Love Me Not

Iris

They said the city ran on money. They were wrong. It ran on blood and horsepower.

Miami, nine days before Valentine’s Day

They say Miami never sleeps.

That’s a lie. The city simply holds its breath, waiting for something to break.

And tonight, I am holding mine, praying I will hold it together another year leading this death race I’ve become chained to. As if holding my breath and praying will prolong the inevitable.

The shop at midnight is a world apart; fluorescent tubes hum overhead, the light slicing through oil-slick shadows. The concrete floor carries the scent of worn rubber and transmission fluid—years of burned spark plugs and spilled coolant woven into the porous ground.

I lie on my back beneath the ‘71 Chevelle SS, elbows resting on a board of scuffed rollers. Socket wrench in hand, I press into a stubborn bolt, each turn sending a buzz up my arm. The car’s underbelly hisses with residual warmth, as if I am breathing life into it.

Every curve of her chassis, every coil spring, is as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

“Timing’s still off, kiddo.”

The warmth of his familiar voice slips into the shop like a tender hug, especially on a night like tonight. Light shifts as a tall silhouette crosses the glow of the overhead lamps.

A memory flits by. Me, seven years old, perched on a battered red toolbox while Robert slipped a new spark plug into Dad’s ‘68 Mustang. My small fingers threaded the plug-wire under his watchful gaze.

He grinned with smudged soot on his cheek and told me, “Engines don’t lie, Iris. They tell you exactly what they need.”

I remember Dad had laughed, ruffling my hair. Years later, he was gone, and Robert stayed, taking Dad’s place in every silent, grease-stained way that mattered.

I snort a laugh and slide out from under the car. Grease traces a dark streak down my cheek. My hair piled into a messy knot that stopped looking cute hours ago.

“And you’re still wrong, old man.”

He steps closer, the soles of his boots clicking on the ground.

Black rag in hand, he wipes at a smear of oil on his forearm.

Then he reaches down, fingers encircling my forearm in that solid grip I know as safety.

He hauls me up off the roller board like he has a thousand times—steadying me, centering me, reminding me I’m not alone.

I stand, rubbing my arms as if to ward off chills.

Robert “Otto” Mercer may not be my biological father, but he and my dad built this garage from the ground up as best friends right out of high school.

And when my father died, Otto was the one who filled the empty parking spot in the driveway and every empty space in my life since.

He taught me how pistons dance in cylinders, how a car’s thrum can be a song.

He eyes the Chevelle’s fender as if reading my thoughts.

“What are you doing here at this hour, Iris? You already ran her through a test drive. Rosie’s purring.”

I shrug, fumbling for my own rag, scrubbing my palms until they sting. “You know I want her perfect.” My voice sounds hollow.

He watches me with the kind of look a man gives his daughter when he knows exactly what she’s running from.

“You know what tonight is.”

I twist the rag between my fingers, the fabric fraying at the edge. My heart thumps in my ears.

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, tossing the rag at his chest. It flops to the floor. “I’m like the Valentine’s Day grim reaper. I didn’t sign up for this, Otto.”

He tilts his head, a half-smile softening the worry lines around his eyes. “You don’t have to be made of steel to run this.”

His words land in my chest, heavier than any bolt I’ve ever torqued.

I stiffen. My pretense cracks. I look at him, the man who stayed, who kept up this shop with me after my dad’s funeral, who coached me through every failed tune and every broken clutch.

“So what do I have to be?” My whisper catches.

He steps forward, pressing a hand gently to the Chevelle’s glossy side, grounding us both as he pauses for a second.

“Honest,” he says, voice muted. “And strong enough to feel everything that ache brings.”

Behind us, the clock’s second hand clicks toward midnight. Outside the shop window, under the overpass, the potential racers of Cupid’s Run stir to life—engine roars drifting in on the night breeze, headlights carving arcs of light against the concrete pillars.

I rest a hand over his, feeling the warmth that’s steadied me for years. I nod, though the pain in my chest doesn’t fade.

