Page 35 of Forsaken Oath

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. We just wanna talk,” another voice from inside the car yells.

“Nah, I’m good.” Maybe if I flat-out tell them no, they’ll just move on.

Regret slithers between my ribs, taunting me for being stupid enough to park so far away from the track. It’s not like I had a ton of options, not when it’s in the literal middle of downtown Clearwater.

I reasoned it was safer this way, that if shit went sideways, and the cops came, I could easily make a break for it on foot, run the handful of blocks to my car, and dip out of town before they even caught wind of me being here.

I realize now that I forgot to factor in one small thing. A tiny complication, really.

Other drivers.

The Mustang’s engine revs, the driver trying to get my attention. My heart pounds in my chest, but I refuse to let them see my fear. I keep walking, my strides purposeful and unwavering.

"Last chance, baby," the driver calls out, his voice taking on a harder edge. "We ain't asking again."

I stop in my tracks, my fists clenching at my sides. A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes every breath feel heavy.

I’m so fucking tired. Tired of someone always wanting something from me. Tired of always being on guard, tired of the endless entitlement. Tired of being afraid. It’s the same shit,every single day. It’s infinite, without a single beam of relief at the end.

And I’m done with it.

Today is the day I’m going to do something reckless. I know I’ll wonder later ifchoosingto be reckless is actually the same thing asbeingreckless and not just destructive.

But that’s a thought for later. Right now, I’m currently debating on which colorful string of words I’m going to lob at these assholes like three-day-old fish.

I turn to face the Mustang, my eyes narrowing as it crosses the dotted line and inches closer to me.

The driver is grinning, half-leaning out of his window. He kind of looks like one of those Ken dolls Vivie had when she was younger. Slicked-back brown hair and a plastic smile.

“Fuck off.”

Caustic laughter ripples into the night like a pack of hyenas. It sets my teeth on edge and straightens my spine.

He rears back, his smile turning sharp. “Don’t be such a bitch. We’re just trying to be friendly.”

I stare at him for a second, willing him to get the fucking hint and leave me alone. When he doesn’t pick up on it, I heave a sigh and turn around. I resume walking, casually throwing him and his buddies my middle finger. “Pass.”

Another round of hyena laughter cartwheels into the night, the pitch severe. I take it as my cue to get the hell out of here. I pick up my pace, not quite running, but not a leisurely stroll, either.

The rumble of another engine cuts through their laughter, distinct from the Mustang still keeping pace next to me. I glance over my shoulder, squinting into the deepening shadows of Downtown Clearwater.

The streetlights glint off its polished curves and sharp angles, like a panther stalking through the shadows. My heart stuttersin my chest as I recognize the sleek lines and deep charcoal gray of the car. A Dodge Challenger Hellcat. The same one I watched Beau Carter drive across the finish line in first place twenty minutes ago.

The Hellcat slows, but never stops as it drives around the Mustang. The acidic tang of disappointment splashes up my throat, and I hate myself a little bit for being disappointed. A bitter laugh escapes my lips, mocking my own foolishness.

What did I expect? For him to come riding in like some knight in shining armor to rescue me from these entitled pricks?

I shake my head, angry with myself for even entertaining the thought. It’s not fair to him or me. He doesn’t owe me a goddamn thing. We sharedonecharged moment months ago, a fleeting connection born from adrenaline and shared trauma. Nothing more.

It’s better this way.

The thought of that night with him lingers, tormenting me with the possibility of hope. Better to snuff out that flame now. I don’t need the distraction, not when there’s a half a million dollars and my future on the line.

Taillights flare, and the Hellcat whips around. He spins on a dime, tires shrieking as he pulls a flawless handbrake one-eighty.

The Hellcat surges forward, cutting through the night like a bullet. One second it’s idling, the next it’s on me, closing the half-block in what feels like the blink of an eye. The engine growls low and throaty, a warning shot that sends a thrill racing up my spine. I can practically feel the ground vibrating beneath me as it prowls closer, headlights spilling over the asphalt and stretching toward me.

Like some kind of magic trick, he edges the front of his Hellcat in the limited space between me and the Mustang, half-blocking it.

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