Next to Never (Fall Away #4.5)

It’s time.

Dylan squeezes the steering wheel, twisting the leather in her tight fist as she focuses out on the road, and the music starts to get going.

Outside, the engines rev over and over again, and Dylan begins rocking to the song Hunter gave her, her eyes narrowing and getting zoned in as she looks at the road like it’s her bitch.

I gulp, feeling her engine rev underneath me, and when I glance at the cars on our left and right, the windows are tinted so dark I can’t see a thing. Shit. A steel band wraps around my stomach, and my heart’s in my throat.

Fuckin’ Madoc.

The red light changes to yellow, the engines roar, and screams hit my ears, and then . . .

Dylan shoots off, and I slam back in my seat.

“Oh, my God.” I damn near choke on my breath.

We race down the track, Dylan punching into third and then fifth, skipping second and fourth altogether, and I’m breathing hard, scanning the track for the other drivers.

The car to our left is only a hair behind, and the car to the right is head-to-head. Dylan jerks the steering wheel to the left, rounding the first turn, and then charges ahead, winding to the left and then the right for a few minor curves as she slams into fifth. The car on the right falls behind, but the white Honda on the left pulls up head-to-head with us.

The lights on the track dart past us like stars at warp speed, and I grab hold of the safety bar with one hand and my seat belt strap with the other.

A tight right lies ahead, and I glance at Dylan, seeing the muscles in her arm flexed and her jaw locked shut.

Is she going to slow down? We’ll flip at this speed!

“Dylan.”

The Honda pushes harder, not backing off, and it looks like it’s trying to take the corner with us.

“Dylan,” I warn again. She needs to slow down.

But instead, she punches into sixth, growling, “Screw this.” And she slams on the gas, going faster as the music screams at us and fills the whole fucking car.

“Hell, yes!” she bellows. “Thank you, Hunter! Whoo!”

“Oh, my God!” I scream and cover my face with my hands, because I can’t look.

My body vaults to the left as she turns right, the torque dragging us around the turn, and I scream as I keep my eyes squeezed shut under my hands.

I feel the car tip, and my head hangs to the side as an army of butterflies swarm in my stomach.

“Holy shit!” I burst out.

The car straightens, and I feel the tires on my side find the ground again as I jerk my head to look behind me. The other two cars are behind us now, the blue one way back.

Adrenaline floods my body, and I can feel every single hair on my arms stand on end.

I laugh, the rush of emotion too much to contain. “Go, go, go!” I urge her.

She smiles at me, and I turn the song on full blast, as high as it will go.

She takes the curves quick and smooth, rounds the next left and right and swings around the last quarter of the track.

The white Honda creeps up on her again, and all of a sudden something hits her driver’s side window. We jump and Dylan swerves as we jerk our eyes to the window. She struggles with the steering wheel, trying to gain control of the car again.

“What the hell?” she growls.

A white glob of what appears to be wet paper sticks to her window, slowly falling off in little chunks.

“Asshole,” she yells and presses the button, rolling down her window.

“Dylan, don’t.”

But she does it anyway.

The guy in the car next to us, young, with black hair and a cocky grin, snarls at her. “Weston sends its regards, Pirate bitch!”

I groan. Really?

Dylan turns her eyes back on the road and shifts into sixth again, speeding up.

“Dylan! Slow down!” I yell as she comes up to the last turn.

“No!” she growls, mumbling to herself. “Piece of shit, asshole. This is a Falls track. He doesn’t get to push us around.”

Weston is one of Shelburne Falls High’s rivals, and they only come over here to start shit. Them and Saint Matthew’s, a private school near Chicago. Sometimes the two schools even partner up to give our Pirate football team hell and anyone who goes to Shelburne High, for that matter.

“Yeah, go ahead and try to be your daddy, baby,” the guy eggs her on. “You fall short!”

“Haven’t you heard?” she shouts out the window at him. “I’m a mama’s girl!”

And she speeds up even more.

“Dylan!” I yell, clutching the safety bar.

But she hits the corner, tries to turn, but the Honda’s on the inside, not backing off. His turn widens, and she barrels into the brush, forced off the track. I spot his car, flying into the grass as well, and we bounce in our seats as we hit the rough terrain. The car skids to a halt, both of us lurching forward, against the harnesses as the car stalls.

My shoulder burns from where the strap rubbed, and I breathe hard.

“Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

I look over at Dylan, but she’s already tearing out of her seat belt and charging out of the car.

I fist my fingers several times, taking inventory to make sure I’m okay before I unfasten my belt, too.

Following her out of the car, I see everyone, a crowd of people, running down the track toward us.

To our right, the Weston asshole is crawling out of his heap, rubbing his head.

Jared rushes up and takes Dylan’s face in his hands, scanning her head and body. “Are you okay?”