Chapter 2
Suited upand sitting in Willy’s 911, I breathed a sigh of happiness at being back behind the wheel of anything. I revved the engine, feeling my muscles immediately relax. Being without a car for six months had been like being without a limb, but I’d left my team-issued sponsor car behind when they revoked my contract. I couldn’t justify buying another car with my savings, especially once I landed in San Francisco. There had been more important things to spend my money on than fast cars, especially since I needed a roof over my head.
We were lined up across the road after pulling names to determine our positions, and I breathed a sigh of relief to see the Demon wasn’t in the line-up. I could take the rest of these easy enough.
I was surprised to see a bike beside me, though. Seemed dangerous to race two wheels against four; the guy must’ve had a death wish. I lifted my helmeted head at him, and he nodded back.
Along with the bike guy, there were six other cars in the grid, which was a lot for a street race, but meant that the pot would be forty grand.
The fire suit and helmet were getting me some strange looks, but that had been the provision from Willy. I had no doubt he’d take back the keys, get me back my five grand and take me home, if I didn’t keep my word.
Goatee stood off to the side with a walkie-talkie to his ear, while a girl stood in front of us with a thong in her hand. It was lacy and pink, and I was fairly sure I’d get a UTI just thinking about wearing something like that. The taillights of the guy in front of me were beginning to burn my eyes, but I didn’t care. I was focused on that fucking pink ass floss like it was the last vestige of my freedom.
Finally, she raised her panties high, gave the drivers an exaggerated wink, then dropped it. The car in front of me burst off the line. Adrenaline burned through my veins as the bike beside me jetted between the front two cars, narrowly missing G-string Girl.
Now I saw how a bike could compete.
Focusing on the race, I went through my strategies. We would speed down the mostly unlit seaside highway for twenty-five miles, which should take roughly twelve minutes, given the sharp corners and thin, two-lane road. I kept pace, but didn’t try to make any serious moves yet. Let them jockey for position first; I’d just sit back and ride their slipstream. Happiness surged through my veins right on the tail of the adrenaline.
The darkness was all-encompassing, with only our headlights bouncing off the road reflectors, showing us the way. Another reason I didn’t want to be up front just yet.
Two cars up front got a little too close, and both ran off the road into the dunes on the right. Lucky for them, because fifteen seconds later, they would have been off the side of a cliff.
We slowed to hit a sharp bend, but I’d spent all afternoon studying this road. I knew the lines I wanted to take; I knew every inch without ever having driven it. I went around the Supra, the Porsche revving hard as I cut in, forcing the Supra to brake on the turn.
Seven more minutes. I pushed the Porsche past one-twenty on the straight, and she purred her agreement. “Good girl,” I muttered at the car, keeping my eyes trained ahead of me, my fingers loose, my breathing even. “We’ve got this.”
A big stretch in front of us had me trying to push her harder, but I was blocked by a 350z that was riding tight to the Camaro. Fuckers needed to move, because it was almost time for me to school them.
As they continued to be a rolling roadblock, I knew I’d have to get creative. Soon, there’d be a turnout, and I could use it to go around them, but it was dangerous. At this speed, I could hit the gravel and go careening out of control. But if I stayed back here, I would be in trouble.
I was weighing up my options when the Camaro slowed around the corner, shifting to the high line. It was dangerous. Risky as fuck. But I pulled up onto the left and zipped tight on the inside, the Camaro barely missing the back of the Porsche by a fish’s dick. I zoomed away before he could try and regain his position.
“Fuck yeah!” I screamed through the windshield.
Four cars down, three to go. I couldn’t see the bike anywhere, so maybe he’d wiped out earlier. Even better. Only two to go.
Quickly flicking my eyes to the clock, I knew I only had three minutes to make this drive count. A lifetime in a race. They might still knock themselves out, but I knew exactly where I wanted to make my move. I’d wait a little longer.
I stared at the taillights of the Corvette and the 350z; they were fucking close. Whoever was behind the wheel of the Corvette could really drive, but that little 350z was handling like a fucking pro, and it was light as fuck.
Wouldn’t matter. I was almost there.
The road squeezed into a tight two lanes, with barriers on both sides, which was my sign. It was almost time. “One mississippi, two mississippi… There it is.” I breathed and focused. Watched the cars in front of me. “Let’s do this, girl.”
