Chapter 7
Scarlett
I have a migraine and an iced coffee that I made myself. It’s in an old collectible Wesley’s mug, something red and plastic from decades long past. Probably has asbestos. I sip from the faded plastic crinkle straw that goes with the cup, rubbing at my temple with my other hand.
Nisha is driving the Pantera while I sit shotgun, offering me a few blissful hours where nobody wants or needs anything from me.
The Chevelle and the Stingray are behind and in front of us, respectively.
Alexei is the passenger in the former, Basti in the latter.
Mob brat shouldn’t have even come today.
I’d rather not have brought Alexei at all, but Bohnes insisted. Neither he nor Lady Marie Borisov trust the safehouse anymore. Notice that it has not been overrun with mayoral meatheads.
Ash is solid.
See? I’m not that dick drunk. I totally know what I’m doing.
I suck noisily at the coffee and Nisha snorts, blue leather driving gloves locked at nine-and-three on the steering wheel.
“Had enough caffeine yet? Goddamn.”
“Caffeine cures headaches.” I take another loud sip, slumped back and resting my bare foot on the dash.
“You’re not allowed to have a headache,” she tells me seriously. “You have to win this race today—and you need to do it legally. Whatever strings were pulled to get you back in here must’ve been big ones. You were blacklisted from the track permanently.”
“You think a mere migraine could cause me to lose to a bunch of rich boys?” I laugh at that. “I wouldn’t even lose to a bunch of poor ones.”
Nisha rolls her eyes, her lids and cheekbones dusted with gold glitter.
She’s been to the barber this week, too, swapping out the buzzed hearts in her hair with Korean words.
I can’t read a lick of it, but I suspect the design is a tribute to Hype.
She’s not the first woman my bestie has ever slept with. Might be the most serious though.
I’ve only met the bitch once, but someone had to be our liaison. I see why Nisha volunteered to keep tabs on the hacker baddie.
Hype will be at the track tomorrow to race with a borrowed car. Once that’s done, our bill will be paid and we’ll get our information out of her. That is: finding out who’s currently in charge of the Borisov Group and Pavel’s estate. I wonder what the police chief did with his body?
“Are you gonna marry that Hype girl or somethin’?” I want to hear this gossip so bad. It’ll help with my headache. I glance in the side mirror to see the Chevelle hot on our ass. Bohnes drives a lot closer to my car than I’d like. What a bastard son of a bitch.
“We’ve had two dates and spent the night together. Not a big thing.” Nisha gives me a look. “Not like you and Widow last night. You made love to him? That’s disgusting, Scarlett.”
I laugh so hard that I get tears, pointing at her with the straw of my iced coffee.
“What do the words on your head mean then? Hmm? Bet you won’t tell me because they’re sappy.” I poke at her arm and she smacks my hand, jostling the Pantera around. Yeah. She’s smitten. “Don’t you crash us on the way there,” I warn her, toying with the radio. “I will kill you if that happens.”
“Nah, you love me too dang much.” Nisha gives me puppy dog eyes as I crank the volume and then point toward the windshield.
“Eyes on the road, Nish,” I shout, but it’s all a game.
Prescott drivers are experienced. Someone like Nisha isn’t going to struggle with the straight, flat I-5 between Springfield and Portland.
There are cows on either side of the road and semi-trucks trying to kill us in both lanes.
“Also, I know. Lovemaking? Gross.” I smile.
“Look at your face,” Nisha scoffs, reaching out to grab my cheek and giving it a hard pinch. “Head over heels for some arrogant piece of Prescott patriarchy with a nice smile and big biceps. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Don’t play that shit with me.” I raise a single brow at her. “You warned me from day one that I had a bad habit of falling in love.”
Nisha’s face falls, and I know she’s about to bring Ash up.
“Scar, are you sure about Ash-pen? Me and Basti, those dumb-shit fuckboys, we’re in agreement for once. I don’t want to see you get your heart broken.” Nisha is stricken, her thoughts on Lem I’ll bet.
If Lemon were here, she’d be defending me. She used to defend me against Nisha all the time, even when she and I were wrong and Nisha was clearly right. Looking back, her blind support might’ve been a double-edged sword.
“The difference between the Lemon/Aspen thing and the me/Ash thing is that I don’t want or need him to save me. It’s the other way around. I’m the only person that cares whether he lives or dies.” I swallow strangely, hand tight around the Wesley’s cup as a song plays quietly in the background.
“Doesn’t mean he cares about whether you live or die.” Nisha isn’t being mean, just pragmatic. I don’t blame her. Sounds like me trying to convince Lem that the boy she’s into is bad news.