We stand together—in oil, in steel, in memories. And beyond these walls that are my protection, I know, the night waits for me.

He walks over to the desk, cluttered with shit, and grabs the clipboard. Turning back to me, he walks over and sighs, “Go get ’em, kiddo.”

The rusted metal garage door creaks closed behind me as Otto presses the button to shut it, stepping back into the fluorescent lights. He stays to himself, separating himself from the race, only emerging to protect me.

I wish I could run away from this hell.

As I step outside, the gravel crunches beneath my boots, and multiple pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

A hush falls like a thick cloud, as I approach the group that has formed, waiting impatiently for my direction.

Under the I-95 overpass, the night air hangs heavy and sticky, salty from the bay yet fouled with gasoline and burning rubber.

Engine growls echo off concrete pillars—as if the cars themselves seem to sense the week ahead, as if the city itself knows these machines will be tested.

Neon signs from abandoned storefronts cast eerie glows on puddles left by last night’s storm.

Cupid’s Run begins in two days. Race week always kicks off like this. Quiet and deadly.

Seven nights. Seven races. One Valentine’s Day finish line—and every year, seven men never make it home.

Men stand on the edge of the causeway, shadows hunched over sleek hoods and wide tires, just waiting.

Racing syndicates from L.A., New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and, of course, the usual power-hungry Miami locals.

All of them united by the same lethal combination of arrogance and stupidity.

From this crowd, I will choose seven men to go against last year’s champion.

Seven racers worthy of Cupid’s Run because they’re fast enough, reckless enough, convinced that they can’t lose.

Because Miami always has a way of humbling men who think the streets bow at their whim.

The cars are already staged in neat rows, body frames lowered like predators stalking their prey.

Engines tick and hiss, cooling from the last test burn.

Under glow lights cut through the darkness, bleeding color across soaked pavement.

Mechanics with grease-smeared forearms and tattooed hands move fluidly from hood to wheelwell, voices low, every motion measured as they tighten bolts and recalibrate turbos.

As I approach, the crunching gravel echoes in my ears along with my heartbeat.

My clipboard clutched tightly beneath my arm.

I look down at my stained outfit and chuckle at my fingernails, always stained black, knuckles nicked from the turbo install this afternoon, when a customer’s charger fought me every inch.

These men don’t look at me as decoration or something to chase—at least not all of them.

I sigh as I know the weight of this week will settle in my bones sooner or later; it’s the legacy I inherited, whether I wanted it or not.

Voices die down the moment I lift my chin. They don’t need an introduction, but they’ll get one.

“I don’t need to introduce myself,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut through idling engines. “But for those new to this dance, I am Iris Cross. If you’re standing here, it means your syndicates deemed you fast, ruthless, and expendable. That doesn’t make you special. It makes you collateral.”

A ripple of laughter, a few uneasy grins. They like the edge of risk until the edge is too close for comfort.

“You will each have the chance to race against last year’s winner, Miami’s own, Ronan Vale,” I continue, letting the name hang in the humid air, acknowledging what a challenge it will be to race against Ronan.

I lower my clipboard. “Seven races. Seven lives. Valentine’s Day decides it all.”

Silence drapes over them. They’ve heard these words every year, but it never gets easier. They shift, shoulders tightening as the tension coils.

I feel it before I see it—the shift in pressure the moment he comes into view. The night air sags, like the oxygen thins under his gravity. Even the engines tremble. The racers straighten without thinking, eyes flicking over their shoulders in his direction.

He never announces himself.

He never has to.

Ronan Vale leans against his Camaro ZL1 like it’s part of his flesh; sleek slate gray, stripped of all but what matters.

The wide fenders swallow the light. Low-slung stance, polished steel gleaming off run-flat tires.

He’s behind the racers now, arms folded, his wavy dark hair falling in front of his face, every line of muscle visible through that black T-shirt with tattoos snaking down both arms—cryptic symbols and old gang insignias, whispers of secrets no one dares to ask about.

His stubbled jaw line is sharp and set in a hardened expression.

