I maintain first or second gear the entire drive. Running over an intoxicated rally girl isn’t an option. I’ve had my fill of dead bodies for one day. The celebration around me masks the pall hanging over our heads. The news must have reached everyone. What a way to start the Impulse Cup. The exhibition races tonight should be the highlight. Instead Hubcap’s death taints the night. Biting the corner of my lower lip in displeasure, I position the GT beside the powder-blue AC Cobra. The lights flicker over its curves. Its orange racing stripes taunt my own. Where my GT is all hard lines and muscle, the Cobra is more like its owner, who is fourth on the Index. The top five always have a special parking space at the front of the Gathering. We’re positioned in the gallery like an honor guard. The organizers want to show off our vehicles as a way to encourage other racers to make foolhardy decisions like challenging one of us to a race. An impromptu race always means more credits flying around.
Giant floodlights shine down on the other cars. Every make and model lines the general gallery like heeled hounds. Most have their hoods popped with grease monkeys ducked over the gaping maws to tweak or ogle the engine setup. This includes the cars of the drivers holding the sixth to tenth rank on the Index. I wince at the spot at the end where Hubcap’s car should be. A wreath of flowers stands in its place. A female reporter is positioned in front of a hovering camera drone, speaking into a pencil-thin mic. She gestures at the wreath. From where I am, I can’t make out what she’s saying, but it probably has to do with what I discovered at Punishment Square. I hope she doesn’t come near me with questions. I have no answers for her.
Above the blaring music, a guy in overalls and a backward cap screams into a megaphone for the spectators to place their bets. One of the rally girls surfs the crowd, a swipe machine for tallying credits strapped to her exposed midriff. Those who want to bet on a driver can swipe their credit cards into the machine. Then they select their odds and how many credits they are willing to part with.
After cutting the engine, I step out and shut the door. I seriously consider racing tonight to rid myself of some of my pent-up frustration. I bend over the side mirror to apply the last of my eyeliner. When my eyes are sufficiently darkened by kohl, I slip the pencil into a secret compartment in my left motorcycle boot and pull out a tube of lip gloss from a similar compartment in my right. I dab the tip over my lower lip, then mash my lips together to distribute the gloss, ending with a pop. Then I return the tube to my boot. Satisfied with my makeup, I zip up my Kevlar-lined leather jacket and wipe my hands over my flame-retardant black leggings.
A squeaky, high-pitched voice comes in through my earpiece. “Terra to RC, come in RC.”
Gritting my teeth, I press two fingers on the earpiece and say, “What, Mac?” I remind myself to have Screw fix the receivers. Too much static is getting on my nerves.
“There’s the sunny personality I’m pining for.”
“Focus, Mac.”
A choked pause. I picture Mac swallowing back laughter by sucking his lips into his mouth. No one dared call him inadequate. His efficiency scares the diesel out of me. My personal and garage accounts have never been more organized after he took over as garage manager. If it wasn’t for his scary skill at seeing the way I drive as if he sat in the passenger seat and his ability to keep the garage afloat, I would have fired him the first week. But the guy is good, if sometimes mouthy. If I want to devote everything to racing, I need him. Much to my eternal chagrin.
“Are you planning on racing tonight?” he finally asks.
I roll my eyes toward the starless expanse above at the lightness in his tone. He knows me too well. I cross my arms and lean against my driver’s door, considering his question.
“I think I’ll wait until the first exhibition race is over,” I say, my gaze landing on the entrance to the plateau. Soon the two drivers I plan on defeating this year will arrive.
“Roger that.”
Just before the line dies, I add, “Will you ask around about Hubcap?”
“You mean if anyone knows who killed him?”
I nod even if I know Mac can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“Screw is already looking for his mechanic.” Then the crackle of static goes silent.
A laugh of satisfaction lightens my mood. I love my team. No instructions necessary. We’re definitely poised to win this year. Then my eyes land on the AC Cobra’s owner. Star Halehorn sashays my way. For such a petite twenty-one-year-old, she possesses the curves of a porn star. It doesn’t help that she flaunts what her mother gave her by wearing garter-belted fishnets, skirts so short they’re no better than handkerchiefs, and bustiers. How she can drive in them mystifies me. The only conservative thing on her has to be her spike-heeled boots. She
