“RC,” he says in a graveyard’s hush. “It’s been too long.” He opens his arms wide.
The composure I fought hard to keep crumbles like ten-thousand-year-old stone bombarded by constant rain. I push away from my GT and rush into his waiting arms. He wraps me within their safety and twirls around several times. Did I mention Ace and I grew up at Open Arms together? Well, that’s another reason why I can’t seem to challenge him. Stupid familial bonds. Inhaling his clean scent, I’m that unsure girl again he teases for having the worst time on the simulator. Breathless, I pepper his face with kisses like a happy puppy. Ace’s full-bodied laugh snakes into my tight muscles, lifting me higher than hydrogen. The day’s stress melts away. No absurd requests from the boss. No corpses. No insane course maps. He eases my feet to the ground, letting my body slide down the length of his, then cradles my face in his hands.
With our gazes locked and loaded, he says, “I heard you found Hubcap’s body. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
And just like that he reminds me of what I’d love to forget. I swallow, piecing together the tough shell he easily broke through. “It’s fine. I’m okay. I’m more worried about the IC map.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “That you would.”
“Shut up before I punch you, jackass.”
He lets go of me and steps back, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. “Always the cruel one, my RC.”
“She’s not yours,” Bedlam says, gravel ever present in his throat. Goose bumps dot my skin. I feel his intent stare at the base of my spine. A delicious quiver runs down my inner thighs. Like I said, complicated.
We all turn to look at him. He rests his long body on the side of his Zonda like a ladder against a wall. Besides baggy pants and racing shoes, white bandages cover every exposed part of his body, leaving only his left eye visible. I know all too well what’s under those yards of gauze. Our eyes meet for the briefest second. I suck in a breath at the slight softening of his gaze. My cheeks heat. He gives me a quick nod of acknowledgment.
“Right,” Ace says.
“Race me tonight, Ace.” Impulsively, I grab the front of his shirt before my feelings where Bedlam is concerned overwhelm me. I need a distraction. “Tonight I’ll beat you.”
Ace covers my fists with his hands. “I’d love that, doll. But not tonight.”
I barely hold in the pout and whine. “And why not?”
“He’s mine tonight, love,” Bedlam says.
“Oh kinky.” Star giggles. Fearless, she edges closer to Bedlam and traces circular patterns along his bandaged arm. He eyes her like a dog about to bite—focused and still.
“Come here, my sweet.” Ace gestures for Star to approach him. Like me, he notices the murder that flickers to life in Bedlam’s eye. Like an obedient pet, she skips to him. “That’s a good girl.” He tucks her under his arm. “Maybe some other time, RC?”
“You mean during the Impulse Cup?” I ask.
He merely smiles.
Ace and Bedlam hardly race each other outside the IC. This is why this exhibition match is the most important race tonight. The credits amassed by the betting must be staggering. Most of the time, they focus on retaining their places on the Index by winning challenges. I can act like a child and release a full-blown tantrum to get my way in front of Terra One television. Ace would give in. He’s that kind of guy. But the temptation to watch two masters of the downhill battle each other far outweighs my urges to beat any one of them. Patience. I can wait. The IC presents many opportunities to win. I just have to bide my time.
“The next downhill, you’re mine.” I kiss his cheek and let go of his shirt.
Another hush among the crowd causes all of us to face the entrance to the plateau. The snarl of a powerful engine pushes against the techno beats. The DJ lowers the volume again.
“A V10?” Star guesses.
“No, my sweet.” Ace kisses the top of her pink head.
“V12,” Bedlam mumbles, the sound like rocks rubbing.
“Another V12? Here?” Slipstream comes to stand beside me. “Impossible. I thought I’m the only one who has a V12.”
Headlights on bright round the corner. The commentators switch from their debate on who will win the race between Ace and Bedlam to analyze the newcomer. They’re speaking so fast, it’s hard to keep up.
“It seems we have another player joining the party. The organizers haven’t said anything. Did you get the memo?” The first’s curiosity articulates the one crawling over the crowd as everyone waits with bated breath for the car to complete the turn.
A newcomer? I don’t like it one bit.
“Certainly not Hubcap,” the second quips.
A chorus of “Boos” come from the motor heads. An audible smack and the following expletive from the second commentator defuses the mounting tension. Too soon to be making jokes. A collective gasp sucks the thin mountain air all into surprised lungs as the car exits the corner.
The first commentator regains his composure and says over the speaker, “That’s a V12 Zagato from the looks of its huge air intake at the front, the double bubble roof, the almost wagon-style, and the snake-head-looking rear end. The GT90 isn’t the only monster on track anymore. Look at that cherry-red body with black rims. Sex to the E.”
“Pass around the mop, children. Drool needs to be cleaned up and fast. But who can it be? I’m pretty sure everyone’s accounted for tonight.” Paper shuffling trails the second’s words.
“The passenger door is opening.” The first breathes into the microphone, which has many of the girls shivering in disgust. “That’s Goose. Mechanic royalty if there was one. He’s a regular here. The driver’s getting out. I repeat, the driver’s—”
“Holy god of road racers! That’s—”
“What’s
