Crash into You
Page 5

The angel and I glance at each other. Come on, don’t make me get involved more than I already am.
“Isaiah?” prompts Eric.
Damn. “The car has speed,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. Eric can make plenty off the unsuspecting owner, but he cashes in on side bets. “But it’s the original engine. No modifications. No nitro.”
“How much?” Eric asks her.
“How much what?” Holding her elbows, she folds into herself, as if becoming smaller will help the situation. Go home, angel. Take your beautiful pony and park her back in a safe garage in an upscale neighborhood where you both belong.
Eric chuckles deeply and his fingers flick the air. The movement reminds me of the way the legs of a spider gracefully work as it spins a web. “How much money are you putting down to race your car?”
“Can’t I just race someone?”
“Excuse me.” The driver of the Corvette approaches us at a strange, hesitant yet eager pace. As if his feet are afraid to move, but the top half of his body gravitates toward us. “Did you mention that she needs to make a bet?”
The angel closes her eyes as she visibly relaxes and mumbles, “Finally.”
“Yes,” says Eric, mimicking the asshole’s more formal tone. “Are you willing to place that bet on her behalf?”
“Are you the person that holds the bets?” he asks.
Eric eyeballs Corvette Guy. “Yes.”
The guy becomes eager as he reaches for his back pocket. No. Not happening. I’ve seen that front hundreds of times on guys at races—the attitude that says he gets a hard-on from betting. This girl will lose the slip to her car by the end of the night if he gets involved.
Fuck. Just fuck. “Do you have money?” I glare at the angel.
“Yes,” says asshole Corvette owner.
“Not you, dickhead.” I size him up and stare him down to keep him from opening his mouth again, then snap my gaze to her. “You. Do you have money?”
Her golden eyebrows furrow together. Worry isn’t an expression angels should wear. “I have twenty dollars.”
The crowd laughs and so does Eric. I pull out my wallet and slam my last twenty onto the hood of Eric’s car. The laughter stops and the only sound filling the night is a pounding bass line and an electric guitar.
Eric slides a hand over his drawn face. “Whatcha doing, my brother?”
“Calling my race.”
Eric glances at the crowd that’s completely absorbed in us. I’m costing Eric money, and everyone here knows it. Assessing me, Eric takes a tripped-out gangster stride in my direction and leans in close. “Fill me in on what I’m missing here.”
I match his low tone. “You asked me to race for you. This is me accepting.”
“Racing for me means I pick the races you drive and I negotiate the racing fees.”
I know that. Hell, everyone here except the angel and her fucked-up friends knows that, but I claim ignorance. “My bad. We never got to the negotiating part.”
“True that,” he says slowly. “Are you trying to play me?”
I assess the Corvette owner. Two feet distances him from the angel. He’s either the worst boyfriend ever or she meant what she said earlier—he just informed her about the races. Still, she shouldn’t be in this position.
Regardless, this girl ruined whatever negotiating room I had. “She’s got an ’05 Mustang GT. Original engine. I’m curious if my pieced-together Mustang can take hers. You get better betting when the cars are evenly matched. Let me do my shit and you do yours.”
Eric stares at the angel before replying. “Fine, but the next time you decide you want a personal race, you talk to me first. Did you get a good look at that college boy? I could have made a couple grand off of him.”
The boy wears slacks and a watch that costs more than I make in a year working at the auto shop. Eric shakes his head, clearly disgusted at the lost opportunity. “Your commission is twenty percent tonight as a signing bonus, but because I like you, I’ll give you fifteen every night after this. You’ll drive my cars, not your own. American-made can’t beat nitro.”
“Tonight is a onetime deal.”
Eric snorts. “Sure it is.”
He turns, and I remember the question I should have asked before I accepted the deal. That damn angel shot this whole night to hell. “What happens if I lose?”
From over his shoulder, Eric cracks his maniac smile. “My brother, I suggest you don’t lose.” He glances over to the GT and winks at me as if we’re friends. “You should get over Beth and make a move on that chick. Mustang Girl owes you for saving her car.”
Chapter 6
Rachel
I GIVE THE GUY WHO introduced himself as Eric twenty dollars, and my legs hit the front bumper when I step back to keep a safe distance between us. He seriously creeps me out in a need-to-take-a-shower type of way.
The other one, the guy they call Isaiah, doesn’t freak me out, though he should. Tattoos decorate his arms and two silver hoops hang in each ear. He turns from a black Mustang and pins me with his gaze. He reminds me of a high school version of Gavin’s friend Kyle, an Army Ranger. Well, minus the piercings. Isaiah shares the same rugged, strong build, dark hair buzzed close to his scalp and a five o’clock shadow lining his jaw. He’s a muscular thick. Like a jaguar.
What I like about him is his eyes. They’re serious. Too serious. And they’re gray. Gray and mesmerizing.
