Page 29 of Savage Lover

Bella laughs, disbelieving.

“What’s the bet? Don’t tell me your car—I wouldn’t take that tin can if you paid me.”

“I’ve got six hundred,” Camille says. She pulls the folded bills out of her pocket.

I snort. That’s my fucking money I paid her this afternoon. She’s going to blow it on a race with Bella?

It’s completely stupid. But I’m sort of enjoying this reckless Camille. Her chin is stubborn, and her dark eyes are fierce.

“Are we doing it or not?” Camille says.

“I want to,” Bella sneers. “I’ll just feel so bad taking your whole life’s savings . . .”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Camille stalks over to the Trans Am, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Bella’s G-Wagon is not at all built for racing. Still, she’s got the newest model, a 4.0-liter twin-turbo V-8. It is quick, for a six-thousand-pound tank.

On the opposite side you’ve got Camille’s Trans Am, which maybe she’s juiced up, or maybe is held together with string. I guess we’ll find out.

When they pull up to the line, Camille looks ahead down the stretch, cool as a cucumber. Maybe she’s nervous, but she won’t show it, out of pure stubbornness. Bella’s trying to look tough, but she doesn’t pull it off as well as Camille. She blows a kiss to Grisha. He grins, amused at this whole thing.

Carlo stands between the cars, raising his arms over his head. He counts down—“Three . . . two . . . ONE!”

His arms swing down, and the cars peel off the line.

Camille had the quicker reflexes. Still, the G-Wagon pulls away first. Camille has to shift gears manually, which means she has a slower start. But as she expertly moves from second to third to fourth gear, the car leaps forward in bursts, as if it’s a locomotive and she’s shoveling in load after load of coal.

It’s only a quarter-mile race. Less than fifteen seconds long. Maybe sixteen, with these two cars.

I can see Mason standing at the end of the line, watching to see which vehicle passes first.

Camille edges up. Her car is more than roaring—it’s bellowing. A wisp of smoke comes out from under the hood. She keeps pushing anyway.

I can’t help admiring her driving. Camille’s got balls. And she knows how to get the most out of her car.

Meanwhile, the G-Wagon wobbles unsteadily on its base. It’s top-heavy, and Bella probably has the gas pedal floored. Camille deliberately crowds the SUV. Bella jerks the wheel too hard to correct. The wobble turns into a fishtail. Camille flies past, crossing the finish line.

They circle back around, Bella driving recklessly fast as if she can still win, Camille moving cautiously, because there’s a steady stream of dark gray smoke coming out from the corner of her hood.

Before Bella’s even gotten out of the car, she’s already shrieking that Camille cheated. “That was horseshit! You tried to run me off the road!” she yells.

“I didn’t touch you,” Camille says.

“ ‘Cause you don’t care if you scratch up your piece of shit car!” Bella shouts, furiously. She turns and boots the side of Camille’s Trans Am, putting a dent in the driver’s side panel.

This is a big no-no in street racing. You do not fuck with anybody’s car.

Camille launches herself at Bella, only held back by Patricia and Carlo, who has thrown himself between the girls.

“Hey, hey, relax!” he says, stiff-arming them both in opposite directions.

“That is fucking IT!” Camille is shouting.

“Looks the same as it did before,” Bella sneers back at her.

“Here,” Grisha stuffs a bundle of bills in Camille’s hand. “You won. There’s some extra for the car.”

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