Crash into You

Of course she doesn’t. She’s some stupid rich girl who got her Daddy’s leftovers for Christmas. She bites her lower lip before answering, “Four point six-liter V-8.”

“The girl knows her shit,” says Eric with a hint of respect. Too bad her knowledge of engines won’t save her from him.

I place my hands on the frame of the car and bend over to get a closer view. “It’s the goddamned original engine.” Untouched as if it just rolled off the line. The engine’s aluminum has a shine that only comes with reverence. Someone has taken care of this beauty.

The girl abandons her safe shield of the door and flitters to my side, waving me away. “I’d really rather that you not touch it.”

Yeah, because I’m trash that knows nothing about cars and my one stroke will destroy the engine. “Scared Daddy will know you lifted his car if he finds fingerprints?”

She takes a possessive step, wedges herself between me and the car and looks me square in the eye. Her chin lifts in a kittenish cute-pissed way. “No one but me touches that engine.”

A chorus of “Ohs” and “Damns” rises from the crowd. One of my eyebrows slowly pushes toward my hairline. She called me out. If she were a guy, my fist would have already made impact, but girls deserve respect. She holds my stare for a record-breaking five seconds before losing her short burst of courage and lowering her head.

“Please don’t touch my car,” she says softly. “Okay?”

Her eyes dart to mine for assurance, and I incline my head a centimeter. If this was my car, I wouldn’t want anyone else touching it, either. “Go home,” I mutter so only she can hear.

Lines wrinkle her perfect forehead, and Eric claps a hand on my back. “What’s the verdict?”

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.

Chapter 7

Isaiah

IN MY REARVIEW MIRROR, I watch as the angel restarts her car and floors it. Seconds ago, I had my doubts about whether I’d win, but my instincts were right on—she didn’t have the reaction needed to pull off a start at the flag. I won a whopping twenty dollars from the straight bet on this race, but I’m hoping for at least a grand once Eric gives me my take from his winnings.

My lips turn up as I pass the stop sign. My piece of crap beat an ’05 GT. That feat alone deserves a trip to the tattoo parlor. That is if I had money.

I ease off the gas and check the angel’s status. Damn, that car’s fast. I slow to a stop and wait for her to join me. The crowd gathered at the quarter mile calls out smack. A huge part of me wants her to cruise past and head straight home. Girls like her shouldn’t hear the words being tossed into the night. A small part of me wants her to stop so I can see her cute-pissed expression when she realizes that a street punk beat her and her expensive car.

The angel finally catches up and I lose the smirk as I examine her. The streetlamp above us creates a glow around the mess of hair angling her face. She shouldn’t be here. In fact, there’s nothing right about this situation.

My throat moves as I swallow and, suddenly, my skin feels too tight on my body. Instinct? A sixth sense? I learned early in life to never discount the sensation. The noise of the onlookers becomes a shallow buzz as I glance at my side mirrors for the oncoming danger.

That’s when I see it—a faint strobe of light. I ignore all other sounds and strain to hear the one that can ruin my world: a distant wail.

“Cops!” I yell.

Blue and red lights blaze in the distance. Chaos erupts as the bystanders scurry to their cars. Doors slam shut and anxious motors rumble to life. Feet pound against pavement as voices call for others to head into the dark alleys between the warehouses.

I shift my car into First and stomp on the gas. My tires squeal as I peel out. A curse leaves my mouth when I throw the car into Second. Eric has my money and collecting what I fully earned will be a lot more difficult without a crowd to verify the bets made.

No matter how fucking hard I try, I always come out on the bottom.

I check my mirrors to see the direction of the invasion. There’re three ways out of this labyrinth of warehouses and the cops know one, maybe two, but the third will be a hell of a drive.

A solitary white barrier in the middle of the street causes me to hit the brakes. “Fuck!”

She’s still sitting there—the angel—like a damn sacrifice nailed to the ground. I yank on the steering wheel and one-eighty it back to where I started seconds before. What the hell is wrong with her?

My driver’s side mirror barely misses hers as I stop next to her open window. “Get out of here.”

“I don’t know where to go.” Red flushes brightly on her cheeks, in stark contrast to the pale white skin surrounding her eyes. Eyes that are wide and wild with fear.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. Fuck. Just fuck. Losing the cops in one car is hard enough. Having a tail will only complicate things, but I can’t leave her. “Follow me.”

Chapter 8

Rachel

ISAIAH CIRCLES MY CAR AND speeds off the way he originally came. I chase after him and do my best to shift with arms and legs that no longer want to accept orders. The speedometer climbs in my race to not fall behind.

The police.

Air catches in my lungs and throat, causing me to choke. My brothers are going to murder me. Kill me. Crucify me. And never let this screwup go. My hand slips off the gearshift to press against the nausea eating at my stomach.

My father will take away my car. My baby. He never would have bought it for me if he knew I had an addiction to speed.

And my mother...

How do I explain any of this? Why I’m out past curfew? Why I’m on the south side? Why I’m drag racing? Even worse, how do I explain why I wanted to be drag racing?

Isaiah turns sharply to the left. His brake lights never appear. I reach for the gearshift and switch pedals in order to make the turn. My back wheels slide out from under me and both hands struggle with the wheel as I fight to keep the car from spinning into a Dumpster.

Claustrophobia consumes me as the buildings gradually close in, making the road narrower and almost impossible to navigate. Garbage covers the roadway, and my stomach sinks as I realize there’s no way to avoid the debris. Isaiah runs over it and so must I.

Isaiah’s lights flash off and I follow his lead. The glow of the full moon is the only pathetic light leading us. His Mustang pulls farther away from mine, and I shift into Fourth. We’re going too fast. Too fast on a too-narrow road. I shudder as the wheels roll over trash and a clink from under my car makes me cringe. Did something hit the gas tank? The transmission?

