Driven

Chapter 1 Gianna

Gianna

Booker Bay looks different at night.

Show and muscle cars block off the usually quiet street on the outskirts of town. The old blast furnaces were shut down a century ago, and straight down the middle of the two tall brick towers is a strip of asphalt that happens to be a quarter mile long.

It’s now our own personal racetrack.

My foot hovers over the accelerator, guiding my classic ’67 Mustang Fastback through a swarm of people. They slowly part as I join the other waiting racers. We’ve probably got an hour before the police show up – not that they’d catch any of us.

Living coastally, most people develop hobbies like surfing or maybe pottery-making, but it’s the formula of burnt rubber, gasoline and risk that claims my addiction. It’s like a drug, and everyone here is looking for their next hit.

Even if you hate cars, you’d love it here.

In the passenger seat, Chuckie has one front paw out the window, relaxed amid the commotion. His copper-tinged coat shines under the headlights while his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth, enjoying the crisp night air.

I’m waving to some of the regular racers as they stand by their popped hoods, displaying their engines while spectators snap photos on their smartphones, when a sudden flash of black darts in front of me.

I slam on the brakes, my hand shooting out to stop Chuckie from jolting forward.

I suck in a sharp breath as I miss the motorbike by inches.

The rider stops right in front of me, blocking my path.

He’s dressed head to toe in black leather.

The black chrome visor of his helmet conceals his face, but I feel his gaze zeroed in on me.

A jolt of electricity charges between us. I narrow my eyes and press the clutch in, about to give a few warning revs before I run his ass over, but he waves.

I tilt my head, trying to figure out if I know him, or if he’s mocking me.

He brings his gloved hand to his helmet and blows a kiss. I grip the steering wheel and scowl, pressing down on the accelerator. Hard. The revs boom through the crowd, making those around me jump and hoot, except him. His chest shakes.

Is this asshole laughing at me?

He finally moves his bike to the side and gestures dramatically for me to drive on. I keep my eyes locked on him as I pass, that jolt electrifying me again.

It can’t be … him?

Curiosity rises in me, a slight impulse to see the face under the helmet, but I push the feeling away.

No. He wouldn’t be here.

I focus back on what’s in front of me. The Lost Tropics race runs on random nights throughout the year, with no notice other than a text message the day of the meet.

Only the best of the best are invited. It’s like winning the lottery, especially for a 22-year-old, even if I inherited the original invite from my brother Jace.

Long before my first race, I made a promise to myself: always win.

I park along the kerb and flip down the car’s sun visor – to the right of the mirror is a polaroid of us. Our curly brunette heads are pressed together, mine tipped back, mid-laugh. Jace’s teeth were always a little straighter than mine, a flash of white against golden skin.

I press my fingers to my lips before brushing the glossy image. This race is for you, big bro. They always are.

I step out of the car, gravel crunching beneath my lug sole boots. Chuckie follows close behind. The subwoofers pump so loudly, my chest pulses with the beat.

Fiery red hair bobs my way, catching my attention.

‘Gia!’ Monique shouts over the rap music. ‘It’s about time you showed up. I didn’t think you were going to make it.’

I shrug. ‘I always make it.’

My best friend pulls me into a tight embrace, squeezing the breath from my lungs. When she releases me, I admire her outfit – a hot pink pair of bootcut leather pants styled with a long-sleeved crop that’s distressed in all the right places.

‘Did you just make these?’ I ask, gesturing to her pants. ‘They’re cute.’

She twirls on the spot and I notice the By Monique label she attaches to all of her designs. The same label is on the black corset top I’m wearing right now, which has delicate lacing at the front.

‘There’s a new fabric store in town. I’ve been going, like, every single day. I’m obsessed.’ Her brows shoot up. ‘Anyway, you feeling good about tonight?’

‘Always.’ The October breeze sends goosebumps over my thighs, and I hug my Booker Bay Kings jacket tighter around me.

‘Perfect.’ She grins mischievously, flashing a wad of cash between her fingers. ‘Because I want to make some money!’

I jerk my chin toward the trio of racers watching on. ‘What’s the buy-in?’

‘Two grand. They’re still looking for a fourth.’

I nod. Six grand isn’t something to turn my nose up at, but I’m so close to having enough to buy the old speedway. If I’m going to put an offer in by the end of the year, I need to win and I need to win big.

I scan the crowd for X. His real name is Xavier, but no one calls him that. He’s the official bookie, so I just look for the biggest circle of people waving cash in the air. That, and the smell of weed. X has always got a toke hanging from the corner of his mouth.

