Impulse Read online

  Across the street, over at Punishment Square, a gathered group catches my attention. The wide space the boss uses to teach those who have wronged him a lesson was empty when I stepped into Bitterblade HQ. I glance at the austere woman manning the front desk. She seems just as curious, but her duty to her post keeps her behind the desk.

  My own curiosity begging cessation, I head for the revolving door. Once outside, a gust of wind whips my hair into my face. I pause, flicking the strands into place behind me. Then, looking right and left, I cross Main Street into Punishment Square. In my mind, I sift through the announcements I read this morning. No mention of a public punishment. The boss always makes a spectacle of those displayed in the square. Since I don’t recall any such news, the crowd gathered baffles me. The group stands unmoving and staring at the ground. I push my way to the front and immediately cover my nose and mouth. The air is putrid. The fetid stench of decay clogs my nostrils, hot as it enters the lungs. Without thinking twice, I take out my phone and press on the first name in my contacts list. The person at the other end picks up on the first ring.

  “Brody,” I say, my voice muffled by my arm, “send a cleanup team to Punishment Square.”

  On the tiled floor lies a naked guy, spread out. His mocha skin pale, lips blue, a fog in his once hazel eyes. Someone pulled out his entrails from a gaping hole on his stomach. No blood pooled around him despite the carnage. What catches my attention the most is the word carved across his chest.

  “Hubris,” I say into my phone.

  The line immediately goes dead.

  Chapter Two

  BRODY’S BICEPS bulge when he folds his arms in front of his chest. He cuts a stark figure, legs apart, brooding over the body on the autopsy slab. The flickering fluorescent light above us casts dark shadows over the sharp angles of his face. From where I stand beside him, I have a perfect view of his scar. The gash begins at his jaw and slashes downward in a jagged line that disappears into his collar and stands out from his swarthy complexion. The suit jacket he wears over his crisp white shirt hugs his back tightly, exposing the contours of hard muscle honed from years of maintaining peace. A peace always in flux as evidenced by the disembowelment display the cleanup crew finished clearing. With a tired sigh that exposes a moment of vulnerability, my mentor rubs a hand over his shaved head until he reaches the back of his neck. He stops there and squeezes.

  After my parents died in a deal gone wrong, Brody took me in, taught me everything I know about protecting myself. He was my dad’s best friend. I like referring to him as my mentor, but he’s definitely more. Like an uncle from another mother. He brought me to Open Arms Orphanage, where I learned to race. I don’t just owe him my life. I owe him my soul—that of someone who lives for nothing but racing. I’d die for him if he asked. Yet I know he never will. Stubborn old fool.

  “You’re getting old, Brody,” I say in a deadpan tone.

  “Damn high blood pressure. It will be the death of me.” Another sigh follows his words.

  “You? Die?” A snort leaves my nose. “I don’t think so. Even Death is afraid of the great Brody ‘Slash’ Jenkins.”

  I succeed in squeezing a chuckle out of the usually serious man. The valley between his bushy eyebrows eases a fraction. Although his ebony irises, as dark and fathomless as mine, stay piercing. A majority of his attention remains on what we’ve been looking at for the past fifteen minutes before I broke the silence. The coroner ruled the cut running along the victim’s abdomen as the cause of death. The once-gaping wound has since been stitched. What disturbs me the most is the knowledge that the word on his chest was done perimortem. Meaning the poor guy was still alive when whoever killed him carved Hubris. It spans the entire width of his pectorals. I have to give points to the sick bastard for perfect penmanship. The precision of the cuts are works of art. Even the coroner noted how sharp the blade must have been. Suddenly my own knives strapped to my sides chafe. Yes, I only use them for protection, but considering the situation I’m in the middle off, I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Despite the cool air in the room, a cold sweat beads along my spine.

  “Tell me everything you know about him,” Brody asks, dropping the hand on his neck. He then stuffs both fists into his pockets. I guess we’re done observing. I turn my head slightly so he can see my raised eyebrow. The raven’s wing of his own twitches when he says, “IT is already gathering data on him. But I want your take before I dive into statistics and identification sheets.”

  “What makes you think I know anything about him?” The question is useless since Brody knows me better than anybody. The exasperated look he sends my way says he’s not buying my innocent act. I scan the entire length of the body. “He calls himself Hubcap. He held the number ten spot on the Index. I’ve seen him at Gatherings. We’ve raced once or twice. He’s a decent driver but is more bark than bite. I think that’s why he stayed at number ten for so long.” I shrug—an economy of movement. “As you know, the rankings barely change because of the point system. Each race completed, depending on your standing, first, second, third, etcetera, adds to how many points you have per year. It’s what determines who can participate in the Impulse Cup.”

