Daniella
Screeching breaks.
Twisting metal.
The drip, drip, drip of the fuel.
Then BOOM, it ignites, the flames engulfing both the car and whoever’s locked inside it.
Though it doesn’t happen often at these things, there’s always a chance.
I guess that’s what makes the air electric on race nights.
I don’t know whether it’s just the exhaust fumes getting to me, but it smells different—feels different.
It’s charged, volatile, like all it would take is for one police car to come rolling around the corner, and the entire thing would blow us all up to the heavens.
Not that the police would ever consider raiding one of these events, never mind actually turning up to one. I’m certain more money greases their palms to be otherwise engaged during these events than what lands in their pay cheques each month.
The crowd parts as I rev the engine, the clock on the dashboard urging me ever closer to the starting line. They’re not going to wait for me if I’m late, and you don’t get a second chance at a first impression.
Luckily, the petrol heads seem to recognise the urgency and shuffle out of my way. A path opens up to the two other cars already lined up, their under-carriage lights shining purple and orange to match the colours of the cars.
I guess there’s no accounting for taste, but my baby will smoke both of them on a standing quarter mile. Easily.
I’m so wrapped up in the moment, with the music blasting through the speakers, that I miss the guy standing at my side, until he taps twice on the window, scaring me half to death as he gestures for me to roll it down.
“Hey, sorry about that. I was miles away.” The words come out awkward as I turn the music down and push a lock of dark chestnut hair over my shoulder to tuck it behind my ear.
“You must be Van’s girl,” he says, his dark eyes looking me over with interest. “You got some cash for me?”
It’s more than I usually drop on a night like this, but when in Rome…
Plucking the roll of notes from the centre console, I do my utmost to ignore the creeping sensation that prickles my skin. It’s a reminder that this guy is connected in all the wrong places—a warning I should heed.
“He sent me the details, but I’m not his girl.”
Just because I called in a favour does not mean that I’m linked to Van DeVille in any way, shape, or form, and I won’t be taken for another one of his little bitches, either.
The guy nods, his features hidden in shadow as he counts the notes in the light from the car. “It’s a twenty-twenty-sixty split, right?”
“Van said it would be ten-ten,” I argue, irritation meeting the anticipation that swirls in my stomach.
It’s not so much the money, it’s the insinuation that I’m not worth exactly the same as these other cars. They’re probably not paying an extra cut to the middle man, but even so, this is a show I’m more than capable of winning.
But I should have known that Van would pull something like this. He’s a fucking snake.
“Feel free to back up.” The guy gestures to the road behind me while pocketing the cash and looking up to catch my gaze.
The street lights illuminate him now he’s not leaning over the car.
He’s pretty, if you like that kind of thing.
His blond hair flops around haphazardly as his intense, dark eyes cut through me.
The piercing in his eyebrow glints in the streetlights, but it’s the smirk on his face as my foot unintentionally revs the engine that gets me.
There’s amusement wrapped through that look.
The look that knows he’s got me, and I’m not going to back down.
“Next time, I come direct, and it’s twenty-eighty,” I argue as he leans over, pressing his thick forearm back against the roof.
There may not be much I can do about Van’s finder’s fee for this one, but there’s plenty I can do about future races if I happen to find myself here again.
“Maybe, if you’re up to standard,” he replies, those dark eyes locked on mine as he seems to search through me, reading everything I keep hidden like an open book.
I need this, and he knows it.
I want this, and he gets it.
That money is mine, but he has no idea what for.
“Those two are nothing.” I scoff confidently as I shake my head. “They’re barely worth turning up for.”
The tell-tale rattle of a V8 engine roars behind me, and that grin of his makes another appearance while mine slides off my face like ice from plastic.
“I guess it’s a good job the competition has finally arrived then, huh?” He breaks our connection, turning his head to look at the other car as a BMW M5 Competition slowly makes its way to us, the rest of his body staying angled towards me. “Are you good with the terms, or are you rolling out?”
With a frustrated sigh, I growl out, “I’m in.”
I need this. I’ve got no choice.
“Then, I guess I’ll see you at the finish line.” He turns back to me, a wicked smile on his face as he winks before tapping the roof twice. He stands and heads to greet the final driver. At least I hope it’s the final driver.
Unlike the flashy toy box cars to my left, this blacked-out beast could be a problem—one I’m going to do my best to leave in the dust.
Our blond leader, whos name I never got, makes his way to the driver’s window, barely acknowledging him before pocketing the cash he hands over without even looking at it.
The windows are heavily tinted, so I can’t get a look at the driver or catch anything in their quick exchange, but it’s clear they know each other, and don’t like each other, either.
This is the usual winner of their race nights—the one they’ll all bet on. I guess it means they’ll all be shit out of luck tonight, then, doesn’t it?