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Prologue
Twenty-Three Years Before
Cook
Idrummed my fingers on thedash and then locked my elbows as Celt took a sharp turn without braking.
“Fuck, man!” I glanced back to make sure the ass end of his pop’s 1973 Gran Torino didn’t hit a bolder or sage bush.
All I could see behind us was dust as Celt gunned it through the canyon. The orange rock turned an unnatural shade this time of the day, like the sun set the cliffs on fire.
“Just trying to see if you’ll piss your pants for me.” Celt chuckled maniacally.
Fucker.
“How’d you ever pass your driver’s test?” I had just passed my exam and behind-the-wheel test in Phoenix, and I couldn’t say why the hell I trusted my best friend to drive.
“I’m the best driver in the Ridge.” He reached over to punch my shoulder.
I rolled my eyes. “Just keep all four wheels on the ground, wouldya?”
Music blared in the Gran Torino, and I sang along until the car swerved again. I glared over at the so-called driver. Dipshit would be a better word for him.
“Pull over. I’m driving.” I pointed to a roadside pull off.
Celt barked a laugh. He was goading me on. Asshole.
“Calm your tits. I’ll take it easy.” He slowed down to a grandma’s pace, groaning over the inconvenience, and flipped through the three stations we could tune in on the radio.
He could grumble all he wanted. A slow pace out here would at least keep us alive.
I dropped my head back onto the headrest and let out a long breath. Assuming I made it home in one piece with my best friend’s driving, I’d be scot-free—minus a car. The only problem was I’d have to face Daddy.
I was saving up to buy a ride Celt’s dad was fixing up with my job at the only diner in Park Ridge. The pay was shit, but I was lucky to have a job at all in a town where the only businesses, aside from the local motorcycle club that monitored the border traffic, were the diner and the grocery–gas station combo.
Plus, working gave me an excuse to be out of the house. I could barely take it there any longer, but I needed to keep going home to make sure my mom was safe from my bastard father.
I drummed my fingers again. Safety, what an illusion.
“You good?” asked Celt over the music.
I cracked a smile. “Yeah.” It was a small lie, but I couldn’t stop thinking of my license as my ticket to make life suck a whole lot less. With a car, I would be well on my way to being a grade-A badass at school.
With Celt at my side, why the fuck not?
“We road-tripping next weekend?” asked Celt, staring out at the open road.
“I’m down, but I’m driving.”
He snorted a laugh. “Where to?”
“Wherever the fuck we want,” I said, eyeing a motorcycle that passed us.
The bike’s purring engine opened up with a roar, taking off in front of them. The back tire squealed on the pavement and left a black tar splatter. What a beast. Celt revved the old car’s engine. As much as it was a muscle car, the Torino kept up with that majestic beauty just fine.
The sunlight had glinted off the fresh paint job on the tank, and the pipes were polished chrome. Everything on the thing shone like a goddamn star. Celt slowed to the speed limit.
“Pops’ll have my head if I get a ticket.”
