Page 2 of Beautiful Rush
Most importantly, I had my freedom and independence. Although my brothers sometimes got a tad bit overprotective, I’d learned how to work around that. After a lifetime of being tailed by bodyguards, I was resourceful.
As the plane took off and the view of Miami got smaller and smaller from my window, I said a final goodbye to my old life.
2
Keira
Smoke choked the night air, perfumed with the scent of burning rubber and nitrous oxide. Rap music pounded from a car stereo, blotting out the sound of squealing tires. It was Friday night and I was in my element, camped out in the parking lot behind a decrepit strip mall in Queens.
Street racing was a testosterone-fueled sport, and I was the token female racer. There were other girls, gathered around some of the racers like groupies, sitting on the hoods of cars that lined both sides of the empty lot. The guy with the most groupies drove a candy apple red Camaro. Whenever he won a race, he strutted around, chest puffed out, a shit-eating grin on his face. I’d never raced him before, but I knew our day was coming.
He was making out with a blonde, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on her ass. He caught my eye and set down the girl, pushing her away when she tried to loop her arms around his neck. He gave me a cocky grin, all swagger and bravado as he strutted toward me.
Arms crossed, I leaned against the side of my 1970 Dodge Charger Hemi. Sleek and glossy black with a mirror finish and white racing stripes, the muscle car was my baby. Even more impressive than the exterior with its hidden headlights and big chrome surround was under the hood. Dual four-barrel carburetors sat atop a Hemi motor that produced a street-eating 500 horsepower. Nobody messed with my car.
I watched him warily, not moving a muscle as he circled my car. He let out a low whistle and stopped in front of me. “Sweet ride. Daddy buy it for you?”
Technically, yes. I bought the Charger after I sold my dad’s Porsche which I’d ‘borrowed’ to drive from Miami to Brooklyn last November. Borrowed in the sense that he was never getting it back.
When I didn’t respond, he tilted his head, studying my face like I was a puzzle he needed to solve. He wouldn’t figure me out. I was complicated. The guy was good-looking in a generic, forgettable way. Brown hair with a side part. Straight nose. Perfect teeth. He wore an air of entitlement. In other words, not my type.
“I’m Tyler, by the way.” He held up his hands as if to stop me from introducing myself which I hadn’t planned on doing. “I know who you are, Keira Shaughnessy. I was like, damn, that girl in the news looks a lot like Racer Girl.” He tugged on the fringe of my black leather jacket. I resisted the urge to smack his hand away. He was trying to get a reaction out of me, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I gave him the bored, insolent look that I reserved for guys like Tyler. Guys with smug smiles and superiority complexes. Guys who treated girls like they were just an accessory to be used and discarded when something newer and shinier caught their eye. “It’s you and me tonight. After I beat your sweet ass…” He smirked as his gazed raked over me—I wore a ‘Fight Like a Girl’ T-shirt under my jacket, denim cutoffs, and black biker boots. I knew how I looked. Like a rebel with no good cause. Like a rich girl with daddy issues looking to get her kicks. His gaze returned to my face. “I’ll kiss it better.”
I gave him a sweet smile, belying the words that came out of my mouth. “I’m going to leave you in my dust. You’ll be too busy choking on it to kiss me.”
He brayed laughter. It grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “We’ll see about that.”
Z pointed to me and then Tyler. “You two. You’re up next.”
Tyler winked at me. “Watch yourself out there, Racer Girl. The streets can get dangerous.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat where I felt most at home. I had always loved cars, motorcycles, airplanes…anything with an engine. Anything that could go fast and take me away from it all. I reveled in the sense of freedom. And tonight, more than ever, I needed the rush.
Even though I took home a couple grand whenever I won, I wasn’t in this for the money. All my winnings had been split between my mother and Killian’s foundation for at-risk youth. In a plain brown envelope from an anonymous donor. If he found out it was me and where the money came from, he’d ream me a new one and put a stop to these races. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Besides, it was a good cause.
We lined up at the starting line and a guy in a hoodie and baggy jeans checked that our bumpers were lined up before gesturing with his hand that I should back up a bit. I reversed until he held up his hand to let me know I was good.
I revved my engine, the rumble of the dual exhaust shooting straight through my core. Z had already mapped out the route for us, and now I tried to picture it in my mind as I ran the pad of my thumb over the black and gold crucifix tucked inside the collar of my T-shirt.
I turned my head to look at my opponent. He shot me a finger gun. Douchebag. I returned my focus to the windshield, watching for the signal that the race had begun, one hand on the gear shift, the other wrapped around the steering wheel.
The guy in front of us lowered his arms. I punched the accelerator and my Charger shot ahead.
We raced through traffic lights, the streets passing by in a neon blur under the light of a strawberry moon. Adrenaline pumped through my veins like a drug. I craved this. Ineededit. My body vibrated, hummed from the roar of the engine, all that power underneath me like an aphrodisiac. I never felt so alive as I did when I was just on the brink of losing control.
The Camaro—Tyler—swerved into my lane, forcing me into the oncoming lane of traffic. He played dirty. I floored the accelerator, shot ahead of him and swerved back into my lane, narrowly missing a yellow taxi. The driver laid on his horn. One long bleating sound punctuated by the obscenities he shouted out his window.
I darted into the other lane and hung a right at the intersection as the light turned from yellow to red. The race was one big loop on the city streets, all right turns until we ended up back in the parking lot.
In my periphery, I caught a flash of red and glanced to my left as the Camaro inched closer to my driver’s side.If he even puts a scratch in my paint job, I’ll kill him. Not literally. I wasn’t homicidal. But I wasn’t about to play bumper cars with him either. He was edging me out, blocking me in between his car and the parked cars to my right. I checked my rearview mirror. Behind me the coast was clear. I hit the brakes and he flew past me, veering into my lane, tires squealing as he peeled out ahead of me. He was obviously too busy keeping his eye on me to notice the street repairs up ahead. I put a wide berth between his car and the cones marking off the section of the street that had been dug up. He noticed it too late. A quick look in my rearview confirmed that he’d spun out.
I returned my eyes to the street, staring down the headlights of a black Escalade with black-tinted windows, the driver’s face obscured. I focused on the silver Cadillac logo on the grill, playing a game of chicken, before I returned to my lane.
Minutes later, I crossed the finish line where two groups of guys waited to declare the winner. The Camaro was nowhere in sight as I pulled into a parking spot behind a GTO and cut the engine, taking deep breaths to steady my nerves. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, an attempt to stop my hands from trembling.
I watched from my window as money changed hands and saw the top of Z’s shaved head in the middle of the action. He organized the races, moving them around to different locations so the NYPD didn’t get wind of them. He kept the books, allegedly using codes the cops couldn’t decipher.
I took a few more deep breaths, pocketed my keys and stepped out of my car on shaky legs. The Camaro screeched to a stop, fishtailing only a foot shy of where I was standing. Tyler slammed out of his car and advanced on me, his face flushed with anger, eyes narrowed into slits. “The fuck was that?”