Gunning the accelerator, I swerved hard to the left and hit the paved shoulder. The road spread out before a bridge, allowing three of us to sit side by side for a split second, before I pushed the Porsche to turn hard in front of the Corvette. I slipped in front of it before I hit the bridge, missing the guardrail by a margin that would give Willy a heart attack. As I opened the Porsche up, I could see the finish line just ahead.
I did it. I fucking did it.
I began to laugh. “Fuck YES!”
Then, out of nowhere, the bike pulled up beside me, and my mouth swung open as he got across the line barely a wheel in front of me.
My foot dropped from the accelerator, and I downshifted almost by muscle memory. “No,” I breathed as the bike slowed in front of me. “No, no, no, this can’t happen. Fuck!” I slammed my hand on the steering wheel, shocked as hell. “FUCK!” I screamed.
Pulling into a lot where spectator cars were parked, I rested my head against the steering wheel and tried to calm my racing heart. It would be okay. I’d try again. There’d be something else.
I didn’t have another buy-in, but I could save it. I’d be okay. I breathed heavily, trying to calm myself when I heard the crunch of gravel.
Willy pulled open the door, and I took off my helmet. “I lost.” I didn’t want to cry, so I blinked that shit back. I’d lost races before. You didn’t fucking cry at the finish line, because no one would ever take you seriously again.
But Willy knew me. “You can try again.” He didn’t say how, or when. It would be harder next time, because I’d lost my element of underestimation. I wouldn’t be able to pull the same back-of-the-pack trick, because they’d be watching for me.
“I can try again.”
The cars from the starting line started to trickle in, and with them, pumping music and shouts of disbelief. The bike pulled into the lot, and the rider hopped off. It was definitely a guy, because he was tall, easily over six-four. I climbed from the Porsche, and despite the disappointment flooding my veins, walked over to the winner. That was a lesson my dad had instilled in me—you were only as worthy as your sportsmanship, so no matter how angry you were at your loss, you shook hands out of respect. I didn’t know if that really applied to street racing, but I wouldn’t dishonor my father’s memory by being a bitter hag.
The guy took his helmet off and accepted the crowd of people coming to gush over him and his win. Dammit. Not only was he a good racer, he was sexy as fuck. Wasn’t that always the way? I could see the tattoos climbing the column of his neck beneath his collar. The guy was basically a cliché of a bad boy street racer.
It was a humid night, and I was sweating my ass off in my fire suit. Peeling it off my shoulders, I tied it around my waist as I waited for the crowd around the guy to dissipate a bit.
Finally, he looked up and met my eyes. He seemed surprised, but he quickly chased away the expression into one of grudging respect. Excusing himself from the hordes of guys wanting to stroke his bike—and the girls who clearly wanted to stroke something else—he made his way over to me.
“Good drive out there.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and I heard Willy whistle softly. He was smoking. But I could maintain my professional demeanor.
“Thanks. You too, obviously. You must have been riding without your headlights?” When the guy nodded, I shook my head. “That’s fucking crazy. Genius, but crazy. I didn’t even see you until you were past me.” And that fucking burned. He’d been like a ghost in the race.
“Sorry about that, but you know how it is.” The guy put out a hand. “I’m Jesse.”
“Tally.”
His face folded into a frown. “Did you say Tally?”
I was almost used to this. If you were a NASCAR fan, you inevitably knew my name. Mostly because Buck’s death, and the resulting blow-up, had been big news for a while. But I didn’t offer him any more than that, because I just wanted to forget that period of my life, before the other shoe had dropped.
Fuck, it was basically raining shoes at this point.
Someone came running up, holding an envelope that was bulging with cash, tackling Jesse around the back and slapping the winnings into his chest, forcing Jesse to grab it. “That was fucking amazing! You smoked that Porsche right at the—” His head snapped up at my gasp, and I met the eyes of a guy I didn’t think I’d ever see again. “Tally?”
“Hey, Hayes.”
Shit. I didn’t need this blast from the past right now.
His gaze ran over my body, snagging at my belly, and I mentally cursed. Was it too late to put my fire suit back on? His eyes went comically wide, and I could see the flash of headlights in their deep blue depths.
“You’re pregnant?”