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“Who is she?”
Luckily, this girl has her windows up and can’t hear me asking about her.
“Remember Eli King?”
“Yeah,” now that I think about it, “that’s his car, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, she’s his sister, Keaton,” Milo says.
Well, that makes things interesting. I can’t believe he’s letting her drive his Camaro, but if she’s as good as Milo says, then he probably isn’t worried about it. I’ll have to find him after the race and catch up. We were never close friends or anything, but we did race together a few times back in the day.
She pulled her dark hair back away from her face, leaving her stoic expression on display. Her stern brow doesn’t falter as the drivers around us rev their engines in preparation.
Some scantily clad chick makes her way to the starting line, and I shift in my seat, double-checking everything around me. When I look back toward the Camaro, I see that she’s lowered her driver’s side window.
Before I know what I’m doing, I shout in her direction.
“Hey, Street King.”
Her gaze slides to mine, one eyebrow raised in obvious annoyance.
“You ready to hand over that crown?” I smirk, prepared to wipe the streets with her ass.
She holds my gaze with absolute disinterest in her eyes for all of two seconds before shifting her gaze back to the chick now standing in front of us.
With a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, I focus and prepare to knock this chick down a peg or two. There’s only ever been room for one King in Sancte Alto, and that’s always been me.
“Racers,” the woman calls out and raises her arms above her head.
As soon as her hands drop, I hit the gas.
I’m the first one off the line and smiling like a damn fool. I can just see Milo in my rearview, but I don’t see the Camaro anywhere.
“And that’s why you don’t race with the big boys, Princess,” I laugh to myself as I downshift and slide through a turn. Another quick glance in the rearview mirror, and I know I’ve got this in the bag. That is, until the sleek black muscle car slides up alongside me and takes the lead.
“Motherfucker,” I curse, smacking the steering wheel in frustration. “Where the fuck did she come from?”
I glance up at the GPS and note the right-hand turn coming up and quickly decide that I’ll catch her on the inside.
The automated voice comes to life then.
Make a right turn in three, two, one.
I quickly down-shift and crank the steering wheel to the right, hitting the brakes and whipping my ass end around before shifting back into second and taking off. But she’s still faster.
“Damnit!”
The headlights twinkle behind us, and I press down harder on the gas pedal.
Turn after turn, she manages to stay ahead of me and it’s pissing me off.
This is my town. These are my streets, and there is no way I’m letting some chick come in and take that away from me. I don’t care how long I’ve been absent. Her reign is about to end.
There’s a sharp turn coming in the next quarter mile, just below the train tracks. If I cut around her on her driver’s side now, I might just have the momentum I need to cut her off just before the tracks.
Punching the gas, the card jolts forward, and I get closer and closer to the Camaro. The turn is fast approaching, nearly 200 yards away and closing. It’s now or never.
I rev my engine and pull up beside her, exhaust fumes filling the air. As the bend in the road appears, I start to inch my way in front of her, but I miscalculate the distance. Before I know it, our cars are careening off the side of the road, a loud crunch sounding as the metal smacks against the structure of the elevated tracks.