“Ash is an asset, not a liability. He’s obsessed with me to the point of self-destruction. I took one look at him, Nish, and I knew that he wasn’t Aspen. I could tell them apart from the beginning.”
“Where’s Emma Jean then?” Nisha counters, adjusting her hands with a squeak of leather. I don’t have an answer to that. If Ash has the resources to save Emma, he will. If she had to be sacrificed to protect me then…
I trust him.
I put my cup in one of the holders and lean back, closing my eyes.
If Bohnes, Widow, and Alexei are scheming together to beat me on the track then Ash has to be the one to win.
He’ll be the easiest dog to bring to heel.
“I’m taking a nap,” I tell Nisha. She doesn’t reply, and I don’t open my eyes to see what expression is on her face. Doesn’t matter. She trusts me, and I won’t let her down.
“Yes, Queen,” she says, and that’s the end of that.
We finish the rest of the drive in companionable silence.
By the time we arrive at the Portland Classic Car Circuit, my headache is gone. I lean over Nisha’s lap to talk to the security guard at the gate. He recognizes my car. He definitely recognizes me. After the stunt I pulled last week, who would ever forget?
“Scarlett Force,” I say, tugging my sunglasses down to peer up at the guy. He’s frowning at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m here. “Checking in. I got my plus-one. Come on. Chop, chop.”
He checks his list. Makes a phone call. Hangs up and opens the gate without a word.
Everyone that works here is staring at us as we pass through the property, my newfound notoriety preceding us. We’re directed to one of the service bays, climbing out to a sea of busy mechanics and track personnel.
Huh. Now that I’m allowed to be here, I’m a little unsure of what to do next. How does one go about doing things legally? This is where my friends step in. They know I’m not much of a paperwork and procedures sort of gal.
“I’m here,” Basti pants, jogging through the crowd toward us. I have no clue how the boys got in here so quickly, but I’m also not surprised. There’s no sign of Widow, Bohnes, or Alexei though. Their absence makes my skin prickle.
Bastian summons an inspector to go over a pre-race checklist as Nisha collects a folded white suit from the Devil’s trunk and hands it out to me. I didn’t even know it was in there. Another prezzie from her and Basti then?
“A racing suit.” She gestures with it as I raise an eyebrow. I came dressed in leather pants and a crop top for a reason. I’ve even got three different pairs of heels with me that I’m having trouble choosing between.
“I don’t need a racing suit, Nisha,” I tell her with a raised brow.
“I race at Prescott. There’s no mud at P-Trip.
No rocks. No psycho boys trying to knock your car off the road at the risk of death.
” Sounds so humdrum when I say it out loud.
Basti is right. “If I were going to crash and burn, don’t you think it would’ve happened already? ”
Nisha gives me a fierce look, the gold on her skin glittering.
“You died. In an icy river. You literally died and were brought back to life. If there’s ever another bitch in Prescott who comes back to life—”
I shush Nisha by raising a hand.
“There are plenty of Prescott bitches capable of coming back from the dead, Nisha.” I snatch the white suit from her and head into the bathroom to change.
As soon as I shut and lock the door, I feel him.
Bohnes is in the restroom. The walls here are weirdly bereft of Sharpie dicks and garage band stickers. Makes me uncomfortable. Or it would if Prescott’s most beautiful undertaker wasn’t in attendance. I take great comfort in him.
“You should be more careful, Miss Force,” he tells me calmly, arms folded over his broad chest as he emerges from the shadows. His teeth are blindingly white when he offers up a playful, necrotic smile. “It’s far too easy for me to sneak up on you.”
I give him a look before I start changing into the suit.
It came with boots, too. Boo. No fun. Apparently, there’s some official statute that says I have to wear this stupid thing.
Guess it’s no different than a seatbelt.
Just a bit of extra precaution. I leave my crop top on underneath, struggling a little to zip the suit over my breasts.
Bohnes watches hungrily.
“It’s your job to sneak up on me, sir.” It’s meant to be a joke, the sir part.
We both like it a little bit. Him, because he wants to be in charge.
Me, because I want a break from being in charge when we’re in the bedroom.
Only then. “What’d you do with Fuckboy Three and Four?
” I check my appearance in the mirror. My brows are sharp.
Lashes are done. Bohnes is staring at my reflection, so I wink at him.
“They’re scoping the stadium,” he says absently, more concerned with the amount of cleavage I’ve got on display than he does with the boys or the race. It’s dangerous here though, especially for Alexei.