Bowing my back until vertebrae pop, I return to my hands and knees. I lean closer until my lips hover in front of his without actually touching. He has the patience of a wolf and can wait me out all night if he has to. I force myself to ask the one question that has been on my mind since deciding to take him down during this year’s IC.
“Would you ever kill me when the time comes that I race against you?” I ask with my heart in my throat.
We share a breath, both unmoving from our current position. His stare is unflinching when I search the lines of his face for the truth.
“You won’t like the answer to that question,” he says, blinking slowly.
Chapter Seven
LONG LEGS made even longer by the stiletto boots I picked for today propel me into one of my favorite places in Terra One. The Crazy Cat diner faces Main Street a couple of blocks from Bitterblade HQ. Today’s traffic is already beginning to thicken, choking the six-lane road. Horns blare. Drivers lean out of windows, screaming and gesturing. I take in all the chaos that’s part of living in the city with a smile on my face, and if needed, my finger in the air.
The bell at the door announces my entrance with a sweet tinkle. The smell of grease and bacon fat welcomes me, sending a jolt of comfort I desperately need. I left Bedlam’s place at dawn utterly confused. Not because he refused to answer my question and proceeded to distract me by fucking my brains out, but because I don’t know how I feel about his lack of a response. It screams the truth. He’s prepared to kill me for the win this year.
Should I be the same way?
To win, I should be merciless. I know this. Yet am I ready to kill my way to Ace? A part of me says yes, and that’s the calm part. The crazy part hardly cares how many bodies I leave behind in my GT’s wake. That’s what scares me. My bravado in front of the boss yesterday was authentic. Unfortunately, useless questions still plague me. How much am I willing to sacrifice for victory? Maybe my inability to get ruthless is what’s kept me in the third spot since I started racing. What’s wrong with keeping my hands unstained by blood?
I left the garage without so much as a word to Screw and Mac, avoiding both of them entirely. More like avoiding their questions in connection to where I spent the night. Not going there. I need to figure shit out before we start planning our approach to this year’s race.
Dejected, I slide into a seat at the counter. I don’t have to wait long for fried dough thickly blanketed by confectioner’s sugar on a plate and a cup of coffee to be pushed in front of me. The tartness of the apple mixes with the robustness of the coffee as I inhale.
“Apple fritters and sludge,” says a woman whose life is etched all over her face. A hairnet secures her gray hair, and an apron serves as her armor against ravenous customers.
“Thanks, Magda.” Cheeks flushed, I pull out my Credit Card from a slot in my pants and present it. “You don’t know how much I need this today.”
Magda’s frown deepens the lines bracketing her lips. “You know your credits aren’t accepted here. Pocket that offensive thing before I take your plate away.”
“And let me starve?” I slide my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose to show her my version of puppy eyes.
The woman wipes her gnarled hands down the front of her apron, unaffected. “You know I would. Now eat up while I take care of business.”
A stocky man in a tacky suit enters the diner right when I bring the fritter to my mouth. He doesn’t give the diners any of his attention, striding straight for the Credit Register at the end of the counter. Magda meets him there. They exchange a couple of words and she hands him a Credit Card. He removes a miniature swipe machine from his belt holster and runs the card through. He looks at the numbers on the small screen and nods. Then he returns the card to Magda and walks out of the diner as if he doesn’t care it exists. My free hand clenches around my mug. Feeling pissed is futile. If you own a business in Terra One, you pay protection credits to the Mob. That’s the way it works. In fact, I’m sure Mac is paying our local Credit Collector right this minute. Would it kill them to at least be respectful? A tad polite? I’d grumble to Brody about it if I thought it would make a difference. Maybe when Zamara is boss…. I shake my head against the idea of things changing. For all I know, things can get worse.
“Magda, can I have another refill?” a customer in the back booth says and lifts his coffee cup, pulling me away from my thoughts.
“Be there with you, Edgar.” Magda grabs a large coffee pot—the dark life-giving liquid sloshing inside—and glides her way out from behind the counter through
