Chapter 13 Gianna
Gianna
PRESENT
This is a mistake. Beyond stupid. It’s probably one of the densest things I’ve ever done.
But this is beyond ego. Landon is stealing prized possessions all over the Bay, and he’s got his eyes set on the Mustang. He needs to know he can’t fuck with me – and the best way to do that is with a win.
‘You have reached your destination,’ the robotic voice announces on my GPS. I turn toward an underground car park on the south side of Booker Bay, just behind the estate where I live. My heart kicks against my ribs.
Past the entrance, there’s already two other racers waiting at the starting line – a red Evo, and a blue Nissan Silvia.
Each has a window tint so dark that I can’t see who’s behind the wheel, but I think the driver in the Silvia is wearing a fedora.
Other than them, it’s row upon row of empty car bays with support columns holding the levels above.
There’s no music, no flashing neon lights and no quarter-mile straight.
It doesn’t take long to spot Landon leaning against his Civic, deep in conversation with someone I’ve never seen before.
The Civic with camber suspension, made for taking corners with precision.
‘Shit,’ I mumble under my breath.
I guide the Mustang beside the other two racers and kill the engine, taking a steadying breath before I step out. Landon turns to face me. When I meet his gaze, a smug look etches his features and his eyes crinkle at the edges.
Hesitation and resignation mix like a lethal cocktail in my gut, but still, I close the door behind me with a thud. ‘Different track than I imagined.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Landon rubs his hands together. ‘Let’s see how you handle a real race. We’ve already marked the race line.’
He points to a freshly painted blue line along the asphalt that bends and moves between the pillars. Like a snake, the line curves, creating a double hairpin corner before going up a spiralled ramp where it disappears. I frown, wondering where it leads.
‘We finish four levels up,’ Landon explains, like he’s crawled inside my mind. ‘On the roof.’
My eyes scale the length of the building. Why would we finish on the roof? You can only take these corners if we were—‘Drifting?’ I arch a brow. ‘Are you crazy?’
Landon’s cocky grin takes over his entire face. My heart picks up while dread settles in right down to the pit of my stomach.
I should leave.
It’s not too late to just go home.
‘You here to look pretty or we racing, skirt?’ Landon asks, face looking so smug, I can’t think of anything more punchable.
I’ve drifted before, enough to know that the Mustang is not built for it.
‘I understand if you wanna back down and go back to your little quarter-miles. They’re more suited for you, skirt. We wouldn’t want any exhaust fumes on your pretty face.’ He turns to eye the Mustang. ‘Wouldn’t want that ride of yours damaged either.’
He reaches out to caress my cheek, but I jerk out of his way with a scowl. Heat unfurls in my insides and I feel my eyes burning from the fire he’s just ignited. My breathing turns ragged.
‘You didn’t say this was a drift race. Seems like Midnight Spares isn’t the only business you’re running and lying about.’ I nod to his vehicle. ‘I’m surprised you’ve even got a plate on the Civic.’
His smile drops, and he chuckles in an empty, menacing way that smothers my body in chills. He steps forward, leaning down so close I physically have to stop myself from recoiling at the stench of his breath. I don’t back down, meeting his glare.
‘You sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong, skirt?’
‘I’ll make you a deal, Landon.’ I don’t take my eyes off his. ‘I win, you don’t set foot in Booker Bay again. I don’t see your face at The Tropics, and you pack up your dodgy-ass business in Empire City tonight and never come back.’
I square my shoulders as he lets out a single, hollow laugh and leans in even closer.
‘And if I win?’ he sneers.
‘If you win.’ I swallow. ‘I never saw a thing. Deal?’
His eyes narrow as he lets out a snort. When he says nothing, I dig around in my pocket until my fingers wrap around what I’m looking for. I toss the roll of cash to Landon. He catches it and smells the length of it.
‘So much sweeter when it comes from a girl,’ he sneers before tossing the bundle to his silent friend. The friend limps to the starting line, and Landon sinks into his car.
I whip around, heading back to the Mustang at the entrance.
I sink into the seat, kiss the polaroid of me and Jace, and unravel my scrunchie from the shifter to tie up my hair.
I key the engine and the ignition rumbles, along with the other vehicles, through the empty lot.
I burn my tyres into the ground before rolling toward the starting line between Landon and the red Evo.
