“That move must have pissed off Ace,” Screw says in a serious monotone, echoing my thoughts. “He clearly had a chance to lead. He’s going to make Bedlam pay for trying to kiss bumpers.”
“Forget Ace being pissed. Bedlam shouldn’t even be thinking about hitting Ace. An accident on this tight road will mean both of them going down.”
“And you think Bedlam cares about that?” Screw scoffs. “He’d willingly die just to take another driver with him. Why do you think only Ace is crazy enough to challenge the bastard?”
“And here I thought it was because they had the same racing style. Ace can be a nice guy off the track, but in his car, he’s as much an asshole as Bedlam can be.” I leave the warm embrace of the Zagato and move toward the guardrail, hands inside the pockets of my leather jacket. I rest my foot on the guardrail. The squeal of tires tells me they are a couple of corners away. Ace will decide the race at the wide curve where I stand. I’ve watched him race enough times to get a sense of how his mind ticks.
The Zonda rounds the corner first. The grip of its rear tires barely gives it any traction. Its lowered body keeps it on track, but not much else. The Street Fighter enters the corner a millisecond later. The drones fly furiously above them, playing catch-up. In a burst of engine power, Ace takes the outside line and pushes Bedlam into the mountainside rail. The shriek of carbon fiber on metal makes me wince in pain as if I’m the one being hurt. He applies the brakes hard until he reaches the back of Bedlam’s car; then he accelerates. He taps the Zonda’s bumper, sending the other car into a tailspin. His bumper barely clears where I stand, but I don’t move. The wind kicked up by the speed of his rotation whips my hair into my face. I don’t move, wide-eyed. My brain can’t process what Ace had done. It takes Bedlam three seconds to regain control over the wildly spinning vehicle. Three seconds that Ace uses to pull away and win. The real beast isn’t the one who’s wrapped in bandages.
Swallowing, I raise a shaking hand to the earpiece. It takes everything I have to speak. My throat is drier than rust on a paintjob. “I have to beat Ace, Screw. Or die trying.”
Chapter Six
CRUISING DOWN Main Street toward HQ, I leave one hand on the steering wheel and reach over. I shake Zamara awake, uncaring how hard I jostle her. The princess sleeps like a rock on powerful sedatives. She twists to the side on an exhale and resumes snoring. Her head lolls to the window. Not exactly a pretty picture. So that’s how it is, huh?
With one side of my mouth pulling up, I slam on the brakes. The forward g-force flings Zamara’s body forward. The straps that hold her in place dig farther into her collarbones and abdomen. She’ll sport a nasty bruise in the morning. The soft material of her V-neck sweater does nothing to protect her from chafing. A small price to pay for crashing the Gathering. I have no idea what she’ll do after this, and I’m done worrying over it. Despite fainting, I know Zamara’s had a taste of the adrenaline rush that comes with driving at full speed down the line between life and death and surviving. She’ll want more. As much as I loathe her presence at the races, I’d rather watch over the princess than have her sneaking around. The racing gods only know what kind of trouble she’ll find herself in if I don’t.
Mourning the complicated twist in my life, I uncork the vial of smelling salts Mac handed me before we left Mount Giga and place it beneath Zamara’s nose.
In a breath between an inhale and a snort, she jerks awake. She struggles against her restraints until she realizes why they are there in the first place.
“I fainted.” She groans like an innocent prisoner served the death sentence.
“You did better than most,” I concede, stoppering the vial and slipping it into my pocket. “Made it all the way to Suicide Curve.”
“Ugh! Don’t remind me.” She moves her hand from her cheek to her stomach. “Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t you recognize your own street?”
“Not without cars on it, no.”
Goes to show just how sheltered her life has been up to this point. I’m pretty sure—other than going to school and some short shopping trips to the mall—Zamara’s never been out this late. She probably has a curfew. I’m surprised she doesn’t have bodyguards following her around. The urge to tease Brody about it itches in my brain.
“Where’s your security detail?” I ask out of curiosity instead of concern.
She treats me to a cheeky grin. “I made Daddy agree to leave them home. Goose was with me. They knew where I was going. With all the camera drones….” She points to the ceiling. “They can keep tabs on me wherever I go.”
I roll my eyes at how cavalier she can be with her safety. “For the daughter of the boss, you are so stupid.”
Hurt crosses her pretty features. “You don’t understand,” she whispers. I barely catch the words above the car’s engine rumble.
Trying for a carefree shrug, I return my hand to join the other on the steering wheel. “Then make me understand.”
“I don’t know if I should laugh or be offended.”
“Do whatever you want. You’re the boss’s daughter.”
A short pause, then a huff. “Tonight is the first time I’ve ever left HQ without half my father’s security force surrounding me. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for my eighteenth birthday.”
“Eighteen years?”
Instead of the annoyance I’m aiming for, tears well in her eyes. I open my mouth to speak, attempting to
