13. Beau
13
BEAU
“I still can’t believe you and Graham run this place,” my sister says. She nudges her shoulder into my arm. “And for so long.”
I glance over at her, frowning. I try to see it from her perspective. The lights, the noise, the speeding cars, the rowdy crowd. “Yeah.”
“You could’ve told me, you know. I would’ve kept it from Mom and Dad if that’s what you were worried about,” she murmurs, her gaze stays straight ahead.
Guilt carves out pieces of me like a slice of Swiss cheese. I swallow and face her. “I’m sorry, Cora. It wasn’t malicious. It was . . .” I shrug and run my hand over the back of my neck. “At first, we were further on the other side of the law, and we didn’t want to drag anyone into it, yeah? And then, it just became this thing that we did. I don’t know. I am sorry, though.”
She looks at me, her gaze crawling over my face. “And you guys are being safe? Because I’m sure Jasper could?—”
“You name-dropping me now, baby?” my sister’s boyfriend slings an arm over her shoulder, half-leaning over her.
My top lip curls before I can arrange my face into something more neutral. “Jagger.” I grit his nickname out.
My sister lives in his lake house in Avalon Falls, but he’s a Reaper. A member of the local motorcycle club in Rosewood, our neighboring town—and where we grew up. There’s no love lost between our crew at the Alley and the Reapers. But we don’t run in the same circles, so I’m never worried about them.
Jagger lifts his face from Cora’s neck, tipping his chin toward me. “Carter.” His gaze goes over my shoulder, and I don’t need to turn around to know Graham is scowling behind me. “Carter.”
Graham only grunts in response. Jagger smirks before my sister steals his attention. I can’t deny that it’s a little fuckin’ weird to see my sister all over some random Reaper, not after all the years she spent shit-talking them.
But I’ve also never seen her this happy before. And I’m not hateful enough to want her to suffer just because a handful of Reapers were assholes to us years ago.
Speaking of Reaper assholes, Jagger’s friend Hawke strolls up. Perpetually smirking and never pressed, he bounds down the stands from above. He weaves his way through the stands, skirting around everyone while holding two completely full drink holders.
“Here I am. Did you miss me?” Hawke crows, his grin wide.
Jagger huffs into Cora’s hair. “You mean in the seven minutes you were gone? Nah, bro, we didn’t.”
“Hey, you can do a lot in seven minutes,” Hawke protests, tossing everyone a wink. “Especially if the setting is right.”
Cora covers her laugh with the palm of her hand. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?”
Hawke shrugs and passes out drinks to everyone. “Yeah, well, everyone’s gotta be something.” He hands me a beer, and I accept the olive branch for what it is. Even though I don’t drink on race nights.
I tip my head toward him. “Thanks, man.”
Hawke nods, a flicker of understanding passing between us. We may not be friends, but we’re not enemies either. Not anymore.
“No problem, bro.”
He hands a drink to Graham, who takes it with a grunt and passes it to his assistant next to him. Hawke shrugs and slides in next to Cora.
He takes a drink from his cup, his eyes glued to the oval. “How’s everyone doin’ tonight? Any standouts yet?”
I cut my gaze toward him, sharpened by his carefully chosen words. “You know someone who’s racing?”
“In the same way that you know someone who’s racing, I’m sure. Just curious,” Hawke says.
I recognize some cars, drivers who’ve run this track so many times I could spot them with my eyes closed. But there’s an alarming amount of visitors here. Or fuck, maybe they bought new cars since the last time they raced here. It makes me wonder how everyone finds out about the Gauntlet.
Hawke takes a swig of his beer, his eyes scanning the crowd. Suddenly, his gaze snags on someone a handful of people away. A slow grin spreads across his face as he pushes off the railing. “Well hello there,” he murmurs.
I follow his line of sight, my eyebrows shooting up when I spot who caught his attention. A woman with long dark hair leans against the railing, her attention fixed on the track below.
My heart kicks inside my chest, and that single drop of hope fucks me up a little bit. I start, my muscles locking up as I mentally will her to turn around. There’s something familiar about her, and for a single, blissful second, I think it’s her . But the hair’s all wrong.
But when Hawke approaches her, and she turns to face him, I get a good look at her. Hope plummets into the depths of acidic disappointment. It’s definitely not her.
I start to turn away when I catch her expression as Hawke talks. He’s an animated guy, I’ll give him that. But whatever he’s doing, it’s not fucking working on her. She rolls her eyes and scoffs, physically turning to face the oval once more.
“Damn.” I whistle low under my breath. “That’s a shut down if I’ve ever seen one.” I pause. “Not that I have, because I never get turned down.”
“You’re an idiot,” Cora huffs out.
I’m surprised she even heard me over whatever the fuck her and Jagger have been giggling about for the last ten minutes.
