Star clucks her tongue as she circles me like a predator. I stand my ground and endure her assessing stare. She twirls fingers into a strand of her hair as she stops in front of me. Then she lets go of her hair so she can twirl the locks that fall over my shoulder, making sure that the side of her hand brushes against my breast.
“I’d rather be fucking you,” she says, unperturbed by my increasingly hostile glare. She pouts when I don’t respond. “You look so tense. I can definitely help you with that.” She moves her fingers from my hair to my breast, cupping the mound, then squeezing.
I grab her wrist and shove her away. She stumbles back but doesn’t lose her balance. I move on, discarding further thoughts of her. When I reach where I’m supposed to rest for the night, the tent beside it catches my attention. Brody refused to bring Zamara back to HQ with him, citing she’ll just find some other way back to the Impulse Cup. At least if she’s with me I can keep an eye on her, he said. More like glorified babysitting, and yet instead of going into my tent, I saunter toward hers. At the back of my mind, I’m tempted to find Bedlam. I shake my head against the urge. He’s busy with babysitting of his own. Imagining the scowl on his face brings a grin to mine.
Without thinking about the consequences of my actions, I push aside the flap and enter the dark space. Then I strip to my ribbed shirt and panties, leaving my jacket, boots, socks, and leggings on the floor. On light feet, I move to the makeshift bed and climb into the vacant side, willing the sleeping mound to stay dreaming. My knee brushes against hers when I make the mistake of putting too much weight on my bruised side. I flinch—both in pain and self-loathing—then wait for the mound to move. The breathing remains steady.
“Are you lost?” the mound asks after a second. She’s awake after all.
I flop onto my back and sigh. “Brody says we shouldn’t be alone.”
“Is everything ready for tomorrow?” Zamara sits up to look down at me. The mass of her hair tumbles over her shoulder, and I reach up to take a soft strand between my fingers. I appreciate the fact that she doesn’t ask about the meeting. I’m done thinking about the killer for one day.
“Screw promises everything will be ready. Although I think he’s more pissed at the fact that he’ll be scrubbing blood out of the trunk most of the night.” I pout. “My baby got dirty, and I’m here needing rest instead of helping clean her because Mac wants me rested for the marathon.”
“I agree with him. The second stage is the most grueling since it’s forty-eight hours until the next checkpoint.” She takes my hand in hers. “You were amazing today.”
My pout turns into a full-blown frown. “I came in eleventh. How is that amazing when Ace came in first?”
Zamara lies back down. She pulls the covers up to her chin. “Out of thirty-three? That’s not bad. Think endgame. There can be only one winner. That is if this killer business isn’t resolved.”
“Why are you really here, Zamara?”
“That’s an out-the-blue question.”
“Well?”
A moment of silence follows. Then she says, “I don’t have an answer to that question. Not a clear one anyway.”
“What did you feel when you were with me in the car today?” I twist to my side and rest my cheek on the palm of my hand. Somehow being in Zamara’s presence calms me, easing some of the uncertainty riding my system hard. Uncertainty about our safety. Uncertainty about having a chance of actually winning this thing. A million and one things. I inhale the sweetness of the soap she uses on her skin, for a second imagining the bar gliding down her body. Zamara’s voice pulls me away from less-than-PG thoughts.
“Scared at first. Then frustrated because I made the stupid mistake of throwing away your earpiece.”
“What did you feel when we were in the thick of things?”
“Twenty questions all of a sudden?”
“Racing isn’t a passing whim,” I say. “It takes practice and a near-crazy blindness against fear. You can’t just get into a car and decide you want to be a part of this life. Even if it’s just for a year.”
“Why do you race?” She turns her head to face me. I barely make out the shape of her lips and the line of her nose.
A labored silence. One broken by the hum of a high-powered air gun used to remove and replace wheel nuts. All the mechanics are working late into the night. The warmth of Zamara’s breath touches my cheek. I close my eyes and wait, imagining what those lips would feel like on my own. Soft, maybe. Definitely like silk. Moist and smooth. I have to remind myself to speak.
“Have you ever done something that reminds you your heart is still pumping blood through your veins?”
“Something that makes me feel alive?”
“That’s what being in my GT feels like. It’s a calm that comes over me, a sense of security within the bubble of that car’s protection. If I’ve ever felt love, it would be for racing.” I return to my back and splay my hands on my stomach. “Is that weird?”
“To love racing?” The steel in Zamara’s tone confuses me. “Like really love it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know,” she finally says after a long pause. “I’ve only really loved one person.”
“Oh yeah?” My eyes begin to droop. I’m only half paying attention.
“Yeah.”
“Well, good for you.”
Zamara smacks me with a pillow, eliciting an oomph. I take the pillow from her and throw it on the floor. In a burst of adrenaline, I forget my pain as I straddle her hips and hold her wrists above her head. She gasps. I lower myself until my face hovers above hers.
“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
