My eyes roll up into the back of my head the second I take a gulp of the full-bodied roast no one else in the city can duplicate. Magda claims her coffee recipe was handed down over ten generations, and she will die before sharing the information with anyone not family. Since she’s the last of her line, I lament the reality of the recipe dying with the old proprietor. I put down my cup and pop the last bite of fritter into my mouth. I lick my powder-coated fingers and moan. The crackle of crisp dough between my teeth and the burst of applesauce on my tongue is enough to make me forget my own name.
“Will you marry me, Magda?” I ask, unashamed of the orgasm I just had at her counter. I feel so much better. Like I can make it through this day and actually think clearly about the Impulse Cup.
“You after my coffee recipe again?” my favorite diner owner bites back as she refills my half-empty cup and returns the pot to the maker.
“Half the city is after your recipe, Mags. Don’t be cruel and take it to the grave.”
“Killing me already, are you?”
“After I just proposed marriage? Wouldn’t think of it.” I lean my elbows on the counter. “Seriously, I think I’m in love with you.”
“You’re in love with my apple fritters and coffee.” Magda slaps a rag on the countertop and polishes the surface in smooth circular motions. “And we all know nothing can separate you from that car of yours. It should be illegal the way you lust after that machine.”
“Nothing is illegal in Terra One, Mags, only what the Mob likes or doesn’t like.”
The woman harrumphs. “I’m not one to complain. I pay my dues.”
I glance at the spot the Credit Collector just vacated. “I see that. No one thinks twice about Protection Credit Day. It’s a part of life around here.”
“A life that just got more dangerous, if you tell me.” The rag stops midstroke. Magda locks gazes with me.
“What?” I ask in a soft whisper, leaning closer.
Magda continues cleaning the already spotless counter.
“Does it affect the Impulse Cup?” I press.
“Of course you’d jump to that conclusion. Does driving really mean that much to you?”
Nonplussed, I say, “Did you talk to Brody again? I know you two would rather I find a nice man and settle down instead of racing, but you know I have petrol running in my veins. And you would deny the GT a chance to go up against Ace’s SF?”
A twisted hand covers my callused one. “It’s not that, child. I know you have scores to settle. But last night….” She looks around and lowers her voice. “Last night they found parts of a XJ220 scattered at the bottom of Mount Giga like someone made a Molotov cocktail out of it.”
My brow lifts above the upper rim of my aviators. “The only one who drives a XJ220 is Whiplash. Isn’t he ninth on the Index?”
Magda’s grip has the bones of her hand digging into mine. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“If they found his car, what happened to Whiplash?” I ease my hand out of Magda’s death squeeze.
“No one knows.” She shakes her head. “First that gruesome scene with Hubcap, and now Whiplash is missing. It’s enough to give these old bones a chill.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. At the back of my mind I feel sorry for the exploded car, but these things aren’t uncommon between racers. “Whiplash must have pissed someone off and is now sulking in some dark corner because he doesn’t have a car for the IC.”
“This doesn’t feel like the typical violence that comes with the Impulse Cup, child.” She shakes her head. “My gut is never wrong.”
Leaning over the counter, I give her weathered cheek a peck, then hop off my stool. “You’re worrying over nothing, Mags. You’ll see. Whiplash will turn up when he’s done sulking over his beautiful car.” I touch the center of my chest and sigh mournfully. “A damn beautiful one too. He was always bragging about it.”
Magda doesn’t respond. The deep frown on her face worries me, but I don’t have time to comfort her. I head for the door and groan when I spot the female reporter waiting at the other side of the glass.
“Shit,” I say under my breath as I step outside of the diner. Then I plaster on a cordial smile, pushing my sunglasses farther up the bridge of my nose.
The reporter mirrors my smile while a camera drone hovers at our side. I’m yards away from my motorcycle, but if I don’t give this interview, it will come to bite me in the ass later. Remember the bullshit connected to the races I mentioned earlier? This is one of them. The boss won’t be happy if I don’t engage the fans in some way. Happy fans mean more credits flowing.
“RC, can our viewers have a minute of your time?” the reporter asks, her teeth too white against the red of her lipstick. I wonder for a second how she can still think with how tight her hair is pulled into the bun behind her head.
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I give her a curt nod, then face the camera drone. Its lens widens, then contracts. “Anything for the viewers.”
“Thank you,” she says as I turn to her again. A slight blush colors her high cheekbones. “The course map was sent out yesterday. What do you think of the organizers’ plan for the upcoming IC? Many are saying the map is insane.”
“I haven’t taken a good look at the map,” I lie smoothly, playing things cool. “But at first glance I do