Not that I should be looking straight into his eyes, because when I do, he has no problem staring back. I don’t like people focusing on me, and I especially hate it when people I don’t know stare at me.
Isaiah moves to my side and my heart skips a beat. Guys don’t stand this close to me. Ever. With a touch more gentle than I could have imagined coming from a guy like him, he shuts the hood of my car with a simple snap. His eyes rove from me to the street leading to the freeway.
“You’re not safe here,” he says. His deep voice is like water running over a creek bed of smooth rocks. “You need to leave.”
I glance at the different groups of people talking and laughing and betting. The way some of the guys ogle me propels me to cross my arms over my chest. Even with that small barrier of protection, I feel as if they still see parts of me no one has seen before.
“I’ll leave after the race,” I say, not sure if following West’s friends to this place was officially the worst decision of my life or the best. My blood hums with anticipation. I want this race. I want to know what it feels like to push my car against another.
“Last bets!” calls Eric as he eyes me and Isaiah. “Mount up!”
Isaiah inclines his head to his shoulder as if trying to release tension. “Do you see the side street running parallel to the abandoned warehouse?”
The two opposing parts of my personality, the girl who panics and the girl who loves speed, declare war and the result is a head rush. “Yes.”
“Pull up to the first line of the white crosswalk. We’ll race a quarter mile to the stop sign. Then you leave and never come back.”
He pivots on his heel and returns to the black Mustang. Excitement ripples through me when I notice the body. That’s a ’94 GT. I’m racing against a ’94 GT! “What if I win?” I call.
“You won’t,” he replies. I snort and his shoulders stiffly roll back. Like a ’94 Mustang GT could beat my baby.
The crowd moves. Some hop into their cars and drive toward the abandoned road. Others travel by foot. I slide behind the wheel and shut the door. As I turn the key, my lips curl up at the familiar rumble of the engine.
I love this car. I really, really do.
I shift into First and maneuver to the starting line. The moment I ease into place, the battle for control over my body kicks into gear. Surrounding the edges of the street, people my age shout and smoke and laugh and drink. I rub my hands onto my jeans. My car may be where I belong, but I don’t belong here.
My throat tightens and I ignore the sensation. Nausea is not welcomed in my car. Nor are shallow breaths and sweaty palms and disoriented thoughts. This is my car—my world.
Announcing its presence with an angry growl, the black Mustang joins me at the line. Isaiah and I glance over at the same time, and I immediately look away, busying myself with knobs and buttons. I take a deep breath and try to suppress the panic.
Logic. I need to focus on logic. Turn off the heater fan, the radio, the nonessentials. Don’t rob the engine of power.
West’s friends park their car next to Eric and hand him money. I wonder if they’re betting on me or Isaiah. Losing confidence in myself, I think fatalistically that I’d place my money on Isaiah.
Eric and West’s friends stare at me.
In fact, they’re all staring at me.
Every single person standing along the road has their eyes fixed on me.
My heart beats twice and I wait for the familiar heat to explode upon my face, but nothing happens. I grip the steering wheel tighter as one single thought blankets my brain: this is my car and this is my race.
Two thumps on the hood and my eyes narrow at a boy with blond dreads motioning for me to inch closer to the line. What the hell? Why do people think they can manhandle my baby? With the press of a button, I lower both of my windows. “Don’t touch my car!”
He rolls his eyes. “Did you hear that, Isaiah? The rich bitch doesn’t want me touching her car.”
With a grumble, Isaiah’s Mustang lurches forward then stops just short of hitting the guy. In front of Isaiah’s fender, he holds his hands in the air toward Isaiah. “You need to smoke something to chill.”
I move my car to mirror Isaiah’s. My right hand strangles the stick shift as I place my foot on the clutch. Isaiah’s car roars next to me as he stays in Neutral and hits the gas. My 300 horsepower with 320 pounds of torque against his 215 horsepower and 285 pounds of torque.
This race is mine.
Adrenaline hammers my bloodstream as I feel the power of my car begging to be unleashed. The guy with dreads throws both of his arms into the air. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve only built up to fast speeds, never taken off from them, but it can’t be that difficult. Lift the clutch at the exact same time I press the gas while shoving the car into gear.
This is what my Mustang was made to do.
Isaiah’s engine roars again and the sound vibrates between the layers of my skin and muscle. The guy with dreads looks at me once. Then at Isaiah. In a heartbeat, his arms rush down to the ground.
My right foot hits the gas, the other slips off the clutch. Isaiah’s Mustang’s front end rises into the air as I shift into First. His car lunges forward and I’m preparing for the whiplash of speed when my car shudders once and stalls out into silence.
No.
This isn’t happening.
No.
I took my foot off the clutch too quickly.
No.
I didn’t gun the engine in time.
Hell.
I never had a shot.
Isaiah’s already past the halfway point. I turn over the engine, ignore my instincts for a full-on start and focus on getting the car into gear. I’m finishing this race, even though it’s obvious who won.