  Brody rubs a hand down the length of his face. “I asked for info on the dead guy, not a lesson in Gathering dynamics. Baby girl, you really do have motor oil in your veins, huh? Your mother must be turning in her grave. She had high hopes for you.”

  A barked laugh escapes my lips. “My mother became the leader of a chain gang at fourteen. I doubt she disapproves of what I’ve accomplished.”

  Like a mountain moving, Brody shifts so his entire front is facing me. I refuse to face him back, content staring at the guy formerly known as Hubcap. “RC, driving for the boss isn’t a life. You could be—”

  I raise a hand, stalling the rest of his words. The “you could be so much more” speech never fails to bring my blood to a boil. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, counting down from ten. When I’m sure I won’t snap at the man who can kill me with his thumb, I breathe out through my teeth and open my eyes again.

  “Brody, driving is my life.” I finally face him. His eyes widen a fraction, then narrow. I’m sure he sees the conviction in my expression. He’s seen it many times before. “I wouldn’t trade anything for what being inside my GT makes me feel. If you want to know more about him”—I gesture at Hubcap—“I’m not the person to ask unless you want his racing stats and how he neglects the alignment of his car, which is why he always pitches to the left during a quarter-mile drag race.” My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it and continue. “We’ve been through this countless times. I drive. That’s what I’m good at. I’m not cut out for anything else.”

  “But here at HQ—”

  “What?” I interrupt him again, my tone heating. “And be part of the boss’s security detail? I will be so bored to death I may turn homicidal just to see what would happen.”

  Hurt flickers in my mentor’s gaze. My mouth opens, but I stop the rest of what I wanted to say. Brody is devoted to his job; surely he should understand. His same dedication is what I feel for racing. Nothing is getting in the way of me winning the Impulse Cup this year. Nothing.

  Unable to stand the tension-filled silence I caused, I fish out my phone and stare at the message from my race analyst. Then I start heading for the door. “I have to go. Mac says the organizers just posted the race route for the IC.”

  “RC….”

  The pleading in his voice is what convinces me to stop. I wait.

  “What made you stay, then?” he asks. “You could have left as soon as you called in the body.”

  I glance over my shoulder at the rectangular aluminum table. “I may not know much about Hubcap personally, but I still know he didn’t deserve such a gruesome end. The Gathering will mourn the loss.” I push through the door, saying, “The only honorable death for a racer is on the road.”

  AS THE sun sets, bathing Terra One in golden orange
light, I maneuver my motorcycle into a two-story brick building. The structure is surrounded by smaller buildings and several shabby homes that make up the east quarter. Shanty Town. Not poor per se. More less fortunate yet getting by. The first floor consists of the garage, Screw’s quarters, and Mac’s office/bedroom. Upstairs, three rooms line the hallway: a spare room, my bedroom, my office. Shutting off the engine, I kick out the stand and lean the bike on it. When I remove my helmet, my hair falls in ribbons around me. I shake out the strands so they settle into place. I make sure I’m parked at the far side so my bike isn’t in the way of the work going on.

  “Welcome back, Ms. RC,” Trevor says, stepping away from a raised car. He’s in the middle of an oil change, having inserted a hose that will clean the filters. He removes his cap and scratches his liver-spotted forehead. Tufts of gray hair puff out in all directions. I love the old mechanic. He wandered in one day like a stray cat and never left. I’m grateful for him and his solid presence. He’s like a grandfather to us all here at the garage.

  As always, he keeps the space organized. All the tools hanging on the modular wall-storage system, from drills to different sized buffers, are aligned and clean. Everything on the shallow shelves is cataloged and grouped for easy access—cans of car wax on one side and bottles of window cleaner at the other. The rolling toolbox is open, but everything is in its place. The tools are encased in protective foam so they are easy to lift and replace. Even the project carts overflowing with all manner of auto parts are side by side as if waiting patiently for the attention of their lord and master. At the front portion of the garage, Trevor is king. He’s more obsessive than Screw and I combined.

  “How’s everything?” I give him a smile and he blushes, painting his already rosy cheeks pinker. I stifle the urge to run and wrap my arms around him. The last time I did that, he almost had a heart attack.

  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 my arm like I’m five and failing at sounding like the twenty-three-year-old adult that I am. “Come on.” He drops the tablet on his lap and wheels away, the whir of his chair oddly comforting. Actually, anything with a working motor is oddly comforting to me. “You need to see what the organizers did this year for the Cup.”

  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 statu
e. 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?”