I’m pulled from my brooding when the Zonda breezes into its slot beside my GT. I feel like something inside my chest is about to pop when Bedlam unfolds his long, beautiful body out of his car. My breath catches when his gaze meets mine. He leans an arm over the roof of his Zonda, its dark blue paint a striking contrast to his white bandages and silver iris.
“Hey,” he says in that gravelly voice that never fails to melt a part of me.
“Hey,” I whisper back. Even through the ambient noise he hears me. “I… I’m….” The apology sticks to the walls of my constricting throat. I used my anger and annoyance for his actions to hurt him. Days later, when all the raging emotions are gone, I’m left with the all-consuming guilt.
“Don’t.” He steps away from his car and closes the door. Then he’s in front of me, taking me into his bandaged arms. I struggle, but he says, “Don’t fight it.”
“But the cameras…,” I say into his chest. My folded arms stand as a barrier between full-on contact. The eucalyptus balm on his skin is enough to make me weep.
Bedlam rests his cheek on top of my head. “Let them look. I have nothing to hide.”
Maybe I do. I swallow down the offending words. I’ve hurt him enough. “Mac told me you called him.”
I feel his nod against my head. “He told me you were the one who asked him to call for help.”
A smirk pulls at one corner of my lips. I bite down to keep it from materializing fully. “It was the least I could do after sticking you with a homemade shiv.” I move my right hand to where I’d stabbed him. The bandages there are thicker. He doesn’t hiss at the touch.
“Remind me never to leave a bucket in your cell when I imprison you again.”
The gasp escapes me before I can stop it. “You wouldn’t.” I push back just enough to look him in the face. Since the bandages are covering everything but his eye, I can’t tell if he’s being 100 percent serious.
“When I heard about what happened after you escaped….” He touches my own bandage. “RC, I don’t have feelings for just anyone. You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself. I wouldn’t love you if you couldn’t. Even if your independence drives me crazy.”
I’m so shocked by his admission that I don’t register Ace’s arrival until he slaps Bedlam on the shoulder from behind. He grins at the both of us, and Bedlam’s embrace grows a fraction tighter, caging me against his tall frame.
“Tell me you’re not going soft on us, buddy,” he says to the guy currently growling like a rabid dog. I feel the vibrations in his chest against my forearms.
“Not soft enough to allow you to win,” he bites back, his tone like gravel underfoot. I shiver at how sexy he sounds. Then I remember where we are and why I’m here. I duck out of Bedlam’s arms and scowl at Ace.
“I’m coming for you.” I point at him.
“Get in line.” Bedlam glares at him.
Ace raises both his hands and shrugs nonchalantly. “Whoa there! We haven’t even started yet.”
The giant screen to one side of the starting line arch comes alive, and the silhouette of a man flickers into view. The DJ shuts off the techno, and all movement ceases. All attention goes to the boss as he addresses everyone.
“Welcome to the thirty-third Impulse Cup,” he says. Despite his usual bored tone, the people assembled still cheer. It’s not every day they got to see the boss—even drenched in shadow. He clears his throat and silence falls. “This year the festivities are marred by the deaths of four of the top ten.”
A montage of pictures showcasing Hubcap, Whiplash, Chicane, and Wrench replace the boss’s image. So they’re assuming Wrench is dead. Considering what’s been happening, that’s my conclusion too. Many of the rally girls break down in tears. The reporters speak rapidly into their mics. The motor heads hiss. The boss continues speaking despite the tension.
“Rest assured that my people are working tirelessly to find whoever is responsible for these murders. But.” He says this one word with enough force that everyone is startled into paying attention again. “Let’s not allow this lunatic to dampen what the Impulse Cup brings to Terra One. Today is about the drivers. Fifty of our finest have qualified, and this year’s race will prove to be their toughest challenge yet.” A pause for effect. “So, to the participants…. Drive hard. Drive fast. Don’t look back.”
As if on cue, crop-duster drones fly overhead. Black, white, and orange plumes trail behind them. The Bitterblade colors. A booming cheer unlike any other erupts, charging the air with prickling energy. The foghorns blare again, and the drivers scramble into their cars. Bedlam gives me a nod before he heads to the driver side of his Zonda. Ace throws a “good luck” over his shoulder at me as he walks away. My hands fist as I stride to my GT. I get in, buckle up, and start the engine. A chorus of rumbles and roars accompanies my own. I slant a glance at the empty passenger seat beside me and catch Star blowing me a kiss. I roll my eyes at her.
Beyond the Cobra, I catch a flicker of Slipstream’s green hair. I send another prayer to the racing gods. This one is for him. And for Viper beyond him, who has finally joined us. An electric alarm blares, and I stare straight ahead. Five red lights blink on. The crowd goes wild when the commentators begin counting down with the lights.
First one blinks off, then the next, and the next until only one light