He isn’t here for the paycheck. He races because he wins. Because the road bends on his command. Because he knows exactly how close he can push death—and still pull back. He watches the others the way a gambler watches dice roll, patient and certain of the outcome.

He’s earned many nicknames in past races, but this year, the name that sticks is Redline—because once he finds that threshold, he never lets off.

Engines across the city explode, trying to follow his taillights.

Some drivers end up mangled in twisted steel, others burn in fiery crashes. It’s a tradition now.

A shiver runs across my arms.

Across the concrete, our eyes lock. His stare is intimate and invasive, as if he knows the empty ache that I feel in my chest, the prayers I whispered over my father’s grave last night, knowing this dreaded week was approaching, or the exact flavor of the stale pizza slice I ate for dinner.

I break away first.

Professional, Iris.

Always professional.

I spin back to the group, voice carrying easily beneath the overpass.

“Listen up. Cupid’s Run follows the same rules. You know them. You’ve memorized them. You signed them. But I’ll spell them out anyway.

“Each night brings a new route. Difficulty escalates every time. No repeats, no practice runs. Fuel caps sealed. Transponders track your every move.

“Race interference is allowed—mechanical sabotage, blocking, drafting—whatever you need to survive. Weapons are prohibited. Keep your guns in your garages, not on the track.”

A low scoff. A short, humorless laugh.

“You cross that finish line first,” I say, voice dropping, “you live to race another day. You don’t…” I let the sentence hang. They know the rest.

“If one of you is skilled enough to beat Ronan, and he dies or crashes, the winner of that race progresses to the next night.”

Cupid’s Run doesn’t leave witnesses.

Or rather, we leave the right kind of witnesses—the ones who know better than to talk.

My father had connections. I inherited them.

A tow truck driver who asks no questions. A salvage yard that crushes cars into cubes before the sun rises. Cops on three different precincts who turn their heads when the dispatch calls come in.

The unexplainable “accidents” get written off without a second glance.

The reports list the accidents as drunk drivers or joyriders who lost control.

The cars that are found mangled and submerged along the coast become cautionary tales about texting while driving.

Bodies fished out of canals days later, bloated and unclaimed, get logged as unidentified tourists who partied too hard on South Beach.

Miami has plenty of those.

No one looks too close. No one asks why the brake lines were cut or why the crash angles don’t quite match the official reports.

The city swallows its dead and keeps moving.

“This isn’t Fast and Furious bullshit,” I snap. “This is Miami. Bridges lift without warning, roads flood when the sky splits open, and tunnels go dark. Lose control, no one comes for you.”

My gaze sweeps them, then darts back to Ronan. “You win,” I finish, “and you get to walk away.”

Not one of them blinks.

Good.

Fear might keep them alive a few seconds longer.

A tall guy with a pale scar cutting through his eyebrow steps forward, chest out.

“What about the rumors?” he asks, voice tight. “They say the stakes are higher this year.”

A murmur ripples across the group, a low buzz of nervous energy. I keep my expression flat.

“There are no rumors, no higher stakes. Only rules.”

Behind him, Lucian Rowe—the New York circuit’s deadliest drifter—smiles with his eyes, cold, hungry, evaluating me as another obstacle in his search for power.

I move the line, stopping at each car. I press my foot lightly against the tires to check pressure, lean close to listen to the engines settle, tap hoods where I know to find the weak weld, the microscopic coolant leak.

I make notes on my clipboard: adjustments, orders, deadlines.

No one touches their car without my permission this week. No one races unless I say so.

Because if they crash, if they burn, if they die—

It’s on my hands.

That is why I ensure the cars begin race week in pristine order. What happens next is up to the racers. They play dirty in hopes of coming out on top.

Satisfied, I step back, and nod my head, “Good luck. Racers will be announced tomorrow and we will see you Monday for Little Havana.”

Engines roar louder now, crews scattering back to their pits. I exhale a long, slow breath, feeling the week’s weight settle deeper into my spine.