Page 1 of Her Sloth

PROLOGUE

PLAYLIST: MEET YOU AT THE GRAVEYARD – CLEFFY

The motor of my Hellcat gurgles as we stand at the red light next to each other. I glance over to her through the passenger window.

“You will never beat me,” I shout over to her.

“Get used to seeing backlights,” she says, laughing. I haven’t seen her this alive.

“I will,” I say as I let my Hellcat roar.

“Yeah, that’s nothing,” she says, letting her modded 1972 Porsche roar. “No one beats my girl.”

I glance briefly at the sign counting down the seconds until it turns green.

“What’s the price I get?” I ask as the number turns to twenty-three.

“Whatever you want, because ain’t winning,” she says, grinning broadly.

I laugh with her as a gust of wind blows through the open windows, making her long blonde hair swirl. It’s a hot September night, and the road in front of us is as empty as Columbus Avenue gets at night.

I look at her for just another moment. Her blue eyes are so intense. She didn’t belong in my world, and yet she became everything I am.

Both our eyes flash to the counter.

And then the world turns silent.

It is this one nanosecond between the anticipation of what comes and the moment where the lights turn green, and nothing else exists. It’s the only moment everything in me is truly peaceful.

The light turns green.

My Hellcat roars as I press down the gas pedal.

She is not just any Hellcat.

She is an originally 700-hp Dodge Challenger beast powered by a supercharged 6.2-liter V8 with dual-bottle NOS that I reworked to a 1001hp monster.

But I also know not to underestimate Elise. She and her girl—that’s what she calls her Porsche—are a dangerous duo.

The sole exception is that she is young and inexperienced. I had to make my way on the streets after my mother left us and dad disappeared into getting food on the table.

I have raced them all and lost everything from nothing. I know my car better than anyone in the world.

Elise is hungry.

Hungry to prove herself, which makes her recklessly dangerous.

The acceleration presses me into the seat.

That feeling where the brain lags behind, and the pressure compresses the chest—I live for it.

My fingers close around the steering wheel as I pull her into the red before I shift. The roar echoes back to us through the buildings to our left and right.

El is in front of me; that Porsche has epic acceleration and is light as fuck, but I have NOS and am also a better driver.

I let her sniff the air of winning.

We shoot over the next traffic light that just turned red.