AllFreeNovel
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We slowed to hit a sharp bend, but I’d spent all afternoon studying this road. I knew the lines I wanted to take; I knew every inch without ever having driven it. I went around the Supra, the Porsche revving hard as I cut in, forcing the Supra to brake on the turn.
Seven more minutes. I pushed the Porsche past one-twenty on the straight, and she purred her agreement. “Good girl,” I muttered at the car, keeping my eyes trained ahead of me, my fingers loose, my breathing even. “We’ve got this.”
A big stretch in front of us had me trying to push her harder, but I was blocked by a 350z that was riding tight to the Camaro. Fuckers needed to move, because it was almost time for me to school them.
As they continued to be a rolling roadblock, I knew I’d have to get creative. Soon, there’d be a turnout, and I could use it to go around them, but it was dangerous. At this speed, I could hit the gravel and go careening out of control. But if I stayed back here, I would be in trouble.
I was weighing up my options when the Camaro slowed around the corner, shifting to the high line. It was dangerous. Risky as fuck. But I pulled up onto the left and zipped tight on the inside, the Camaro barely missing the back of the Porsche by a fish’s dick. I zoomed away before he could try and regain his position.
“Fuck yeah!” I screamed through the windshield.
Four cars down, three to go. I couldn’t see the bike anywhere, so maybe he’d wiped out earlier. Even better. Only two to go.
Quickly flicking my eyes to the clock, I knew I only had three minutes to make this drive count. A lifetime in a race. They might still knock themselves out, but I knew exactly where I wanted to make my move. I’d wait a little longer.
I stared at the taillights of the Corvette and the 350z; they were fucking close. Whoever was behind the wheel of the Corvette could really drive, but that little 350z was handling like a fucking pro, and it was light as fuck.
Wouldn’t matter. I was almost there.
The road squeezed into a tight two lanes, with barriers on both sides, which was my sign. It was almost time. “One mississippi, two mississippi… There it is.” I breathed and focused. Watched the cars in front of me. “Let’s do this, girl.”
Gunning the accelerator, I swerved hard to the left and hit the paved shoulder. The road spread out before a bridge, allowing three of us to sit side by side for a split second, before I pushed the Porsche to turn hard in front of the Corvette. I slipped in front of it before I hit the bridge, missing the guardrail by a margin that would give Willy a heart attack. As I opened the Porsche up, I could see the finish line just ahead.
I did it. I fucking did it.
I began to laugh. “Fuck YES!”
Then, out of nowhere, the bike pulled up beside me, and my mouth swung open as he got across the line barely a wheel in front of me.
My foot dropped from the accelerator, and I downshifted almost by muscle memory. “No,” I breathed as the bike slowed in front of me. “No, no, no, this can’t happen. Fuck!” I slammed my hand on the steering wheel, shocked as hell. “FUCK!” I screamed.
Pulling into a lot where spectator cars were parked, I rested my head against the steering wheel and tried to calm my racing heart. It would be okay. I’d try again. There’d be something else.
I didn’t have another buy-in, but I could save it. I’d be okay. I breathed heavily, trying to calm myself when I heard the crunch of gravel.
Willy pulled open the door, and I took off my helmet. “I lost.” I didn’t want to cry, so I blinked that shit back. I’d lost races before. You didn’t fucking cry at the finish line, because no one would ever take you seriously again.
But Willy knew me. “You can try again.” He didn’t say how, or when. It would be harder next time, because I’d lost my element of underestimation. I wouldn’t be able to pull the same back-of-the-pack trick, because they’d be watching for me.
“I can try again.”
The cars from the starting line started to trickle in, and with them, pumping music and shouts of disbelief. The bike pulled into the lot, and the rider hopped off. It was definitely a guy, because he was tall, easily over six-four. I climbed from the Porsche, and despite the disappointment flooding my veins, walked over to the winner. That was a lesson my dad had instilled in me—you were only as worthy as your sportsmanship, so no matter how angry you were at your loss, you shook hands out of respect. I didn’t know if that really applied to street racing, but I wouldn’t dishonor my father’s memory by being a bitter hag.
The guy took his helmet off and accepted the crowd of people coming to gush over him and his win. Dammit. Not only was he a good racer, he was sexy as fuck. Wasn’t that always the way? I could see the tattoos climbing the column of his neck beneath his collar. The guy was basically a cliché of a bad boy street racer.
It was a humid night, and I was sweating my ass off in my fire suit. Peeling it off my shoulders, I tied it around my waist as I waited for the crowd around the guy to dissipate a bit.
Finally, he looked up and met my eyes. He seemed surprised, but he quickly chased away the expression into one of grudging respect. Excusing himself from the hordes of guys wanting to stroke his bike—and the girls who clearly wanted to stroke something else—he made his way over to me.
“Good drive out there.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and I heard Willy whistle softly. He was smoking. But I could maintain my professional demeanor.
“Thanks. You too, obviously. You must have been riding without your headlights?” When the guy nodded, I shook my head. “That’s fucking crazy. Genius, but crazy. I didn’t even see you until you were past me.” And that fucking burned. He’d been like a ghost in the race.
“Sorry about that, but you know how it is.” The guy put out a hand. “I’m Jesse.”
“Tally.”
His face folded into a frown. “Did you say Tally?”
