The idiot from beside me accelerates and flies off. One second he’s beside me, the next his car is smashing through the fence and into the wall.
It’s just a glimpse of an image, a flash of twisted metal, and I’m already speeding away, the other two cars keeping pace.
Shit. Shit.
Keep it together, dammit. Almost there. One more stretch, one more turn, and it’s over. I’m at the front. I can win this race.
Only at the next turn, one of the other cars, a black Dodge Charger, slams into me, jolting me, almost sending me off road.
Fuck.
Memories of the impact, of the water pouring into my Chevy as I lowered the window, of the cold shock and the air burning in my lungs as I struggled to get out and swim up, to the light—
Son of a bitch—move! I twist the wheel, step on the brake lightly, manage to straighten the car, and I’m stepping on the gas before I’ve drawn another breath, chasing after the bastard.
Not good enough. Not fucking good enough, because both bastards are now in front of me and racing toward the finish line Duane has sprayed in yellow on the road.
I hit the throttle, push the car to its limits as I accelerate past the first car, a yellow BMW, and concentrate on reaching the black Charger.
Too late. He hits the finish line and leaves me in the dust.
Goddammit.
I slam my fist into the wheel as I hit the brakes, screeching to a stop. The world around me is still fuzzy, spinning.
What the fuck?
Throwing the door open, I slide my legs out and bend over. I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, oh fuck. My chest burns. I think I’m gonna puke.
“Hey, hey! Ocean!” It’s a woman’s voice. Kayla, I think fuzzily. “Blue.”
She’s kneeling between my legs, in the dirt, reaching up to touch my face. Seeing her face so close is such a relief, I wanna cry like a fucking baby.
Instead, I lean into her touch and suck in a shaky, hissing breath. She’s here. I’m here. I didn’t die. I didn’t lose her. It’s okay.
Only it’s not. I didn’t win.
Holy fuck. Now what?
***
“You chickened out,” Duane is ranting at me as he hands me my cut. Too little. Not nearly enough even for the doctor’s next visit. “You went too damn slow on the turn. You used to be a daredevil. What the hell’s the matter with you, boy?”
He doesn’t know what happened, about crashing my Chevy. “That bastard in the Charger almost pushed me off the fucking road.”
Duane takes a step toward me, fists clenching as if he wants to punch me. Yeah, as if. He barely reaches my shoulder, and I bet he weighs not even half my weight.
“You say it as if you didn’t expect it. You should’ve fucking expected it, Blue. What’s the matter, lost your memory or something? This is how we roll. This is how this sport works. It’s nasty and violent and damn unfair, and it pays well only if you win.”
“Gotcha, Duane.”
“Did you, now? Got too used to your quiet, safe city life, huh?” He’s fucking pissed. Of course he is. That’s a lot of money, and he counted on me to win. Hell, I counted on it, too. “Forgot what it’s like to run every week for your life? What it’s like to be scared and to move past the fear, to enjoy it, to live for it?”
Guess I have. Guess I don’t mind not risking death every week, not fighting a constant war for my life.
But I don’t tell him that. I need to race again, need to make money—and the thought makes my stomach roil again, the bile rises in my throat with remembered panic.
“You need more money?” Duane is glaring at the other cars parked by the side of the road. “Be here tomorrow afternoon. The guy in the BMW wants a rematch.”