He rings his cap’s bill before replacing it on his head. “We have two tune-ups coming in tomorrow. I’m finishing up here.” He hikes a thumb over at the white sedan he’s working on. “Then I’ll move on to the Charger.”
I take a moment to admire the yellow brute similar in muscle to my GT. It seems familiar, so I ask, “Is that a Gathering car?”
Trevor nods, a gap-toothed grin spreading across his sweet wrinkled face. “A new racer. Brought her in for spark plugs.”
I grimace. How can someone who wants to be a racer not have a personal mechanic? Such a beautiful car too. Shame it’s in the hands of a total rookie. So long as the owner of the beauty brings me business, I can’t complain. That’s more credits I can pay my people and donate to the orphanage.
“Suggest new tires too. Those all-weathers are looking bald.”
A glint of mischief shines in Trevor’s eyes, and we share a smile. Then he returns to work. From the back of the garage, Mac wheels to my side as I swing my leg over the bike and place my helmet on the seat. The scowl on his boyish features helps me gage how annoyed he is. I’ve been gone longer than I initially intended. The boss’s summons put a damper on his schedule. He hasn’t run over my foot yet, so I still have a chance of smoothing over his ruffled feathers.
“What the hell took you so long?” he asks. The way he crosses his arms is eerily similar to Brody’s. But instead of an expensive suit, Mac prefers cargo shorts and flowery button-downs, showing off his pale, shapely legs. He sits on his fully electronic throne like he expects several slaves to carry his seat on their shoulders, palanquin-style. An emperor in his rubber flip-flops. He always looks like he’s about to go to the beach, even during the winter months.
“Somehow Zamara managed to convince her father to ask me if she could be my navigator for the IC this year.” I rub the tic that began on my temple after I sped away from Bitterblade HQ.
Mac’s annoyance evaporates with a low whistle. “That girl is obsessed with you. What did you say?”
I hate the uncertainty in his question. “As if I’d say yes to something like that. I need a navigator who won’t get me killed. You should know better.” I leave out the hurt prickling my chest at his insinuation that I can’t say no to the boss. Well, it is suicide to deny someone who can make me disappear without notice, but dragging Zamara along isn’t worth the aggravation she will cause. She’s probably talking his ear off right now, trying every “daddy’s little girl” trick in the book to get him to force me to bring her along. I shift the topic before Mac can comment. I’ve had enough of Zamara for one day. “What really delayed my return is Hubcap. He’s been murdered.”
For a twenty-two-year-old, Mac’s reactions can sometimes be so childish. His eyes pop open so wide I fear they will roll out of their sockets at any second. He completes the image with a jaw drop and eyebrow raise. He may have said “what,” but his shock is too quick to form for me to confirm. I unzip my leather jacket and drape it over my bike. The muggy air in the garage chokes my pores. Even in a ribbed shirt, sweat still gathers between my breasts. The shoulder holster for my knives follows. The leather straps have felt constricting since I left the autopsy room.
I inhale the motor oil and brake fluid scent in the air. I’m home. Nowhere else do I feel more relaxed. The road may be my element, but the garage is my base of operations. My safe haven from all the bullshit that comes with being the lead racer for the Bitterblade family. Sometimes I wish I could take my GT and drive out of Terra One and never look back. Then I realize I’d end up back where I started, racing. Just in a different place. I meant what I said to Brody about not being good at anything else.
Divided into two, the garage dominates the floor space of the first level. The front is for customers while the back is exclusively for my GT and the specialized equipment needed for tune-ups. When I opened the garage to the public as an effort to supplement my income, I made sure I had two of everything. One set of tools is for customer use while the other set is for my GT’s personal needs. Never do these tools intermingle. I can’t tolerate wrenches that have been used in another car touching my GT. This is a cardinal rule, and everyone who works for and with me follows it religiously.
Already recovered from the news, Mac has his tablet out and is scanning through different web pages. He grimaces. “Racing Gods, what an ugly way to die.”
“They have pictures up already?” I take the tablet only to return it to him the second I see Hubcap’s remains.
“Of course. He’s in the top ten, which means his death is trending. I’m sure the whole Gathering knows by now.”
“You think his death will affect the IC?” Because that’s my main concern. I can be an insensitive bitch when events mess with my racing.
Mac’s headshake is reassuring. He’s still flicking through articles and news feeds. “To be honest, Hubcap had it coming. He can be a total tool. According to the forums, nobody really liked him. It didn’t help that he was number ten on the Index. That inflated his ego.”
“Really?” I rub my chin. “He never gave me that impression when we raced.”
“That’s because you see nothing but the course you’re about to drive during a race.” He pats