My heart pounds out of my chest when my car becomes airborne through an intersection. From the corner of my eye, I spot police cars running parallel to us on a street much wider than ours. Sirens scream into the night and as my car hammers back into the ground, I wait for that sound to shriek from right behind me.

Darkness envelops me again and I drop gear as Isaiah takes a last-second right. He’s too fast, which is impossible because my car is better than his. I shake my head as I understand the difference: he’s a better driver. It’s not hard to imagine. I’m not good at anything.

Isaiah’s car fishtails and I slam on my brakes to keep from crashing into his rear end. My breath leaves my body in a hiss. On either side of my car, metal warehouse walls threaten to scratch my side mirrors. He slows, and thanks to the dim security light hanging over a bay door, I see the reason for the reduced speed: shredded rubber spikes out from his front driver-side wheel. Isaiah destroyed the tire.

Crap. I’m going to jail and my mother is going to freak. She’ll cry and then she’ll know I’m nothing like the daughter she really loves—that I’m nothing like Colleen.

Isaiah’s arm extends from his window, waving me on as he eases his car into a space between Dumpsters. I pull alongside of him and he hops out. “Two rights. One left. Then hit the freeway. Watch the cops. They’re running on the streets to the left and right of us.”

My throat tightens. To the left and the right? “Come with me.”

Isaiah places his hands on the top of my car and leans over so that his head is level with mine. The strong scent of dark spices tickles my nose and I inhale deeply. A brief calm washes through me and somehow I know Isaiah will get me out of this.

“They’re pressing hard to find the racers, meaning us. If they pull you over—” his eyes trail over my hair then over my clothes “—they’ll probably let you go, but not if you’re with me. Especially if you’re with me. Go. Now.”

I nod and stare at the road in front of me. Two rights. One left. And if I get caught, they’ll probably let me go. I glance at Isaiah. He’s touching my car and I don’t even care. Which tells me I’m either beyond freaked or I like him. I flex my hands, which are sweating on the steering wheel. I pick the first option. I’m definitely freaking. “What will you do?” I ask.

“Walk.” His silver hoops glint in the moonlight as he performs a half shrug. “Go. I can take care of myself.” Isaiah steps away from the car, taking the dark scent of calm with him.

I put the car into First, and a fresh wave of adrenaline floods my bloodstream when a cop car speeds across an intersection two warehouses ahead. Isaiah falls into the shadows with his back against the warehouse wall. His eyes travel back and forth down the alleyway. An hour ago, I never would have thought that someone like him would be my savior, but he is. What type of person would I be if I left my savior behind? “I’m not leaving without you.”

“Dammit.” He rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Just leave.”

“Promise you won’t get caught. Promise you’ll be okay.”

He freezes midrub and shoots me a chilling look. “I won’t rat you out.”

Rat me out? My forehead scrunches. To who? A siren wails, the sound much closer than I’d prefer. I blink rapidly as the answer dawns along with a sinking feeling. The police. Isaiah knows he’s going to be caught. “I’m...I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.”

He mumbles a word that begins with F and stalks toward me. “I’m driving.”

Driving? No way. No one drives my car. “I don’t think...”

Isaiah opens the door and stares me down with his hard gray eyes. “Passenger side. Now.”

Passenger side. Right now. On it. I slide over the console and grasp the side of the seat when Isaiah simultaneously shuts his door and guns the engine. I click my seat belt in place as he takes a sharp left. The speedometer continues to climb.

“I thought you said two rights.”

His restless eyes check the rearview mirror. “The cop we saw took that route. I’m not interested in chasing him. Are you?”

I shake my head, but I doubt he sees it. He keeps his eyes trained on the ever-constricting slender space. It’s like we’re not even on a road anymore, but a sidewalk. My stomach cramps. Holy freaking crap. This is a walkway. The deep sound of the engine pushing out revolutions increases until Isaiah shifts into Fourth. Oh, hell, I’m gonna puke. We’re doing sixty. “Slow down.”

“Slow down?” He smiles. I’m seconds away from a full-on panic attack and the guy actually smiles. “Your car can do over double what I’m asking it. In fact, it was built to be let loose. You should try it sometime.”

“I do let it loose. Garbage can!” I close my eyes and bite back a scream when the car swerves to the left. Breathe, Rachel, breathe. Going mental is not going to help this situation. “I mean, slow down.” I reopen my eyes only to wish I hadn’t. Dumpster. Big Dumpster. Big freaking, going-to-wreck-my-car Dumpster. “You can’t make it. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t....”

And he swings the car to the right and into an actual alleyway. “Don’t hurt her. Just don’t hurt her. Okay?” Tears prick my eyes and the breathing thing isn’t working and everything feels out of control. “She’s mine. This is mine. I don’t have much that’s mine. So you can’t destroy her, okay?”

“What’s your name?” he asks in the calmest, deepest tone I’ve ever heard.

“What?”

“Your name. I want your name.”

“Rachel,” I squeak.

“Rachel,” he says with a long drawl. I glance over at him when he says nothing else. His eyes flicker between me and the road. “I’m Isaiah, and I swear I’ll take care of you and your car.”

Breathing becomes a little easier. “Okay.”

I smell it again, his scent. The calming aroma. The one that’s become my new favorite. I take a deeper breath.

Isaiah drops gears and for the first time hits the brake. “As soon as I stop, get out.”

I don’t have time to ask what he means. Isaiah slams the car into Park, hops out and punches buttons on a security keypad. I do what he said and rub my arms as he eases my car into the garage, turns her off and relocks the garage door.