Landon’s friend takes his mark, standing in front of us with his arms raised.
I turn to reach for the NOS tanks but pause. Will I need NOS? I don’t think the track has a straight long enough to handle it.
‘Ready,’ Landon’s friend calls over the noise.
With my tyres already warm, I take the revs to the limit; the other drivers do the same. The sound of engines echoes all around.
‘Set.’
My nerves are screaming at me louder than the revs can reach.
When do I pull the handbrake? Is it before or during the corner?
Do I take the inside or outside edge of the race line?
Fuck. I don’t know a thing about drifting.
I take a steady breath. Corners may not be my strong suit, but I can smoke them all on the straights.
What if you’re not fast enough?
I don’t entertain the question. I can’t. The only thing I can do now is try.
No. Win.
Just follow the damn blue line.
‘Go!’
I’m quick off the line and the Mustang surges forward, taking the lead. I upshift to second, then third, all while Landon remains behind me. His headlights are looking pretty in my rear-view mirror.
When I look back to the blue track line, I turn the wheel in a hard right for the corner that’s coming up. I rip the handbrake to take the tight turn, but the back fishtails out and I hit the pillar.
My body jostles in the seat from the impact. ‘Shit!’
My hands fumble, releasing the handbrake and changing down to first gear. To my right, Landon’s headlights are coming at me fast. Right when I think he’s going to smash into me, he corners with precision, leaving black tyre marks on the concrete through a haze of white smoke.
The Civic flies around the corner, and I hate how beautiful it looks. It’s like a slinky coming down stairs; I can’t help but watch. As his window lines up with mine, it’s as if time slows, right before his tail-lights come into view and he takes off up the ramp.
I’m not giving up.
I chase after him, slipping into second place as the Silvia gains speed behind me. But I’m faster. I watch Landon take the next corner, studying when his brake lights come on. The red halogens flash right as his tyres turn to take the corner. That’s where I brake too.
The handbrake failed on the last corner. I have to clutch kick.
I turn my wheel, starting the corner, keeping my foot down on the throttle for speed.
Then I give the clutch a love tap. The rear tyres break traction and the ass of the Mustang glides beautifully.
A hypnotic squeal fills my ears as the rubber kisses the polished cement in a perfect line.
I keep the wheel left, controlling the angle of the drift.
I’m almost out of the turn when the Silvia smacks into me, sending me off the race line.
I’m thrown in my seat when the entire back panel collides with another pillar. This isn’t high-class motorsports. There are no penalties, no rules. Dirty drivers are everywhere in the street scene. On this track, you have to fight your own battles, and you have to fight hard.
Hands shaking, I shift back to first, but my tyres are stuck in a spin. The back panel is lodged in the pillar.
Please.
I give it more, pressing down on the accelerator.
Please, please, please …
The Mustang revs … and it finally comes free.
Thank god.
The blue Silvia edges in front of me and the red Evo is approaching. I expect the Evo to roar past, but then the driver stops beside me.
The window rolls down slightly. I double-take when I recognise the face I see every morning at the garage. ‘Renny?’
I’m about to roll down my own window and ask him what he’s doing here. My fingers wrap around the window crank just as he lifts a finger and presses it to his lips. His eyes widen in a clear warning as he shakes his head and mouths the words, ‘Go home.’
What?
I cock my head, unsure why he’s here and why I have to pretend I didn’t see him.
There’s a look on his face I can’t place, like worry mixed with something more.
Sympathy? Sadness? Whatever it is, it’s a plea so strong that I can taste it, and it’s so out of character for him.
When he rolls up his window, I’m met with my confused reflection in the black tint before he takes off, claiming third place.
Renny doesn’t race. Not even at The Tropics anymore. He stopped going after that night. There’s something bigger going on here.
I can’t think about it right now. I smack the steering wheel, cursing with desperation to catch up. I don’t give up. I keep pushing. But my position doesn’t improve on the third corner. Or the fourth.
I’m stuck in the slipstream of the racers ahead. My insides churn and I want to scream into the sky until my lungs bleed.
There’s no high here, just a low fucking low. It’s heavy in my bones as the tail-lights get dimmer and the corners to drift get sharper. When I make it to the roof and see the three cars waiting for me, it hits.
Our first loss.