No argument comes from Zamara as she says, “All right. See you tomorrow.” Then she turns around, clasps her hands behind her back, and strolls toward the building on light steps. In seconds the revolving doors swallow her.
And the surprises keep on coming. I stare at the empty space she used to occupy, getting a sinking suspicion she had no intention of driving the Zagato. In fact, racing Mount Giga might never have been what she was after in the first place. I think I’ve been played.
Being the one left annoyed, I turn on the engine and drive away. Cunning princess. That’s a mobster’s daughter for you. And not just any mobster. I’m left wondering how much of what she told me was an act. Her father is grooming her to take over, but I doubt it’s a burden for little Miss Zamara. I should have known better. Did I just get sucked into the inner circle without realizing it? Holy racing hell.
BY THE time I’m three blocks away from the garage, I’m as restless as a shopkeeper short on his protection credits for the month. Too much has happened too fast. I woke up this morning with nothing on my mind but the coming Impulse Cup. Not even twenty-four hours later, I have a spoiled boss’s daughter to deal with, a course map to figure out, and the image of a disemboweled Hubcap seared into my brain. Not to mention my commitment to beat Ace and Bedlam this year. Still don’t know how the hell I’m going to accomplish that after seeing them race against each other. They’ve gotten better since the last time.
All my pent-up frustration gathers in my gut as I make a hard left into a tree-lined street. The Zagato’s tires cry out. They still have some grip left. I can’t believe I’m giving in to the urge to see him. Then again, when do I ever have the strength to stop myself? The right thing to do is turn around and head home. But it’s too late. Once I’ve made up my mind, all my body can do is follow. I need him. Even for just a couple of hours. To forget all the bullshit and lose myself in mind-numbing bliss only he can provide.
In Terra One, you only have to take a turn anywhere and keep going a few blocks for the cityscape to completely change. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to an imaginary rhythm in my head. The coils of want and need send anticipation rushing through my veins. Soon posh townhouses replace the less fortunate shanties and dilapidated buildings. Midtown. Here, where the middle class live, trees are planted along the sidewalks. Streetlamps always light the way, the bulbs never stolen. They even have parks for children to play in. And no gunshots. Well, on most nights out of a month anyway.
I slow the Zagato to a smooth crawl. Its engine grumbles like a can filled with stones. Spotting the townhouse I’ve come to visit, I ease the car backward into an alley beside it. The yellow brick sticks out from all the brownstone surrounding it. All the windows are dark except one. A grin stretches my lips. He never sleeps.
After making sure the locks are engaged by checking the door release, I pocket the key fob. Then I climb the wall to my right, using the thick ivy that hugs it for leverage. I’ve done this so many times, I don’t have to think of where to place my hands and feet. My arms strain, but it’s a good kind of exertion. When I finally reach the top, a light sweat covers my body. At the window he always keeps open for strays like me, I swing my leg in and straddle the sill. I inhale the scent of eucalyptus hanging in the air, then scan the room. The modest furnishings give the space a homey feel. Stacks of books litter the floor. Discarded pants hang from a reading chair. A ceiling fan whirs softly overhead. The space welcomes visitors. At least that’s what I’ve deluded myself into thinking. I don’t know how many have come before me or how many arrive after me. A pang of a nasty emotion I can’t identify hits me below the navel for a second, and then I shrug it off, as I often do with many confusing emotions involving him. The room’s occupant is the son of the richest oil tycoon in Terra One. His father provides all that yummy high-octane fuel we use during races. Why he lives in midtown instead of a penthouse downtown baffles me.
Discarded gauze is scattered on the floor. The white mounds smell of ointment and motor oil. Some blood clings to certain sections. On the bed, propped up by pillows, lounges the person I’ve driven across the city to see. A light flutter begins in my belly at the magnificent sight of him. Without acknowledging my presence, he crosses his silk-pajama-covered legs at the ankles. His feet bear the same quilt of scars that spreads all over his taut body in a shade pale moonbeams are made of. My gaze traces the line of his legs to a lean torso I’ve been pressed against countless times. Scars upon scars crisscross his abs and chest like an abstract painting some nutty painter decided to take a cutter to. The fingers cradled around a book are scarred too, along with his muscled arms, contoured shoulders, long neck, strong jaw, all the way up to his hairline. None of his pale skin survives the blade. His white hair falls like needles around his handsome face. His expression remains passive, yet at the back of my mind I know the truth. He is merely a wild animal at rest, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. One eye is perpetually shut by the biggest scar of them all. I don’t know the story behind that
