“Are you kidding?” I ask with a bounce that I’m sure makes me look like a five-year-old. “I sort of want to lie on the hood and hug it.”

Isaiah laughs the same laugh as the night in the bar. The one that creates an energized rush. The one that messes with my head and warms my blood. My excitement fades as I remember—Isaiah doesn’t want me.

Over the loudspeaker, the announcer calls the race. The groups quickly disintegrate and the drivers return to their cars.

“I’ll introduce you later,” Isaiah says. “Let’s go watch.”

We weave through the cars, past the bleachers, and stand at the fence near the starting line. I’ve never seen anything like it before: a flat stretch of road with concrete barricades following the eighth-mile course. Toward the end, two large electronic boards loom on both sides of the track. One set of numbers on top, another on the bottom.

The roar of an engine causes me to return my attention to the starting line. Guys walk alongside a red Camaro. One waves his hand in the air, indicating the driver should inch closer. “What’s he doing?” I ask.

Isaiah props his arms on the fence. “They spray water at the start of the track for the burnout. It’s better to get your tires right on the edge of the water.”

Holy freaking crap—a burnout. I’ve seen this hundreds of times on TV, but never in person. On cue, the back tires of the Camaro explode to life, spinning, sending heavy white smoke into the air as the driver heats his tires so he can gain better traction on the track. The sweet smoldering smell of burning rubber fills my nose. Finally, the tires catch and the car jerks forward.

The driver opens the door and fans it repeatedly to rid the interior of the smoke. Once clear, he shuts it and obeys the hand signals of his friend to move to the starting line.

“How do they know where to place their car to start the race?”

“Everything’s done by lasers,” Isaiah explains. “You need to hit the first laser without going too far. That guy doing all the hand motions is guiding the driver to the line. When he’s at the laser, a light over there will turn on.”

The competing car completes his burnout and thrusts to the line without help and without smoke infiltrating the car. “Why does the other driver need help and he doesn’t?”

“Because of the speeds some of these cars go, you can’t use regular seat belts. If we can get your engine to sing, we’ll have to install a safety harness in your car. Sometimes the harness keeps you so pinned in you can’t see the line. Sometimes the helmet keeps you from seeing it. Sometimes your friends want to help.”

He lost me at installing a safety harness in my car. Panic eats at my insides. “You’re going to change my car?”

Isaiah watches the cars at the line. “First they have to hit the line for prestaging. See that thing in the middle between the cars? That thing that looks like a traffic light?”

“Yes.” No. Not really. I mean, I see it. For both racers, the “traffic light” tower has two rows of white lights at the top, three rows of yellow lights, a single row of green and finally a single row of red. But what I really see is Isaiah missing the point. “As in you’re going to physically make a change to my car?”

“Yeah,” he answers calmly, as if he didn’t just announce he’s going to take the one thing in my life I love and ruin it. “It’s called a Christmas Tree. The white lights on top are prestage for the start of the race. They light up when the front of the car hits the first beam. When you hit the second beam, then the second row of lights glow to let you know that you’re ready to race. When both cars are staged, you have seconds before the lights on the tree drop.”

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. “What else are you planning to do to my car?” I grip the fence as a fresh wave of dizziness makes me light-headed. My car. I don’t want anyone messing with my car.

Either he’s ignoring me or he’s seriously into the race. “The yellow lights drop in descending order in .5 second intervals. If you leave before the green light, then the red light flashes.”

That snaps me out of near hysteria. “What does it mean if you get a red light?”

Isaiah glances at me. “It means you lost.”

Understanding socks me in the stomach. That’s why I’m not racing—I stalled at the line on the street and if I panic, I’ll possibly stall again. If I get overexcited and leave before the light turns green—and let’s admit it, I would—then I’ll lose the race before I even hit twenty miles per hour. “You don’t trust my reaction at the line.”

He kicks at the bottom of the fence, and I can tell he doesn’t want to answer. “We need a fast car, Rachel. Speed still means something, but out here at the dragway, whoever catches the light first is typically the winner.”

The cars in front of us roar. Torque causes the front end of the Camaro to pull up into the air, and I step back, half expecting the car to flip completely backward. It doesn’t. The front tires slam back down onto the asphalt. The Camaro races past the Mustang at a blinding speed. The sign at the end flashes. In an eighth mile the Camaro hits ninety-six miles per hour in 6.94 seconds.

My eyes widen and my heart beats hard in my chest. “I so want to do that.”

Chapter 29

Isaiah

WITH MY ARMS TIGHTLY CROSSED over my chest and my feet spread apart, I watch from a distance as Rachel chats animatedly with Zach, the owner of the Mustang Cobra. Her hair cascades down her back like a waterfall and her hands move gracefully in the air as she relays some story involving her Mustang on a country road.

