Page 39 of Furious

She frowns. “It looks like somewhere one goes to get killed.”

I shift in my seat, gunning the Hornet’s engine and cocooning us momentarily in the loud, hungry purr of a V-8 engine. I can’t keep a smug grin off my face. I love that sound. “It looks like a place where one goes to win a race and get back a bitchin’ motorcycle jacket.”

That earns me a small, tight smile from El. “Are you sure the car is ready?”

“Betty is in fighting shape, trust me.” I run a hand along the steering wheel affectionately, infusing as much confidence as possible into the words.

Late last night, after we’d gotten the keys and said goodbye to CJ and James, who were headed back home to Charleston this morning, I’d biked back to Jolene’s garage and taken the Hornet out for a test drive. It had run beautifully—and quickly, as it should. But would it be quick enough to beat Riley’s bike?

It has to be.

The twilight sky is deep purple and orange, though the night is creeping in at the edges. Fireflies dance along the fence line in front of us, helped along by a slight breeze. I’ll have to consider that breeze as I’m racing tonight. The night smells like exhaust, summertime, and El. A heady mix that’s going right to my blood.

Racing.

My heart kicks at the thought.

That’s all well and good, whispers a voice in my head, but what’s the plan, JoJo?

Be fearless and drive fast enough to not get caught, as my mother would say.

I still don’t have my license, but that didn’t stop me from picking up El. And it won’t stop me from driving tonight. El had given the Hornet one look and insisted on driving us to the airfield, but I’d refused to leave the driver’s seat and she’d begrudgingly climbed into the passenger seat.

“Why are you dressed like Letty Ortiz?” she’d asked me the minute she’d slammed her door shut. Her eyes had run over my leather jacket, white tank top, and tight low-rise jeans.

“Good luck. Also, don’t you like Letty?”

El’s voice came out a little choked. “I love Letty Ortiz with the collective burning passion of all the queer girls out there. But isn’t that a little warm for summer?”

“It’s not even July yet.”

She hadn’t replied—merely raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” I’d said, shrugging out of my jacket so I was just in the tank top and jeans. “Better?”

El gave a little squeak beside me, and leaned so close that I thought she was going to kiss me, but she just wiped at a smudge of grease on my cheek. “It’s fine. Perfect. Whatever.”

And then, she’d pulled away again. I didn’t know if it’s due to the F1 Academy application form we’d still not talked about and I’d still not sent in, or her nerves about tonight, but I didn’t have time to focus on it.

We didn’t have time to kiss or talk much, but I had promised her I’d get Max’s jacket back, and that was a promise I meant to keep.

I pull the Hornet through the hole in the fence and we drive along a service road that approaches the main runway. The tarmac is overgrown in parts with weeds. There are at least fifty people here, but it’s a world away from the big-city illegal street races in the F&F movies, where there are girls in teeny-tiny skirts and sky-high boots and whole streets in LA that are cleared by legions of racers.

“Real world versus the movies,” I say, as we roll past a lime-green Nissan and two muscle cars. On the main stretch, a Dodge Charger and a souped-up Civic line up at the starting line and tear away, neck and neck as someone drops the starting flag. My heart is going faster than the cars as I pull into an empty spot, close to where Riley has parked his bike. The heat, the roar of engines, the crowd—all of it is so familiar and simultaneously terrifying.

You can do this, JoJo. You are not going to lose your mom’s car.

Rather than addressing my own fears, I nudge El with my elbow and raise an eyebrow at the crew Riley has brought along. They’re a mixed group of twenty-something guys and girls in motorcycle jackets, with a few older Harley riders thrown into the mix. All of them are drinking, and the smell of weed drifts into our open window.

“I can’t believe these were Max’s friends,” El says.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just keep quiet.

As I park the car, I gun the engine again. My heart thrums with the electric energy that comes before a race. A burst of laughter and lots of hoots and whistles rise from the crowd. El scowls and Riley strides over to the Hornet.

He leans down, putting his forearms on my open window. He’s got Max’s jacket tucked over his arm. His warm, beer-laced breath washes over me as he says, “Can’t believe you showed up tonight, little Max and little Max’s girlfriend. You sure this sedan can make it to the end of the runway?”

El’s scowl deepens and her hands curl into fists in her lap.