Page 57 of Sweet Deception
I watch her in my rearview mirror until the Hub disappears around a corner.
Chapter Twenty
On the quick drive to meet up with my opponent, I briefly roll down the windows to suck in a few deep breaths. Yes, I’m a champion street racer, but I’ve never had a spectator in the audience before tonight—not one I was responsible for placing there. As I whip out of the underpass onto the narrow strip of asphalt that leads up to the starting line, I realize I don’t know what it means to have someone who interests me…watching.
“I already regret it,” she’d said.
My fingers grip the steering wheel too tightly. Again. That won’t fly in a race. I shake my hands and regrip.
The way her voice melted around the words said something else entirely. Something I have to ignore. Unless I want to embarrass myself in front of the new kid on the block.
Rolling my windows up, I roar onto the access road and pull alongside the 350Z, placing myself in position. A moment goes by before the kid’s mechanic climbs out of the passenger seat, racing flags under one arm. He’s got one hell of a beard tucked under his cap. He paces ahead of us, standing in between our growling machines.
He holds up a single finger, indicating one lap around. First one back is the victor. The racing flags snap and shimmer in thewind as the mechanic holds them up. The moment they lower, we’re flying down a one-lane road, me on the right, the kid on the left.
The music of our engines harmonizing, the electrical thrill of danger… I used to think there wasn’t anything more exciting or fulfilling than this. So why does Veronika’s face keep flashing through my mind?
The 350Z swerves toward my driver’s door, taking up space on my half of the road. I swerve with it—before he scratches my paint—and flatten the gas pedal to the floor, vaulting into the lead.
I’ve raced this lap many times, and each occasion is more exhilarating than the last. The access road is two miles of twists and turns that let out on a city street. From there, it’s three more miles of concrete jungle before we whip back around toward the underpass that leads to the Hub.
I’m going to enjoy this no matter what.
We rip into the first curve, crisscrossing each other’s paths. The next turn is the most challenging on the entire course. More than one amateur has wiped out or worse in these first few minutes or even seconds of the race.
I let the newcomer barrel ahead, mostly because I want to judge his skill for myself. Gossip is different than seeing a competitor in action.
How he takes this turn will reveal everything about the talent-to-skill ratio he’s working with.
The kid guns it into the curve, cutting the wheel to the right, skidding hard around the sharp bend?—
Tire marks scorch the pavement, and the kid clips a tree in the process, tearing some of the paint right off his pretty car’s ass. I smirk.
As expected, he’s pretty good.
But I’m better.
Using both feet, I manage the accelerator and the brakes with flawless precision. My sleek Aston Martin drifts with grace around that hairpin turn without so much as a fender outside the white lines.
Now that I’ve given the kid a little lead, the real fun begins.
The challenge sends blood pounding through my veins. We tear down the access road, pushing our machines to the limit before we explode onto empty city streets, running lights and cutting corners hard enough to tear our steering wheels clean off the console.
I overtake the kid in the last third of the race. Watching him sweat from behind was a lot of fun, but it’s time to finish this.
He’s impressed me, I admit. He handled curves back there that would’ve sent most drivers plowing straight into the forest. I have no doubt that with more practice, he could be a champion. Someday.
But today is not that day.
It’s still about ten years too early for him to surpass me.
I rip through the last of the race, barreling back down the underpass toward the Hub, and when my Aston Martin growls into the lot as the clear leader, the cheers are loud enough to rattle my visors.
I focus enough to acknowledge my imminent victory before my eyes find the only thing I want to see. There she is, petting Napalm at the top of the cement incline.
She can’t see my face through the windshield, but I see her intensity and feel our connection as I screech to a stop at the finish line, the kid hot on my heels.
As soon as I get out, I glance back up at Veronika?—
