Page 53 of Violent Skies

Everything about this feels dangerous, like I’m driving into a trap, but I don’t think I have much of a choice. The car beside me revs its engine in impatient wails and I pull up to the line. I don’t know this road very well, but I do know the hills and I know every pull of the steering wheel beneath my hands.

I can win this. I know I can.

I inhale slowly, check my mirrors and watch as the girl drops her hands. The cars take off from the line, my heart racing faster than the engine as we speed into the darkness. There are no street lights up here, we’re relying solely on the light of the moon to keep us from going over any edges. We hit the first curve, barely sliding into it without hitting one another but he sneaks out in front of me as we straighten back out and all I can do is switch gears.

The car purrs beneath me, begging for more speed and I oblige as best I can, urging the pedal down as I maneuver us around the next corner. Each one we take grows tighter and I can feel my breath shortening despite trying to control it. The rush of driving ignites my soul, something I haven’t felt for the longest time. Unfortunately, the only other time I felt like this was with Cress in my lap, opened up on the highway.

My feet move in time with my hands and my thoughts, shifting gears as we pull up the hill. Rafe will kill me if I destroy his car, and it’ll destroy me if I lose. The air from outside funnels into the car and numbs all the other sounds as we make a sharp right higher into the hill. This high up its thinner, sweeter, almost like you can taste the rain.

My heart hitches.

My fingers slip.

Just for a moment I lose control, my mind bouncing around in a collection of unwanted nightmarish memories. Focus. My eyes train on his back tires, he’s got to be less than two feet in front of me, but it feels like a mile as the sign for the pass whips by my window and I know there’s seconds to close the gap and correct my mistake.

The engine strains for a moment and then catches up smoothly with one final push. The bumper of the car ahead inches closer, but he pulls his car in my lane, forcing me back as we take the last left turn. I can see the final exit sign for the pass and know that if I don’t do something now, I’ll lose.

I never lose.

I shift gears one last time, praying that he makes a mistake. But he doesn't. His car surges forward, widening the gap as he passes the exit, securing the win with practiced ease. The wheels burn loudly as he whips the tail end around and faces me on the street.

My throat is tight, my skin hot, my palms sweating around the wheel as the headlights beat down on me through the windshield. I almost expect him to play chicken, but after a long moment, he burns out from his spot and whips past me without ever showing his face.

What the fuck was that?

Icheck on Birdie again, making sure she’s comfortable before I wander back down the hall to the stairs in search of water, but as I pass through the living room my fingers catch on the doorframe of Riggs’s bedroom and I stop just to see if he’s inside.

The bed is unmade and there are still clothes on the floor but otherwise it’s empty. It smells like him: oil and spice. It drags me in like a rope around my waist, and suddenly I’m exploring all the little pieces of Riggs that he leaves behind every day: his bowl of rings, his messy drawers and unorganized closet. I stand inside and press one of his sweaters to my face. He hasn’t changed at all. There’s boots on the floor in piles, old and new. Pairs I haven’t seen him wear in years, and others that probably don’t even fit him anymore—but he keeps them all.

An old sweater catches my eye, a black one that he used to wear all the time with the Monroe logo over the back shoulders. It’s the one he was wearing that night and tears well in my eyes. The right shoulder is ripped open and there’s proof of the fire that had started along the hood, collar and down the left side. I pull it from the hanger and stare at it for a long time, trying to imagine how horrible it all was—angry that he’s still lying to this day, even more so that he kept a memento. Then I realize something.

“You weren’t driving…” I whisper, touching the charred collar. The fire started under the driver's-side wheel well. That’s what the cops told us. If Riggs was driving, this sweater would have been nothing but ash.

“I should have thrown that out.” His voice startles me and I use the collar of my shirt to wipe away my tears.

“You don’t throw anything out.” I give a hollow laugh. I move around him, never looking at him as he makes his way into the room. He sets something down on the dresser as I close the door behind us.

His hair is messy and his hands hover at his sides. He’d been racing.

“Where did you go tonight?” I ask carefully.

I can see him thinking about it. His eyes stay planted on mine but he swallows down whatever excuse he’s formulating. “Racing.”

“Alone?” I ask and he nods. “Did you win?”

“No.” It’s honest—he’d never admit otherwise—and it sounds painful as it leaves his lips.

“What happened?” I ask, begging him to keep being honest with me.

“They were better,” he admits roughly.

You aren’t telling me something. No one is better than Riggs. I’ve watched him drive cars my entire life, not even Koa could beat him, not fairly at least. He’s unbalanced, exhausted and overwhelmed. He’s not himself. Neither am I. The sweater. He’d have scars. I need to know.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?” he chokes out.

“Not—” I sigh. “...like that. I need to see something.” When I finally look up at him he’s staring at me like I have a gun to his head. “Please?”