“No argument,” she protests. “No one will tell your dad. I promise.”
I dart my eyes to the two drones hovering overhead.
Dylan follows my gaze. “Oh, yeah,” she grumbles. “I forgot about those.”
Jax thought drones would be a great feature to use for overhead shots and video, as well as an easier way to capture what went on out on the off-roading tracks. While I could avoid the GoPros on the cars, the drones would get shots of who’s inside the cars, and my dad would eventually get wind of it.
“Clear the track!” Zack Hager, one of the track managers, booms over the speakers.
A flood of people disperses, clearing the area and heading to their preferred vantage point: the bleachers, their cars, or behind the fence. Music blasts into the air, and the huge digital clock counts down from thirty, letting the racers know they should be in their cars when it hits zero.
“Well, here I go.” Dylan exhales a heavy breath and smiles excitedly.
I brush her chin with my fist, fake punching her. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
She bumps my hip with hers. “Stay gold, Ponyboy.”
I always laugh at our customary farewell, quoting Casablanca and The Outsiders, respectively.
She climbs into her race car, a tricked-out Nissan Silvia that was part of her father’s collection, as I leave the track and position myself behind the chain-link fence.
Normally Jared prefers American muscle, but he was forced to broaden his horizons when he became such a big deal.
Madoc stands at my side with Fallon and their daughter, A.J., on his other side.
There are three cars lined up on the track, and I don’t recognize the other two drivers, but they look young, so it should give Dylan a decent chance. They likely won’t have much more experience than she does.
Engines fire up, and I feel the high-pitched whir vibrating underneath my feet.
“Any of this getting you excited?”
I look at Madoc, the ever-hopeful light shining in his eyes. “Like turned on, you mean?”
“No!” he bursts out, looking disgusted. “I mean like, do you finally want a car, so you can stop mooching off family for rides? Look at them.” He waves his hand toward the track. “They’re so hot. Don’t you want that?”
“Pay him no mind,” Fallon says, peeking around him. “He’s about to orgasm.”
I laugh, holding the waist-high fence with both hands. Exhaust pours out of the cars, the red stoplight shines bright in the warm evening dusk, and my stomach starts to flip a little. Dylan must be so nervous.
“Just go ride with Dylan,” Madoc suggests. “Get a feel for the car.”
“There’s drones everywhere. You know Dad will find out.”
“Dad dealt with me racing,” he points out. “He can handle you doing a ride-along.”
“She’s not interested, Madoc,” Fallon scolds. “Leave her alone.”
Thank you.
But then Madoc spits out, “She doesn’t know what she is.” And my smile falls at his harsh tone. “Her entire life has been played out from the palm of his hand since the day she was born. She can’t make a decision without running to Daddy for his input.”
My eyes flare.
“Madoc!” Fallon whisper-yells.
I jerk my head to face him, glaring. “What did you just say?”
He shrugs, a challenge in his smiling eyes. “I said you’re a wimp.”
That’s it!
I storm back onto the track and head straight for Dylan’s car. I open the passenger side door and turn to look at Madoc, shooting him my middle finger, because he’s an invasive, interfering butt-nugget who needs to learn how to shut up.
Everyone in the vicinity starts laughing, Madoc included, and I dive into the car, anger raging beneath my skin.
Dylan stares at me with her eyebrows raised in a question.
I breathe hard and pull the seat belt down over my head, the shoulder straps descending in a V in front of me as I fasten it.
“I have places I want to travel and recipes I haven’t tried. Stay on the road and don’t kill me in this thing,” I warn her.
But she just frowns at me. “Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”
Oh, whatever. I roll my eyes at her Back to the Future reference.
She chuckles and plugs in the iPod. “War playlist,” she says to herself, navigating the touch screen on her radio. “Track five.”
The screen reads “‘Stronger’ by Through the Fire,” but as soon as the song starts, Dylan’s door opens.
Jared leans in, looking at his daughter and holding out a necklace of some sort. It’s some kind of charm or something on a ribbon.
She smiles and reaches out slowly, as if shocked. “Thanks,” she says, her voice small.
He nods and gives her a half-smile, and then reaches over, pulling on her and my harnesses, making sure we’re locked in. Kissing her forehead quickly, he closes the door.
“What is that?” I ask, watching her hang the charm on her rearview mirror.
“It’s my mom’s thumbprint,” she answers. “It was a craft she made when she was little. My dad had it with him in every race for good luck.”
The charm looks like an oval piece of clay no bigger than a quarter, and in the middle is a small fingerprint pressed into the piece, like a fossil. It hangs on a tattered, light green ribbon that looks ages old.
The announcer’s voice shouts over the speakers outside, and I tense, hearing the crowd begin to go wild.
It’s time.
Dylan squeezes the steering wheel, twisting the leather in her tight fist as she focuses out on the road, and the music starts to get going.
Outside, the engines rev over and over again, and Dylan begins rocking to the song Hunter gave her, her eyes narrowing and getting zoned in as she looks at the road like it’s her bitch.
I gulp, feeling her engine rev underneath me, and when I glance at the cars on our left and right, the windows are tinted so dark I can’t see a thing. Shit. A steel band wraps around my stomach, and my heart’s in my throat.
