“Nice,” he says again. “Have you ever raced her?”

I shake my head no. It feels strange to talk to guys. I’m the girl who hangs on the periphery.

The other girls who attend the most expensive private school in the state don’t want to discuss cars, and most guys get intimidated when I know more about their cars than they do. When it comes to any other type of conversation, my tongue often becomes paralyzed.

“Would you like to race?” he asks.

Our gas nozzles clink off at the same exact time and my heart flutters in my chest with a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. I’m not sure if I want to faint or laugh. “Where?”

He inclines his head away from the safety of the freeway and down the four-lane road—

deeper into the south end. I’ve heard rumors of HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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illegal drag races, but I thought they were just that—rumors. “Are you for real?”

“It doesn’t get any more real than where I’d be taking you. Stick with us and we’ll help you get a nice race.”

I have four brothers, and one is the type that mothers warn their daughters against. In other words, I’m not that naive, but to be honest, his proposal intrigues me. But I’m also sure this is how horror movies begin.

Or the best action flicks on the face of the planet.

I scan the guy’s car out of the corner of my eye. A University of Louisville student parking tag hangs on the rearview mirror along with a maroon-and-gold tassel. Only my school has those God-awful colors.

But to be safe… “Where did you go to high school?” I ask.

“Worthington Private,” he says with the

arrogance most guys from my school use when saying the word private.

“I go there.” And I don’t bother hiding my grin.

Neither do they. The car owner continues to be the spokesman for his duo. “What year are HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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you?”

“A junior.”

“We graduated last year.”

“Cool,” I say. Very cool. My brother would be a year behind him, but West has made it his business for people to love him. “Do you know West Young?”

“Yeah.” He brightens. This guy thinks he is so close to scoring. “Do you guys party

together?”

I laugh and I can’t stop myself. “No. He’s my brother.”

Their smiles melt quicker than a snow cone on a summer’s afternoon. “You’re his baby sister?”

“I prefer to be called Rachel. And you are?”

He runs a hand over his face. “Going to get my ass kicked by your brothers. Forget I said anything about racing or that we even saw each other.”

As he inches to his car, I spring over the small concrete barrier. I only meant to make sure the guy would keep his distance, not sprint for Alaska. “Wait. I want to race.”

“Your brothers don’t play around when it

comes to you, and aren’t you supposed to be HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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sickly or something?”

Stupid, stupid brothers and stupid, stupid rumors and stupid, stupid hospital visits when I stupid, stupidly was so panicked my freshman year I had to stay overnight twice. “Obviously the whole sick thing is wrong and if you don’t take me to the drag race, I’ll tell West about tonight.” No, I won’t, but I’ll try bluffing.

Owner Guy looks over at his friend hovering near the passenger door. His friend shrugs. “I bet she’ll keep her mouth shut.”

“I will,” I blurt. “Keep my mouth shut.”

Owner Guy curses under his breath. “One

race.”

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Isaiah

I LEAN AGAINST MY CAR DOOR and assess the group illegally loitering in the parking lot of the abandoned strip mall. Green, blue, and red neon lights frame the bottom of different makes and models. A few of us puritans remain on the streets, refusing to decorate our cars like Christmas trees. The bass line of rap rattles frames and a couple drivers are brave enough to blare the screeching electric guitar of heavy metal.

Clouds cover the sky, leaving all of us in a dark pit. Close to a week after Christmas, the presents have been opened, the turkey dinners have been demolished, and mommies and

daddies are either tucked in bed or sucked into a bottle of Jack. Time for the rats to hit the streets.

“Isaiah!” Eric Hall abandons two girls in HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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short skirts and faux fur jackets and heads for me. Most people underestimate the bleach-blond, skinny son of a bitch, but that mistake could prove lethal for your billfold and your health. On the streets of the south side, this nineteen-year-old is king. “Merry belated Christmas, my brother.”

I accept his outstretched hand and the half hug.

Eric is who I came to see, and if I don’t watch myself, I’ll end up indebted to him. My goal in life is to be free of everyone—foster care, school, social workers. Eric Hall may not be official, but he’s an organization all his own with the street business he created. He even has

“employees”: guys with bats and tire irons that willingly beat the hell out of anyone who doesn’t pay.

He motions to the two giggling girls. “Santa brought me twins and in the spirit of the season, I’m willing to share. That is, if you drive for me tonight.”

This is the reason why I’m here. Noah and I need cash and Eric can make that happen. If I play this right, I’ll rake in money and stay free.

While sucking on a lollipop, the twin with HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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black hair stares at me longer than her

sister. “Ho, ho, ho,” mumbles Eric.

My thoughts exactly and I turn my back to them. I have a bad track record with girls with black hair. “You know I don’t street race.”

Typically, I don’t. Street racing can put my ass in jail and cost me the setup I have with Noah. I have no intention of being placed in juvie or worse—a group home. I race legally at The Motor Yard, but The Motor Yard is closed for the holidays. Tonight will be a one-time deal.

He leans in close as if what he’s saying is a secret. “I’ll give you twenty percent of what I make on top of the Christmas cheer. I’m giving my other boys ten.”

Eric has never offered anyone such a

commission, but if he’s starting off high, maybe he’ll go even higher. “Twenty percent isn’t going to cover my bail if I get arrested.”

“I know you, my brother,” says Eric. “You need speed and I have the need for green. Say yes and you can race my recently acquired suped-up Honda Civic with two full tanks of nitro.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m looking HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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for a one-time race, Eric. That is, if we can come to an understanding.”

The sweet purring of an engine grabs not

only my attention, but that of every hot-

blooded, car-worshiping male in the lot.

Jesus—that’s a 2005 Mustang GT. And unlike the other muscle cars parked on the strip, not a piece of her looks like it’s seen the inside of a body shop.

A flood of male bodies surround the

beautiful pony. I drop back and let the wolves have first crack. A car like this is here for one reason—to race, and any new piece of

machinery has to pass Eric’s inspection.

Someone is going to have to approve the

engine and I have no doubts I’ll be the one caressing that soft underbelly.

The driver shuts down the engine, opens the door, and a halo of sunshine slides out of the car and into the light of the only working streetlamp. Fuck me. God does exist and he sent an angel in a white Mustang to prove it.

Angels are small—at least this one is. She stands barely a foot taller than the top of her car. Her long golden hair curls at the ends and she has a slender frame. Her leather-gloved HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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hand grips the top of her door and she uses the door as a shield between herself and the street rats.

“Nice car.” Like a vulture, Eric slowly

circles her.