CHAPTER 42
Evren
The Death Of Peace Of Mind - Bad Omens
The Industrial Belt of the Lower Layers never sleeps. It breathes through smokestacks, exhale steam from the rusted vents and trembles beneath the weight of machines older than people working on them.
Endless factories stretch, their concrete walls stained black from the decades of heat and exhaust, that is probably one of the best things about the Lower Layers.
Everything—almost everything—is older than the people living here. Nothing is spotless or perfectly polished like the Upper Layers.
I glance around from behind the wheel of my Charger. Neo's up front in his car, Varek's behind me, and Ren's somewhere on his bike.
The race is fucking boring this week. No one's good enough to make me want to talk to them, let alone race them.
Last week was the same shit. Ghost Void won the race, and I couldn't even be bothered to care.
The last two weeks have been nothing but violence, boredom, and whatever the fuck this is.
After losing the Enforcers and their drones in the Lower Layers that night, I had to repair the Charger's body because those bastards decided to unload their lethal weapons into it.
I even ended up with a scar on my lip because I was dumb enough to stick my head out the window just to taunt them.
I needed that chase because the alternative was thinking about troublemaker—Riven—and how everything went that night.
That would've made me even more reckless.
And I fucking love being reckless.
Just not when it leaves me with a scar on my fucking face.
I tried to forget her, to move on.
I went to clubs, women threw themselves at me, climbed onto my lap, kissed me.
I pushed every single one of them away.
They don’t fight, they don’t tell me they will gut me out for even touching their shoulders.
Lira texted me. Called over and over.
She even showed up at the garage unannounced while I was talking to Ren about tracking down some fuckers who'd tried to desert the gang.
People can get the fuck out of my gang if they want to leave. Just had to speak with me and not leave with ten thousand credits they stole from me.
She threw herself at me, trying to kiss me. I pried her arms off, her touch disgusted me.
She pouted like a fucking child, a spoiled brat who's always gotten everything she wanted.
I would've loved to fuck her until she couldn't walk.
Hell, I would've loved to fuck every woman who threw herself at me.
But every time I close my eyes, I see her.
I had Varek escort Lira out before I’d lost my temper and drove her face-first into the fucking wall.
Three days after Riven told me to get the fuck out, I broke into her loft and hid a camera inside one of her framed paintings.
Now I can watch her every day, living her life without giving a single fuck about me.
She hates me.
I hate her for that.
That much was already established.
What my fucked-up brain still couldn't figure out was how the hell that brat got under my skin.
The fact that, from day one—from the moment I crashed into her and her friend—I couldn't get her out of my head, it was her eyes, the way she wasn't scared, the way she fought back like a cornered wildcat.
I couldn't think about anything else.
I watched her touching herself on her couch and ended up jerking off in front of the floating screen in my apartment like some teenager in heat.
I never followed her in person.
I surprised myself by it and by not barging into her loft and fucking her senseless, even though God knows—and everyone else probably does—that I wanted to.
Instead, I paced, snapped at everyone and everything.
For no fucking reason.
The races are boring. Nothing ever happens anymore—not for me to notice.
The Static Rebels pull the same old shit every week, throwing fire and obstacles onto the track.
Ghost Void, well, they aren't number one for nothing. They keep appearing and disappearing like actual ghosts.
Neon Raiden somehow keeps every vehicle perfectly in formation while flying down the track like they're trying to die.
Golden Kitsune manipulates the race order, the tracks, and even the drones for the new racers.
And the Iron Hounds, you can slam your chassis into their cars as many times as you want, and they're still grinning. Their cars are fucking walls.
The silence in my head never ends.
The only time it does is when I'm watching her from the camera, in my apartment or from my office at the garage.
During business, I fucking kill anyone who talks to me the wrong way.
I snap their necks, drive my fist into their face until there's nothing left but a smashed, bloody mess.
It's always some small-time gang boss or one of their idiots trying to do business with me, steal our cars or bikes, or cross into our territory.
And it only gets worse.
The harder I try to respect what my troublemaker wanted—I don't even know why the fuck I'm respecting it—the worse it gets every fucking day.
Suddenly, my car gets wrenched sideways.
I grit my teeth and wrestle the Charger back under control.
Just like that, I'm ripped out of my head, ripped away from her.
My eyes blaze with fury, I just got this thing fixed. Who the fuck—?
I spot one of the Static Rebels. The pink neon accents on his car—their signature color—flash beside me as he flips me off.
He wants to provoke me.
I grin and slam the gas pedal, the front of my chassis slams into his rear bumper. Hard.
His car starts to swerve.
I accelerate, pull up alongside him, and roll down my window.
“Well, let's see if you survive that!” I shout, not amused in the slightest.
I yank the wheel toward him, the Charger slams into the side of his car.
I just need to keep his attention on me, the Industrial Belt will take care of the rest.
Neon is scarce here. Instead, the district glows beneath amber floodlights, rotating hazard beacons, and the cold white glare of industrial work lamps. Massive ventilation fans roar overhead.
Pipes snake across buildings like exposed veins, hiding in the shadows of the work lamps.
I keep forcing the Rebel toward me, ramming his car while he's driving straight toward those fucking pipes.
At the last second, I swerve away.
“Enjoy the flight!” I laugh, waving as I speed off.
“What the—”
The crash echoes behind me, a scream follows.
I glance into my side mirror just in time to see his car plow straight into the pipes.
His body flies through the windshield.
It smashes into the side of a building with a sickening wet crack before dropping to the pavement with a heavy thud.
Definitely dead, and I don’t give a fuck.
No one fucking provokes me, and no one ripped me out of her.
I cross the finish line and climb out of the Charger, Ren won.
I pay my members every month. The weekly races bring money into the gang, and every time one of mine wins, sixty percent of the prize goes into the Crimson Velocity account.
The other forty percent is theirs, a bonus for winning the race.
I don't wait, I get back into the Charger and drive straight to my apartment.
Back to watching.