Page 68 of Tourist Season
“Something going on there with you two?”
“Going on …?”
“You know.Going on.”
Maybe? I don’t know? Does swing sex count …? “No.”
Lukas smiles. “Okay. I just heard you had dinner at Nightfog, that’s all.”
I roll my eyes, blush creeping into my cheeks. I love this town, but the locals are nosy as hell. “So? It’s just food.”
“AtNightfog. You know as much as anyone else that’s the date place.”
“If you’re hoping to annoy me into rolling faster down the hill, it’s working.” I settle the retro aviator goggles over my eyes as Lukas puts his hands up in defeat, though his smile is one of teasing satisfaction. I let a few minutes pass. Lukas strikes up a conversation with a few nearby tourists who are also waiting for their turn, but I don’t join in, my attention consumed by my blossoming fears. It’s not until the next competitor heads down the hill and Lukas rolls me a space closer to the starting line that I finally say, “You know that bag that I gave you to put somewhere safe?”
A shadow falls across his features. “Yeah …?”
“Where is it?”
Lukas frowns at the crowd around us, as though he knows it’s important enough that he shouldn’t let anyone hear him. “It’s somewhere you would never look.”
He might not know everything about me. About how I keep this town safe. What that takes. What I’m capable of. But Lukas does know enough about my past to know where I would never,everwant to go.
“In the basement at the main house?” I whisper, my heart already climbing into my throat at the mere idea of searching it out.
He nods once. “In a box on the shelves next to the boiler.”
I nod and look at my hands, my fingers tensing and releasing from the steering wheel, the skin over my knuckles bleaching.Maybe I’m about to make a big mistake. Or perhaps that risk is just the price of taking at least one step into the light. “If anything happens to me, destroy it. Make sure no one ever finds it. Okay?”
Lukas’s brow furrows. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Promise me?”
It takes him a long second to consider it. A Lancaster vow is never delivered lightly. But finally, he says, “I promise.”
“And our next contender coming down the pike is Harper Starling,” Bert booms over the speakers. Our connection breaks, both of us looking toward the makeshift tower where Bert and Bob are sitting. “She’s piloting the Pocket Rocket, in her interpretation of Amelia Earhart, with Corpsie the Copilot riding shotgun.” The crowd snickers and cheers. “Are you ready, Miss Starling?”
I give him the thumbs-up with one of Corpsie’s hands.
“Let’s count her down, folks,” he booms. “Five … Four …”
Lukas pulls the plank of wood from in front of my tires. The brakes groan against the weight of the wood and metal.
“Three … two …”
Lukas jogs to the back of my cart. The fuselage shifts as his hands land on the back edge.
“One.”
There’s a bang as the starting pistol fires and I release the brake. Lukas gives the car a powerful shove. Onlookers cheer. My heart thunders. The wheels whir as I sail down the road, quickly gathering momentum on the thin bicycle tires. Bert’s announcer voice fades into the background as he narrates the race over the speakers mounted along the route. I’m so focused on making it around the first corner without tipping over that I almost forget about the smoke canisters Lukas installed beneath the wings, and I grin as Ihit the button. Smoke hisses behind me and the crowd cheers. I look over my shoulder at the trail of blue fog in my wake and cackle at Corpsie, with her arms flailing in the wind and ribbons flapping behind her.
I round the second corner and head down a deliciously straight patch of Maple Street, gathering even more speed. My car isfast. I don’t catch my exact time as I pass the first of four milestone markers along the route, but I can hear the excitement in Bert’s voice. Something about a record. I could win this thing. I wonder why the hell I haven’t done this before. Sailing down the road with the crowd cheering and a deranged copilot silently hyping me up in a soapbox airplane? This is fuckingperfect. The screaming kids. The smell of barbecue. Bert’s enthusiastic commentary. The speed. The wind roaring past my ears. I’m having the time of my life. This is freedom. It’s “no fucks given” fun. I laugh. It’s a laugh that comes from a deep place I forgot I had. I used to laugh like this a lot. And I like it. I missed this part of me.
I zip around the next turn, having so much fun I barely touch the brakes, nearly colliding with the straw bales set along the exterior edge of the curve. A collectiveoohsounds from the crowd at the near miss and I howl with delight.
But I’ve gathered too much speed.
I nearly crash again into the next section of the curve that directly follows, and I turn the wheel hard left to avoid the row of straw bales lining the sidewalk. Another rush of awe and excitement rises from the onlookers as I veer toward the inner side of the curve. I curse and slam my foot down on the brake …
