The two opposing parts of my personality, the girl who panics and the girl who loves speed, declare war and the result is a head rush. “Yes.”

“Pull up to the first line of the white crosswalk. We’ll race a quarter mile to the stop sign. Then you leave and never come back.”

He pivots on his heel and returns to the black Mustang. Excitement ripples through me when I notice the body. That’s a ’94 GT. I’m racing against a ’94 GT! “What if I win?” I call.

“You won’t,” he replies. I snort and his shoulders stiffly roll back. Like a ’94 Mustang GT could beat my baby.

The crowd moves. Some hop into their cars and drive toward the abandoned road. Others travel by foot. I slide behind the wheel and shut the door. As I turn the key, my lips curl up at the familiar rumble of the engine.

I love this car. I really, really do.

I shift into First and maneuver to the starting line. The moment I ease into place, the battle for control over my body kicks into gear. Surrounding the edges of the street, people my age shout and smoke and laugh and drink. I rub my hands onto my jeans. My car may be where I belong, but I don’t belong here.

My throat tightens and I ignore the sensation. Nausea is not welcomed in my car. Nor are shallow breaths and sweaty palms and disoriented thoughts. This is my car—my world.

Announcing its presence with an angry growl, the black Mustang joins me at the line. Isaiah and I glance over at the same time, and I immediately look away, busying myself with knobs and buttons. I take a deep breath and try to suppress the panic.

Logic. I need to focus on logic. Turn off the heater fan, the radio, the nonessentials. Don’t rob the engine of power.

West’s friends park their car next to Eric and hand him money. I wonder if they’re betting on me or Isaiah. Losing confidence in myself, I think fatalistically that I’d place my money on Isaiah.

Eric and West’s friends stare at me.

In fact, they’re all staring at me.

Every single person standing along the road has their eyes fixed on me.

My heart beats twice and I wait for the familiar heat to explode upon my face, but nothing happens. I grip the steering wheel tighter as one single thought blankets my brain: this is my car and this is my race.

Two thumps on the hood and my eyes narrow at a boy with blond dreads motioning for me to inch closer to the line. What the hell? Why do people think they can manhandle my baby? With the press of a button, I lower both of my windows. “Don’t touch my car!”

He rolls his eyes. “Did you hear that, Isaiah? The rich bitch doesn’t want me touching her car.”

With a grumble, Isaiah’s Mustang lurches forward then stops just short of hitting the guy. In front of Isaiah’s fender, he holds his hands in the air toward Isaiah. “You need to smoke something to chill.”

I move my car to mirror Isaiah’s. My right hand strangles the stick shift as I place my foot on the clutch. Isaiah’s car roars next to me as he stays in Neutral and hits the gas. My 300 horsepower with 320 pounds of torque against his 215 horsepower and 285 pounds of torque.

This race is mine.

Adrenaline hammers my bloodstream as I feel the power of my car begging to be unleashed. The guy with dreads throws both of his arms into the air. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve only built up to fast speeds, never taken off from them, but it can’t be that difficult. Lift the clutch at the exact same time I press the gas while shoving the car into gear.

This is what my Mustang was made to do.

Isaiah’s engine roars again and the sound vibrates between the layers of my skin and muscle. The guy with dreads looks at me once. Then at Isaiah. In a heartbeat, his arms rush down to the ground.

My right foot hits the gas, the other slips off the clutch. Isaiah’s Mustang’s front end rises into the air as I shift into First. His car lunges forward and I’m preparing for the whiplash of speed when my car shudders once and stalls out into silence.

No.

This isn’t happening.

No.

I took my foot off the clutch too quickly.

No.

I didn’t gun the engine in time.

Hell.

I never had a shot.

Isaiah’s already past the halfway point. I turn over the engine, ignore my instincts for a full-on start and focus on getting the car into gear. I’m finishing this race, even though it’s obvious who won.

Chapter 7

Isaiah

IN MY REARVIEW MIRROR, I watch as the angel restarts her car and floors it. Seconds ago, I had my doubts about whether I’d win, but my instincts were right on—she didn’t have the reaction needed to pull off a start at the flag. I won a whopping twenty dollars from the straight bet on this race, but I’m hoping for at least a grand once Eric gives me my take from his winnings.

My lips turn up as I pass the stop sign. My piece of crap beat an ’05 GT. That feat alone deserves a trip to the tattoo parlor. That is if I had money.

I ease off the gas and check the angel’s status. Damn, that car’s fast. I slow to a stop and wait for her to join me. The crowd gathered at the quarter mile calls out smack. A huge part of me wants her to cruise past and head straight home. Girls like her shouldn’t hear the words being tossed into the night. A small part of me wants her to stop so I can see her cute-pissed expression when she realizes that a street punk beat her and her expensive car.

The angel finally catches up and I lose the smirk as I examine her. The streetlamp above us creates a glow around the mess of hair angling her face. She shouldn’t be here. In fact, there’s nothing right about this situation.

My throat moves as I swallow and, suddenly, my skin feels too tight on my body. Instinct? A sixth sense? I learned early in life to never discount the sensation. The noise of the onlookers becomes a shallow buzz as I glance at my side mirrors for the oncoming danger.

That’s when I see it—a faint strobe of light. I ignore all other sounds and strain to hear the one that can ruin my world: a distant wail.

“Cops!” I yell.

Blue and red lights blaze in the distance. Chaos erupts as the bystanders scurry to their cars. Doors slam shut and anxious motors rumble to life. Feet pound against pavement as voices call for others to head into the dark alleys between the warehouses.

I shift my car into First and stomp on the gas. My tires squeal as I peel out. A curse leaves my mouth when I throw the car into Second. Eric has my money and collecting what I fully earned will be a lot more difficult without a crowd to verify the bets made.

No matter how fucking hard I try, I always come out on the bottom.

I check my mirrors to see the direction of the invasion. There’re three ways out of this labyrinth of warehouses and the cops know one, maybe two, but the third will be a hell of a drive.

A solitary white barrier in the middle of the street causes me to hit the brakes. “Fuck!”

She’s still sitting there—the angel—like a damn sacrifice nailed to the ground. I yank on the steering wheel and one-eighty it back to where I started seconds before. What the hell is wrong with her?

My driver’s side mirror barely misses hers as I stop next to her open window. “Get out of here.”

“I don’t know where to go.” Red flushes brightly on her cheeks, in stark contrast to the pale white skin surrounding her eyes. Eyes that are wide and wild with fear.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. Fuck. Just fuck. Losing the cops in one car is hard enough. Having a tail will only complicate things, but I can’t leave her. “Follow me.”

Chapter 8

Rachel

ISAIAH CIRCLES MY CAR AND speeds off the way he originally came. I chase after him and do my best to shift with arms and legs that no longer want to accept orders. The speedometer climbs in my race to not fall behind.