Zach touches her arm right above her elbow and says something that incites her laughter. A muscle in my jaw jumps. I’ve known Zach since freshman year. We’ve taken every automotive course together, and I was there when he bought the Cobra for dirt cheap. If the boy keeps flirting with Rachel, he and I may not be friends by the end of the night.

“Hey, Isaiah.”

I tear my eyes off of Rachel for a second to greet Logan. “S’up.”

“Thought I’d check out the action,” he says, following my gaze to Rachel.

In a motion I’ve memorized, Rachel shyly bites her bottom lip. Don’t do it. Don’t look at Zach with those gorgeous eyes searching for him to be your answer like you did with me.

The muscles in my neck relax when she brushes her hair over her shoulder and steps back, causing him to remove his hand. Distracting Zach, she points to the Cobra and moves closer to the car.

“What did you think?” I ask Logan, hoping to distract myself. Watching Rachel laugh with another guy twists knots in my gut.

“That was some insane shit.” A jean jacket replaces Logan’s school one, and he almost fits in with a T-shirt and jeans, but his black hair still has that straitlaced gel-style.

“Think you can handle a car going that fast, man?”

A lunatic smile crosses his face. “Yes.”

Before Beth fell for Logan’s friend, Ryan, she had told me stories involving this kid. She said his only fuel was adrenaline. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” I reply. “But I do have a problem with Beth. You want me to work on your car, then I’m fine with that, but keep her out of my garage.” And out of my life.

Zach opens his car door for Rachel and she trembles with excitement as she slides into the driver’s seat. Part of me loves seeing her happy. The other part yearns to shove Zach in a body bag.

“Look,” says Logan. “I’m a couple of weeks away from earning enough to buy a used supercharger from a friend, and I have a feeling we’ll need to replace some of the exhaust.”

Several parts of his statement catch me off guard. “You already know cars, don’t you?”

“What if I do?”

What if he does? When I say nothing, he continues, “Beth heard about the car and went nuts, knowing it gave her an excuse to see you. She misses you, but she’s with Ryan.”

Logan waits for his words to sink in. Yeah, I got it. Beth’s in love with his best friend. “Ryan’s got nothing to fear from me.” And that’s the damn truth. There’s no part of me that wants Beth anymore.

She’s in love with someone else and having my heart ripped out and burnt to ashes keeps me from wanting to replay the game with her.

“Beth’s my friend so I played car idiot. She needed an excuse to see you, and we wanted an excuse for someone to come with her.”

Because Beth is a fucking hurricane and would have blown into town regardless of what anyone else thought or desired. Yeah, I understood that, too. I may not like what happened between me and Beth, but I can respect the guy for being loyal to her.

“To be honest,” says Logan. “I could use your help.” He gestures at the dragway. “And nothing in Groveton can offer me that type of rush.”

“Can you pay me?” I ask.

“Not if I buy the supercharger. But if you agree to help me put the charger in and help make some other modifications, then I’ll give you anything I win at the dragway.”

I had planned to ask Noah to help drag race my way out of the debt, but he’s been slammed with his own problems. “Have you drag raced before?”

“Illegally, on backcountry roads and with other guys’ cars.”

“Are you any good?”

He shrugs. I can tell by the cocky way his shoulders flex that the kid’s an ace. Or at least he’s won against his redneck friends. “I’ve won a few.”

I can’t believe I’m going to explain this or that I’m making the offer. No one other than me drives my car, but desperate times... “Rachel and I are in some bad shit. I’ll be racing her car to win money. If you want, you can race mine.”

The parts I intend to add to her car will mean speeds that will put me against better racers. Better racers translates to bigger bets.

“You owe money,” Logan says—a statement, not a question.

“To the wrong people, and they won’t take kindly to anyone helping us.”

His smile widens, proving the kid is bat-shit crazy. “A debt, a villain, speed and bad odds. This is something I definitely want to be a part of.”

Amused, I shake my head. I’m joining forces with a fucking country-jock. I extend my hand. “We got a deal.”

He has a strong grip and doesn’t fear eye contact. I already like the son of a bitch. Logan jerks his thumb at Rachel. “Is she your girlfriend?”

My eyes shoot to his, and he immediately holds up his hands. “Beth’s my friend, and with that handshake, you are, too. I am neutral territory.”

“We’re friends,” I answer in regards to Rachel.

She spent the first part of the evening trying to ignore me. Eventually, she broke down and talked cars, but it’s obvious she meant what she said to me in the garage: that she and I would work together and nothing more.

Zach rests his hands on the roof of his car and leans down to put his head closer to Rachel’s. She still sits in the driver’s seat with both hands on the wheel. Because fate has taken pity on me, she’s totally absorbed with the machinery and not with Zach. It’s like he knows nothing about personal space.