didn’t have to be with him to hear it anymore. I knew the sound as well as my own voice, and right now, I knew he was laughing his ass off.

  We pulled back up side by side, and I held up my middle finger and plastered it to the glass.

  Seconds later, he took the lead, and we drove like we were on a racetrack to the backroads that were hardly ever traveled. Once there, we tore up the hills and coasted down the valleys. There was this one hill I knew he was going for; he went for it every time.

  It was steep—like a freaking dip right in the mountain.

  Drew took that part like the devil was on his ass. Every single time, his Mustang got some air. Every single time, my stomach dropped just watching from behind.

  Fucker was crazy as hell.

  All the time he spent on his car, all the money… then he goes and practically jumps it on some curvy mountain back road in the dead of winter in Maryland.

  He was asking for a messed-up bumper.

  Or worse.

  I loved it, though. There was a part of Drew that was so rebellious I admired it.

  From a distance, of course. As in I used my brakes to take that dip in the road. No way in hell I was going to jack up my Mustang.

  From my position on the road behind him, I watched the Fastback muscle up the hill. He didn’t touch the brake. Not even once. I hurried to keep up so I wouldn’t miss the show.

  Drew crested and didn’t hesitate at all. He freaking nose-dived, once again not using his brake at all. Once at the top, I slowed way down and watched the show.

  Seconds later, the car hit the dip.

  He was going so fast, he got some air.

  It’s not like he was thirty feet high, but it was enough that all four tires were off the asphalt.

  My stomach clenched when he hit the ground, but the Mustang bounced back and the tires absorbed the shock. He powered up the next hill and slid around the corner, disappearing from sight.

  “Crazy as fuck.” I chuckled and followed behind (at a much less breakneck pace).

  He was parked on the wide shoulder just around the bend, leaning against the side of his car like he’d been waiting there for hours instead of a mere minute.

  “If they gave out tickets for driving like a turtle, you’d have gotten one.” The lazy tone in his voice matched his stance.

  “Fuck you.” I laughed and slammed the door.

  “You see that air? That might have been the most I’ve gotten yet.” He shoved off the side and mimicked with his arms the way he imagined the car looked.

  He was wearing a pair of boot-cut black jeans, black boots, and his black leather jacket. Beneath it was a plain white hoodie-style shirt, the hood pulled out and draped over the collar of his jacket.

  “Yeah, it was pretty sweet.” I agreed and leaned against the back end of my car, tucking my hands into the front pockets of my jeans.

  “You shoulda dragged tonight,” Drew said, moving over to stand beside me. “The way you were driving back there on the road, it was hellacious.”

  “Hellacious?” I squinted at him.

  “Yeah. Like bodacious but way more badass… hellacious.”

  I chuckled. “You were pretty hellacious yourself.” I tried out the word on my tongue. I liked it. “First time I’ve seen that Camaro around the track. You recognize the driver?”

  He moved his head once. “No, the windows were too tinted to really make out his face. I only saw his outline really.”

  “Kinda odd,” I murmured, crossing my arms over my chest. It was cold as shit out here.

  “Why’s that?” Drew frowned.

  I lifted one shoulder. “The way he just kinda appeared at the track. I kinda got the impression he was wanting to race you. Like you said. Couldn’t really see his face… but I felt him watching you.”

  Drew lifted his eyebrows in suggestion, his voice turning sly. “Maybe it was a woman.”

  My stomach did this weird flip that made me feel sick all of a sudden. I ignored it and rolled my eyes. “You almost got beat by a girl, then.”

  “Shit, I had that drag in my back pocket
the entire time.”

  I made a sound that could have been an agreement or dismissal. I opened his driver’s door and reached in to pop the hood.

  “Give me some light,” I instructed as I propped it up and shoved the sleeves of the Varsity coat I was wearing out of my way.

  “How’d you know?” Drew asked, shining the bright light from his flashlight app down over the engine of his car.

  I barked a laugh. “I know you, Drew. Every time you go all balls to the wall on the road and jump that dip, something gets knocked loose.”

  “And this is why if I ever get to the big time, I’m taking you with me. Every driver needs a crew boss.” He mused and shined the light exactly where I reached.

  I glanced up. “A crew boss?”

  He waved away my partial confusion.

  I knew what he meant, but I’d never heard it referred to as a crew boss. “Head mechanic, pit crew chief, manager, whatever. You’d be the one I’d want there with me.”

  This funny feeling spread through my chest, kind of warm and liquid. It made me feel awkward and partially exposed. So I kept my face turned down and focused on checking all the parts that needed checking.

  After a minute, when he said nothing, I cleared my throat. “I’m not experienced enough to be your head mechanic.” I leaned off the side to check another section of the engine.

  I’d been concentrating so hard on not looking up, not thinking too much about how what he said made me feel, I didn’t even notice he’d moved closer. So when I shifted and reached out, my shoulder brushed against his.

  I pulled back slightly and focused down again.

  “Maybe not,” he answered, “but I trust you. Trust is more important than experience.”

  I swallowed and reached for a plug I knew was notorious for jarring loose. “I trust you, too, man.” I cleared my throat again (suddenly, it seemed hard to swallow) and finally looked up. “This one’s loose.”

  “Let’s see.” Drew leaned forward, bringing the light with him.

  Our shoulders brushed together again.

  This time I didn’t pull back.

  He didn’t either.

  “See?” I said, giving it a wiggle.

  “Tighten it as good as you can. When I get home, I’ll pull out the tools.”

  I leaned in a little more to do what he asked and expected him to move back.