Fuckin’ Madoc.
The red light changes to yellow, the engines roar, and screams hit my ears, and then . . .
Dylan shoots off, and I slam back in my seat.
“Oh, my God.” I damn near choke on my breath.
We race down the track, Dylan punching into third and then fifth, skipping second and fourth altogether, and I’m breathing hard, scanning the track for the other drivers.
The car to our left is only a hair behind, and the car to the right is head-to-head. Dylan jerks the steering wheel to the left, rounding the first turn, and then charges ahead, winding to the left and then the right for a few minor curves as she slams into fifth. The car on the right falls behind, but the white Honda on the left pulls up head-to-head with us.
The lights on the track dart past us like stars at warp speed, and I grab hold of the safety bar with one hand and my seat belt strap with the other.
A tight right lies ahead, and I glance at Dylan, seeing the muscles in her arm flexed and her jaw locked shut.
Is she going to slow down? We’ll flip at this speed!
“Dylan.”
The Honda pushes harder, not backing off, and it looks like it’s trying to take the corner with us.
“Dylan,” I warn again. She needs to slow down.
But instead, she punches into sixth, growling, “Screw this.” And she slams on the gas, going faster as the music screams at us and fills the whole fucking car.
“Hell, yes!” she bellows. “Thank you, Hunter! Whoo!”
“Oh, my God!” I scream and cover my face with my hands, because I can’t look.
My body vaults to the left as she turns right, the torque dragging us around the turn, and I scr
eam as I keep my eyes squeezed shut under my hands.
I feel the car tip, and my head hangs to the side as an army of butterflies swarm in my stomach.
“Holy shit!” I burst out.
The car straightens, and I feel the tires on my side find the ground again as I jerk my head to look behind me. The other two cars are behind us now, the blue one way back.
Adrenaline floods my body, and I can feel every single hair on my arms stand on end.
I laugh, the rush of emotion too much to contain. “Go, go, go!” I urge her.
She smiles at me, and I turn the song on full blast, as high as it will go.
She takes the curves quick and smooth, rounds the next left and right and swings around the last quarter of the track.
The white Honda creeps up on her again, and all of a sudden something hits her driver’s side window. We jump and Dylan swerves as we jerk our eyes to the window. She struggles with the steering wheel, trying to gain control of the car again.
“What the hell?” she growls.
A white glob of what appears to be wet paper sticks to her window, slowly falling off in little chunks.
“Asshole,” she yells and presses the button, rolling down her window.
“Dylan, don’t.”
But she does it anyway.
The guy in the car next to us, young, with black hair and a cocky grin, snarls at her. “Weston sends its regards, Pirate bitch!”
I groan. Really?
Dylan turns her eyes back on the road and shifts into sixth again, speeding up.
“Dylan! Slow down!” I yell as she comes up to the last turn.
“No!” she growls, mumbling to herself. “Piece of shit, asshole. This is a Falls track. He doesn’t get to push us around.”
Weston is one of Shelburne Falls High’s rivals, and they only come over here to start shit. Them and Saint Matthew’s, a private school near Chicago. Sometimes the two schools even partner up to give our Pirate football team hell and anyone who goes to Shelburne High, for that matter.
“Yeah, go ahead and try to be your daddy, baby,” the guy eggs her on. “You fall short!”
“Haven’t you heard?” she shouts out the window at him. “I’m a mama’s girl!”
And she speeds up even more.
“Dylan!” I yell, clutching the safety bar.
But she hits the corner, tries to turn, but the Honda’s on the inside, not backing off. His turn widens, and she barrels into the brush, forced off the track. I spot his car, flying into the grass as well, and we bounce in our seats as we hit the rough terrain. The car skids to a halt, both of us lurching forward, against the harnesses as the car stalls.
My shoulder burns from where the strap rubbed, and I breathe hard.
“Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
I look over at Dylan, but she’s already tearing out of her seat belt and charging out of the car.
I fist my fingers several times, taking inventory to make sure I’m okay before I unfasten my belt, too.
Following her out of the car, I see everyone, a crowd of people, running down the track toward us.
To our right, the Weston asshole is crawling out of his heap, rubbing his head.
Jared rushes up and takes Dylan’s face in his hands, scanning her head and body. “Are you okay?”
She’s breathing hard, still shaken, but she nods.
Jared steps up to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Madoc, Jax, Tate, Fallon, and Juliet all follow, fawning all over us, checking our limbs for any bruises or scratches, a crowd of people surrounding us so tightly I can barely breathe.
Jared approaches the Weston kid, getting in his face. “If I weren’t the adult, you’d be on the ground right now,” he threatens. “Get the hell off this track and don’t come back. You’re banned.”
The kid turns his face away, scowling as Jared leers over him.
“Dylan, are you okay?” Hunter steps up, pushing through the crowd.
But then I hear Kade’s smooth voice off to the side. “Well,” he says, grinning as he approaches the Weston guy. “Lucky for me, I’m not the adult.”
