Page 68 of Forsaken Oath

“Motherfucker!” The curse rips from my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs as I straighten out.

“Goddamn fucking Rick Gannon.”

There’s only one asshole who drives a passion purple Mustang, and it’s him. If there’s a second one out here, I’ll eat my hat.

Grandpa Dalton used to say that when he doubled down on something. I thought it was strange as hell back then, but I started saying it as a joke, and somewhere along the line, it stuck.

Rick’s headlights loom larger in my rearview mirror, his car weaving aggressively as he tries to catch me. My intuition is lighting up like the fireworks display on the Fourth of July. I glance between the GPS, the road in front of me, and my rearview mirror over and over again.

Halfway done. It’s possible that his route and mine happen to overlap, but I wouldn’t put it past that slimy fuck to sabotage himself just for the chance to take me out.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel, matching the heavy bass thumping from my speakers. I could deviate from the GPS route—there’s some wiggle room built into the system for surprises like this. But every second I spend off course is a second I fall behind.

I make a decision. “Fuck it.”

Yanking the wheel, I veer off the designated route, the Hellcat’s tires screaming as I cut into an abandoned neighborhood on my right.

I yank the wheel to the right, tires squealing as I veer off the GPS route and into the abandoned neighborhood. Rusted out cars and overgrown lawns flash by in my peripheral vision, but I keep my focus locked on the rearview mirror. Rick's purple Mustang follows me into the neighborhood, its headlights bouncing erratically as he tries to keep up.

“C’mon, you slippery bastard,” I mutter under my breath, watching Rick’s Mustang in the rearview mirror. He’s determined, I’ll give him that. But I’ve got more horsepower and a hell of a lot more to lose.

I spot an open lot up ahead, the dead grass stretching like a shortcut to freedom. Turning the wheel, I barrel across it. Weedsand wildflowers whip against the undercarriage as I bounce and jostle over the uneven ground. In my rearview, Rick’s Mustang bounces and swerves, his back tires catching on a divot. The car fishtails hard, lurching sideways before disappearing from view.

I jump a curb out onto the street, speeding through the barren neighborhood until I find an exit. A quick left and then right, and I’m back on my GPS route. I can only pray that it didn’t eat up too much of my time.

My gaze flicks to the rearview every few seconds, my shoulders tight with tension. I’m on high alert, braced and ready for him or any other motherfucker who thinks they can take me out.

It’s time I remind everyone who the fuck I am.

I shift gears, pressing the gas pedal to the floor. The Hellcat tears through the night, its engine a deafening roar as I push it to the absolute limits. The cracked asphalt and abandoned buildings blur into a smear of moonlit shadows at the edges of my vision. My focus narrows to the glowing screen of the GPS, the flashing red dot that represents the finish line drawing closer with every passing second.

I’m in the zone now, every sense heightened, every nerve ending alive with the thrill of the race. This is what I live for. The rush, the danger, the knowledge that I’m fucking good at something.

I fly around a sharp corner, the tires screaming against the asphalt, the chassis of the Hellcat hugging the road like a lover. In the distance, I spot the faint glow of headlights. Other racers converging on their finish lines?

My GPS beeps, signaling the last quarter mile. I’m close, so fucking close I can taste the victory on my tongue. I downshift, the engine snarling as I rocket forward, eating up the remaining distance.

As the GPS beeps, signaling the end of my track, a grin splits my face, sharp and unrelenting. I downshift and slam the handbrake, yanking the wheel hard to the left. The Hellcat’s back end swings out, tires screaming against the pavement as smoke billows up like a storm cloud. The car whips into a perfect one-eighty, the nose now facing the chaos I left behind. For a beat, I let the engine idle, basking in the knowledge that the first race is done.

I wonder how Peach fared tonight. Wonder if someone tried to fuck with her. Like I conjured her with sheer willpower, her blacked-out Mitsubishi barrels down the road toward me from the other end.

“Fucking kismet,” I mutter, my grin stretching wide as her headlights grow brighter.

She skids to a stop about ten feet from my Hellcat, her lights casting me in a harsh glow. As if on cue, we both push open our doors at the same time, stepping out in unison like we’d planned it.

“Peach,” I call, my voice low but carrying across the open road.

She grins, stepping around her open door with a confidence that sends a jolt through my chest. “Beau.”

Backlit by her headlights and spotlighted by mine, she moves like she’s on a mission. Nearly running, her steps quicken, and my heart skips a beat as I realize what’s coming. I barely have time to open my arms and brace before she jumps, her arms looping around my neck.

My hands find their place beneath her bare thighs, holding her up as easily as breathing. Her scent—wild, warm, unmistakably her—envelops me just as her lips crash against mine.

The kiss is fierce, desperate, a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves me breathless. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging justhard enough to make me groan against her mouth. I grip her thighs tighter, pulling her flush against me, needing to feel every inch of her.

The first drops of rain speckle my cheeks, cool and fleeting. Then a drizzle, soft and steady, begins to fall around us. Her mouth moves against mine, her kiss hungry and fearless, as if she’s claiming before the moon and the stars.

When we finally pull back for air, her forehead rests against mine, her breath mixing with mine in the damp night air. “You ever made out in the backseat of a Hellcat, Peach?”

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