‘Over there.’ Monique points into the crowd.

X stands in the middle, collecting cash and taking names. He’s in a long-sleeved shirt and baggy jeans with a green bandana hanging from his back pocket. A cloud of smoke hovers around his face.

‘Going in the next race?’ Monique flashes a smile, a light smattering of freckles sneaking through her foundation.

I nod. Adrenaline percolates through my veins in a steady drip. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

‘I’m putting a grand down then.’ Monique smacks her hands together.

‘I’ll put in four grand.’ Doubling my bet from the last race.

Her eyes widen, brows furrowing in a question.

‘I want the speedway this year. It’s going to happen,’ I explain. ‘And when I win this, I’m another step closer.’

Her expression softens and she gives a single nod. ‘Let’s get this win then.’

I pull out a crumpled piece of paper from my back pocket. Scribbled in black ink on one side are the letters IOU.

‘Just tell X I’ll owe him if I lose,’ I say, after unsuccessfully smoothing it out and pressing it into her palms.

Monique gives me a droll look before glancing at the crumpled paper.

‘Yeah, right. Like he’s gonna accept that.

You look cute tonight, but you know X doesn’t let anything come between him and his money.

’ She pauses for a moment. ‘I’ll put down six.

I know you won’t lose.’ She winks and turns on her heel, but I reach for her wrist.

‘Wait, I have a better idea.’

She arches her brow and leans in. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Get some side bets going. It looks like there’s plenty of new blood tonight. It won’t be hard to convince them to bet against a girl. It’ll be good to have the extra rent money too.’

She flashes a bright smile. I know she’s missed this. We stopped hustling last year, when X became the official bookie, but I’m desperate and Monique can sell gas to a Tesla driver.

Her grin slips. ‘But will X get pissed off?’

‘He’ll let us,’ I assure her. ‘Just tell him it’s a one-off and we’ll give him a cut.’

‘Alright.’ She pulls me into another vice-like hug before turning toward X. ‘What time is it?’ she calls over her shoulder.

‘Hammer time.’ I take a deep breath, attempting to steady myself. Looking down, I give a nod to Chuckie. ‘Go with Monz,’ I command, and he rushes to follow her, his tail wagging.

Opening the door to the Mustang, I pause, unable to stop myself from admiring the sleek chassis. The car is a perfect mix of old-school American muscle and top-of-the-range mechanics. No one would believe the power under its hood, but I know its potential, and I let loose a smile at the thought.

Sinking into the seat, the leather hugs me in a cool embrace.

I get a waft of Jace’s cologne that’s seeped into the seatbelt and become one with the fibre.

The smell transports me back; it’s bittersweet, but I still smile.

With a twist of the key, the Mustang rumbles to life once more.

A sheen of sweat prickles along my nape, making my hair stick.

I take the black silk scrunchie from around the gearstick and tie my curls up in a high ponytail.

X motions for the racers to move to the freshly spray-painted starting line for the quarter-mile dash.

He pauses and points at me before holding up all ten fingers with a stern look.

Next to him, Monique wears a wide grin, giving me two thumbs up.

X side-eyes her and she drops her hands, attempting to appear nonchalant.

I bite back a laugh, giving him a nod in agreement to his silent negotiation of ten per cent.

Moving into first gear, I press the accelerator and ease off the clutch. White smoke curls in the air as my tyres burn into the asphalt. They spin, squeal and sizzle, warming up for a better grip on the straight.

Through the haze, I manoeuvre into the line-up. The warehouses on either side of the strip have been abandoned for years. The only light we have is from the moon and the headlights of other cars.

Fear spikes my heart, but just the right amount keeps my focus sharp. I blow out my cheeks and roll the tension from my neck, satisfied when I hear a pop.

‘Hey, skirt.’ A man whistles from the vehicle beside me, instantly making me regret keeping my windows open. ‘If you can actually handle that stick, maybe you can handle mine.’

I scowl. ‘Dream on.’

A haughty laugh leaves his throat. ‘With pleasure. Want to make it interesting?’

Reluctantly turning my head, I take in his tanned skin, bleached blond hair and green eyes that crinkle around the edges.

We’re about the same age, but he looks like he’s seen some shit.

Any empathy goes out the window, though, when he smirks and I notice the look.

The same look that flashes across every man’s face when he thinks that, just because I’m a girl, I can’t race.