I chuckle. “Maybe, but am I wrong, though?” It feels good to talk a little harmless shit with my sister, have her here at the Alley. Hawke doesn’t give up so easily, it seems. He leans in closer to the woman, likely so she can hear him over the crowd yelling. He pulls back just in time for me to watch her flash him a look that I can only interpret as hungry. But not in the hot way. More like she’s gonna chew him up and spit him back out kind of way. And from Hawke’s reputation, I’d bet he’d say thank you afterward.
I can’t help but laugh as he saunters back over to us a minute later. I whistle low. “Struck out, Reaper?”
He grins and takes a healthy swallow of his beer. “Nah, it’s all part of the plan, man. I’m working the long game.”
“I don’t know, Hawke. She looks a little young for you,” Cora muses, her gaze cutting to the woman in question.
Hawke grins, this sly little smirk. “You worried about me, Carter?”
Cora stutters out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
Jagger jerks his chin toward the track. “You’re gonna miss it, man.”
“Yeah, yeah. This is my good side anyway,” Hawke muses, facing the track once more.
The air crackles with the energy of the Alley tonight, the crowd’s roars blending with the rumble of engines and the squeal of tires. It’s the kind of atmosphere that sinks into your bones, gets your heart beating in time with every lap around the track. I lean against the railing separating the stands from the oval track. The familiar excitement builds lap by lap, like some kind of Lego creation nestled underneath my chest. There’s a part of me—a big fucking part—that itches to be out there instead of on the sidelines.
It’s the fourth and final heat tonight. We have a twenty-five car cap on the oval. Any more than that, and we’re just asking for accidents and the kind of damage that’s permanent.
We’ve got three people watching the clock and documenting finish times. I have extra security with each of them, just as a precaution in case shit goes south when they announce the top twelve. There are no rules when it comes to the Gauntlet, but it’s only the first pre-qualifier race, and so far, everyone’s been playing clean.
The last twenty-five cars whip by, blurry streaks of color. It’s hard to keep track of which car is in the lead.
Jess, this wizard of a woman, developed a system that allows her to place a small tracker on every driver’s car, so we can record the exact time they crossed the finish line. The coalition actually paid her to replicate it for the Gauntlet. It’s connected to MoonLink, a satellite internet service, so it never encounters a dead zone and always has impeccable service.
Jess creates these profiles for everyone, purely based on the car and a basic description of the driver. So after the second pre-qualifier in Clearwater in two days, she’ll send a mass text from an untraceable number to the twenty-five fastest drivers. It’ll seem like a spam text, reminding them to register to vote now in preparation for the upcoming election. It’s all code.
If they get the text, they move on to the Gauntlet. If they don’t, they’re out.
In two keystrokes, her program will send an automated text twenty-four hours before the first race. Another spammy text, signing up for a rewards program with a link. The link opens up to coordinates with a specific time. That’s how we convey information safely. And this part is more important than racing.
At the Alley, we’re in control. I’ve got enough cops in my pocket that it’d have to take serious shit to close this place down permanently. But the Gauntlet is anything but controlled. That’s half the battle. Anything goes during the Gauntlet.
I’m pulled back to the track as the final lap approaches, the last burst of adrenaline before the checkered flag. And then it happens—a little black sports car, sleek and quick, comes up from behind and rockets past three others, cutting through the pack like it’s nothing. Right before the finish line, the car slides into first place with just inches to spare.
The crowd erupts. Screaming, yelling, cheering. But there’s a voice that cuts above them all.
“Hell yeah! That’s my fucking sister!” It’s the same girl Hawke was hitting on earlier. Head tipped toward the sky and hands cupped around her mouth as she screams.
A guy steps in next to her, clapping and hollering with her. I vaguely recognize him, but it’s hard to get a good look through the throng of people jumping around.
The girl plants a hand on top of the half-wall fence, and without looking at the guy next to her, she vaults herself right over, landing on the sidelines with barely a stumble.
I find myself leaning forward, arms braced on the railing, drawn to the scene in front of me.
“Who’s driving the Mitsubishi?” I toss over my shoulder to Graham.
He barely glances up, tapping his encrypted tablet. I’m sure he’s scrolling through the dossiers we keep on every driver. The only person besides Jess who’s more brilliant with tech is my brother. He insists on keeping his own files, separate from the Gauntlet’s. It’s helpful for stats, odds, and payouts, so it never really bothered me.
“Lou Thorne. Never heard of him before.”
I nod, letting my gaze drift back to the girl who’s sprinting across the dirt, not wasting a second as she beelines straight for the black car idling in the middle of the track. She reaches the driver’s side, rips the door open, and pulls the driver out. In a flash of dark blonde, they’re in a tangled hug, jumping up and down.
I’m halfway over the railing now, completely focused on them, everything else fading into the background. Something about it holds me immobile, and I can’t look away.
And then she pulls back, and the driver’s face is right there under the bright lights, clear as day. My lungs seize up, breath stalling as I take in the one face I’ve been seeing in my mind since the drive-in.
Standing in the middle of the Alley, with the crowd roaring around her and victory in her eyes, is Peach.
My Eloise.