Page 40 of Furious

“Well, I borrowed it from my grandma,” I deadpan. “But my mama and daddy told me this was a real fast car, so I’m hoping it’ll be good in a race.” I bat my eyes at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence. Really, it’s all I can do not to snatch Max’s jacket from his arm and tear out of there. But, in addition to the jacket, we also need Max’s address. I gun the engine again, letting my annoyance sing through the car.

“Maybe it was fast in the seventies,” Riley quips, with a snorted laugh. “But now I doubt it’d make it to the senior center without falling apart.” He straightens up. “Welp, might as well get the ass-kicking over with. You’re not the only race tonight.”

“See you at the finish line,” I call to his retreating back.

“If you make it there,” he hollers over his shoulder.

This draws another laugh from the crowd, and I feel the smallest smile creep onto my lips. It’s going to be so, so good to beat Riley in front of his friends.

I look over at El, who’s gripping her seat belt with white knuckles. Touching one of her hands, I uncurl her fingers. “You should get out for this part,” I say gently.

She glances at me, a vaguely wild look in her eyes. “Are you sure you can do this?” The concern that laces her voice makes me think she cares about me, and not the jacket or getting Max’s address.

“Not to sound like a conceited ass, but I could beat Riley in the Oatmobile.”

That surprises a laugh from El. “We should’ve brought that. What was I thinking?”

“That you trust me, just a little.”

A conflicted look crosses her face and then she leans across the space between us and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “Destroy him for me, will you?”

The kiss warms my cheek and sends a jolt of hope through me. “Happily.”

El gets out of the car, and, after flashing her a wink, I drive the Hornet to the starting line. The other cars finish up—the Civic stomping the Charger, and then Riley’s there, sitting on a red and white crotch rocket. I’m not a Bike Girl™, but even I can tell the bike has seen better days. The Hornet is going to obliterate him. Or at least I hope it does. I mean, it shouldn’t, as his bike is definitely faster, but this is where driving skill, reckless confidence, and luck come in. Pulling my picture of Jamie Chadwick from my pocket—which I’d not placed on the dash as usual when El was in the car because I didn’t want to talk about the F1 Academy or my application or any of that—I put her on the dashboard. There’s no room for self-doubt here.

“I believe in you, Betty,” I murmur to the car. “I believe in us.”

Beside me, Riley says something, but I ignore him. My fingers curl around the steering wheel, all my focus on the stretch of runway in front of me.

There’s a difference between race car drivers who are good enough, pretty good, really good, and elite. Some of it’s training, some of it’s luck, and a lot of it’s pure, unbroken focus. That’s one of my greatest strengths on the track, and it’s led me to countless victories over the last few years.

“Still can back out,” Riley says, as he settles onto the bike.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I call back. “See you in thirteen seconds.”

He snorts and drops his helmet visor.

In front of us, a girl in short jean shorts and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt holds a checkered flag. Out of the corner of my eye, I see El press her hands over her mouth. Then, my gaze snaps forward.

Three, two, one …

The flag drops.

My foot slams into the gas.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

El

Here’s the thing.

Even on a dented and dusty GSX-R600, this guy should be able to smoke Jo in a drag race. It’s not a super-powerful bike; honestly, the fact that Riley’s racing us on a 600 when his muttonchopped, glassy-eyed friend is sitting on the sidelines on a 1000 shows they didn’t think much of us even before they saw the Hornet. Still, I know that bike can do just over an eleven-second quarter mile. I don’t know if Jo knows, but she has to see that a thirteen-second car up against a modern sport bike on a straight is some real tortoise versus the hare bullshit.

I believe in Jo. I trust Jo. I really do. I’m just trusting her while I stand on the sidelines with the neck of my T-shirt stuffed between my teeth to keep from screaming with anxiety, because it seems simply impossible that we can win in her beloved Betty.

I should’ve remembered that nothing is simple when it comes to JoJo Emerson-Boyd.

As the girl on the runway drops the flag, Jo roars instantly and cleanly off the line, the Hornet’s blue paint flashing under the fading sun.