And he throws a punch in the guy’s face, sending the kid reeling back and crashing into Dylan. Both of them tumble to the ground, Dylan crying out as she lands on the gravel lining the track.
“Ow, shit,” she cries.
“Kade!” Hunter yells at his brother and scrambles through the tight crowd to get down to her and pull the guy off her. Helping her up, Hunter turns her arm over, checking out the scrapes.
But Kade didn’t even notice. “When you come to the Falls,” he warns the guy, bending over to grip his collar, “bring backup, you fucking idiot.”
“Enough!” Madoc grabs his son off the guy.
Kade drops the kid, and he and his friends sneer down at him.
“Everyone off the track!” Jax hollers, trying to push everyone back. “Now! We need room!”
Jared stares down at the Weston kid, planted on his ass. “Get your car, and get out of here, or I’ll have it towed.”
Everyone starts to disperse, and I check out Dylan’s arm, making sure she’s okay. The scratches are red and angry, but she’s not bleeding.
As soon as nearly everyone is gone, Hunter lashes out at Kade. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
His brother just sneers. “Oh, why don’t you grow a set, huh?”
Kade’s friends snicker and laugh, but then Kade’s eyes lock on Hunter’s hands on Dylan’s arms, and Kade pushes them off her. “Let her go. She’s fine.”
“Stop it,” I finally chime in.
“Hunter, I’m fine,” Dylan assures. “It’s cool.”
“See.” Kade smiles at his brother. “She can handle it.”
Hunter shakes his head, anger written all over his face.
“And the night’s just getting started,” Kade points out, looking around to his friends. “Road trip to Weston, anyone?”
The guys smile, mischief gleaming from their eyes, and I rub my hand down my face.
Hawke hooks an arm around Kade’s neck, both of them staring at Dylan. “Under a Black Flag We Sail,” he reminds her, reciting the Pirate motto.
“Hell yeah,” one of the guys adds.
Dylan stares at Kade, his challenge clear. Weston deserved a retaliation, and was she game?
Hunter looks to her, narrowing his eyes. “Dylan, don’t.”
She glances at him before looking back toward Kade, and I see it in her eyes. The conflict. She knows what’s right, but she wants what’s wrong.
“I can take care of myself, Hunter.” And then she steps toward Kade, Hawke, and their friends.
Chapter 10
“Hey, you all going home?”
Fallon pops her head up from the trunk and nods. “Yeah, we’ll do some s’mores and let the kids catch fireflies. Try to shake off what happened tonight. Might need some wine, too.” She laughs. “You want to come with? Madoc can drop you home later.”
“Sure.”
I’d already texted my parents, letting them know I was with Madoc and the rest of the gang and that I might crash at his house tonight.
I help Fallon load up a cooler, lighter now that she’d drained the melted ice. Opening the back door, I grab my bag and take Lucas’s hat off the strap, turning it around in my hands before putting it on.
The truth is, I can blame my dad for holding me back as much as I want, but there are other things that keep me in my stalemate. That keep me nervous to leave for college in the fall, afraid I’ll miss something back here. That keep me weak and invested in things that probably don’t deserve my attention.
I clear my throat. “So how’s Lucas doing?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Have you talked to him much?”
“Only as
far as work goes,” she replies, pushing up her black-framed glasses. “When our firms cross paths and such. He just . . .” She pauses, thinking, “established his own life out there, I guess. Madoc talks to him, though. He refuses to let Lucas get away.”
I’m sure. Madoc likes to see his family grow, not shrink.
“I wonder what keeps him out there,” I cage, knowing exactly what I was hinting at. “I guess he must like it. You don’t miss him?”
“Of course, I do,” she rushed to reply. “But . . .”
“But what?”
She finishes securing A.J.’s seat belt, closes the car door, and shrugs. “I know he’ll come home,” she states. “Everyone comes home. He left for a reason, and we might not completely understand it, but he obviously wants distance, and I’m respecting that. He knows we’re here when he’s ready.”
“Well, he shouldn’t assume everyone will just wait for him.”
But Fallon frowns, studying me. “Who’s waiting?”
I slow my hands, seeing the wheels in her head turning as she probably wonders what the hell I’m talking about. Yeah. Who’s waiting, Quinn? No one else is putting their lives on hold for Lucas Morrow.
I finish pushing the seat cushions into place in the trunk and quickly grab the picnic blanket off the ground. “I’ll take this to Tate.”
And I walk away, as fast as I can from her stare.
Tate is standing near her car, having just finished placing her sleeping son into his seat. I hand her the blanket that I recognized was hers.
“Thanks.” She tosses it in the backseat.
“You all going to Madoc and Fallon’s or going home?”
“Home,” she replies. “James has a doubleheader tomorrow, and I promised your brother ‘cuddle time’ tonight if he’s going to be forced to sit through two baseball games tomorrow.”
She did the air quotes around “cuddle time,” and I laughed to myself, knowing what that meant.
“Tell Jared, racing is a sport, too,” I correct. He found sports like baseball, basketball, and football boring, and while he wouldn’t really be considered an athlete, there’s skill and sweat in racing. He was into sports, just not ones that required running. Or standing.
Or fighting with other guys over a ball.
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