I trail Mac deeper into the garage and spot Screw leaning over the open maw of my GT. My heart skips every time my gaze lands on the magnificent muscle car with its chrome blue finish and white racing stripes running from hood to bumper. Forgetting about Mac and the race route, I sidle closer to my love.
“How is she?” I purr, running my hand over the GT’s roof.
My chief mechanic unfolds himself from under the hood and hides his incredible height by slouching too-broad shoulders and stuffing large hands into the pockets of his grease-stained overalls. He bows his head, giving him the appearance of a hunched statue. Towering over me, his six-foot-three frame is all muscle. How he manages not to hit his forehead when he ducks over an engine remains a mystery to me.
A lock of his red hair clings on his forehead. He shoves it away with greasy fingers, then waves a thumb over his shoulder. “I think I fixed the compressor issue,” he says in a quiet voice that doesn’t match his bulk. “You have to tell me how she handles climbing up Mount Giga later. We can make adjustments before the IC kicks off next week.”
My chest swells at his words. Screw speaks my language. That’s why when he came to me for work after leaving the orphanage, I made him my chief mechanic on the spot. He has a machine sense that rivals my own. All it takes is listening to the rev of an engine for him to know what needs adjusting. Half my wins I attribute to Screw’s expert skills.
“You think she’s in shape to beat Ace and Bedlam?” I move my hand to the inclined hood. There’s something about touching carbon fiber that turns me on.
The certainty in his pale eyes speaks to the core of me as a racer. “You’re both ready.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning in pleasure. The win is so close I can almost taste it.
“RC!” Mac’s bark deflates my mounting desire. “Stop ogling your car and get in here.”
I tsk. “He knows me too well.”
Screw shakes his head before bending over the GT again. I have to force myself to back away when several clicks begin. I want to stay and supervise the final tweaks, but I’m afraid Mac will come rolling out of his office and yank me onto his lap for a spanking. As much as I would enjoy that, I turn on my heel and jog the rest of the way. The second I enter the cluttered space filled with mechanic’s manuals and racing stat printouts, I freeze, my gaze skimming over the large flat-screen spanning one wall and the map on display.
“What the fuck is that?”
Chapter Three
MY FOUL mood accompanies me up Mount Giga. Every time I blink, I see the race-route map. The fucking insanity of it haunts me. What were the organizers thinking? Most of the route goes through unfamiliar—some say inhospitable—territory that circles around so the finals are at Mount Giga. Do they truly want to kill us all? I know we provide entertainment for the masses, and the Impulse Cup is essentially a survival of the fittest race, but this is ridiculous. We are drivers, not miracle workers.
So distracted by the map am I that I don’t notice our arrival at the paddock until the trailer we use to transport my GT jerks to a stop. Screw eases the truck into an available spot within a long line of similar carriers. We’re a few corners down from the plateau where the Gathering is in full swing judging from the techno blasting.
The mountain stands loud and proud among its nine sisters serving as a mighty wall of protection along the east side of Terra One. She’s the biggest and sickest of the bunch. Beyond it sprawls lands ruled by other Mob Bosses too lazy to schlep their armies across treacherous terrain to be a bother. I think that’s one of the reasons why the biggest threat to the Bitterblade family is other families within Terra One. The location of our fair city is pretty isolated. I heard Brody joke once that we are the hermits of the continent’s mobocracy.
Screw and I jump out of the truck and head for the rear. After punching in the security code on the side panel, then leaning in for a retinal scan, the red light pings green. An electronic voice says my name and my rank on the Index. Then the hatch lifts and an onramp extends to the ground. Mac rolls out while I climb in to retrieve my GT. His eyes remain on his tablet, no doubt still studying the blasted map and coming up with the perfect strategy.
Settling into the bucket seat of my baby, I twist the key in the ignition and her engine comes to life. A low, sexy rumble fills the interior of the trailer. I take a moment to let the vibrations of the powerful machine lull me into a calm I haven’t felt since waking up this morning. Once ready to join the fray, I check the rearview mirror and shift into reverse. Screw lifts both his muscular arms and guides me as I slowly back the GT500 out. After giving him instructions to stay with Mac at the paddock, I make my ascent. Camera drones fly overhead, capturing everything. The whole of Terra One is tuning in—our every move watched.
Tonight the Gathering meets at the old city view plateau. Large speakers blast techno pop beats. A thumpa, thumpa, thumpa fills every air molecule. The resident DJ bobs his
