Impulse Page 3
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 head, his gaze flicking to the gyrating rally girls. Floodlights and headlights illuminate their swiveling hips, bouncing breasts, and naked arms and legs. Strobes pulse in time with the music, highlighting every movement in the writhing mass of primal chaos. Inches upon inches of skin are bared like a buffet. The dress code for this evening: glitter and glow-in-the-dark body paint. No matter how hard the mountain air bites their skin, the rally girls give it the finger and keep dancing. The motor heads not driving tonight are already sloshed on poorly distilled corn whiskey. The more serious drivers stay away from the stuff since it dulls the reflexes. Surely after the exhibitions, challenges for last-minute points to qualify for the IC will ensue.
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 flips her long pink hair over a bare shoulder and pulls the corners of her plush lips up to a come-hither smil
e. The star beauty mark at the bottom corner of her left eye glimmers.
“Care to join me for some post-Gathering celebrations?” she asks in a manner more like a succession of purrs than actual words.
I cock an eyebrow. “That was one night, Star. And as I remember, you weren’t good enough for a repeat performance.”
She raises the vine tattoos she has for eyebrows a quarter of an inch. “I like it when you play hard to get. Makes me wet.” Without warning, she leaps and wraps her arms and legs around me. An octopus has less suction.
Reacting on pure instinct, I hook my hands beneath her thighs and push away from my precious GT before pointed heels scratch the paintjob. I turn my head away after my eyes flick downward.
“Shit, Star. Didn’t your mother ever tell you never to leave the house without underwear on?”
Star plants a loud smacker on my cheek, leaving some of her magenta lipstick there. “When have I ever listened to my mother?” She untangles her legs from around my waist and leans in until her breasts press against mine. Her nipples pucker at the contact, and I suppress a shudder. “Besides, it’s race night. I never wear underwear when I’m about to get into a powerfully vibrating machine. Will you race me at least? I still need to pay you back for the last time.”
Having had enough, I reach up and pull apart Star’s no-tomorrow grip from behind my neck and step back. “Be nice, Star.”
She pouts. “I am being nice. Come on, RC, for old time’s sake. Give a girl some lovin’? You’re the best I’ve ever had, both on the road and off of it.”
“I doubt that.” I chuckle. “After tonight’s exhibition matches and races, I’m heading home. Alone.” I emphasize the word. I know Star will find a way into my leggings if she discovers a chink in my resolve. On the night we hooked up, Star was relentless. Since I felt bad for beating her hands down, I conceded, much to my current dismay. Star keeps trying to pick me up every time we meet.
“Why do I always expect you’d have a shred of self-respect every time I see you?” a green-haired guy asks. He folds his thin arms, making his already-bulky sweater look even bulkier. The mass of fabric engulfs his frame.
“Says the guy who prefers skinny jeans tucked into high-tops.” Star whirls around, putting her hands on her hips and leaning forward slightly. I breathe a sigh of relief, finally no longer on the nympho’s radar, when she says, “I can leave your flat ass miles behind if you ever grow the balls to enter a quarter mile drag against me.”
“So sorry. For a second I thought we were at a tacky strip club not a race site.”
“Slipstream.” I shake my head at the guy I consider my baby brother. We arrived at Open Arms months apart and stuck together like glue on paper despite our five-year age gap. He’s looking a little too thin for my taste. I make a mental note to ask him about his eating habits before I leave tonight.
Star cackles, throwing her head back for melodramatic effect.
Slipstream narrows his gaze, completely ignoring me. “Why are you even here? Isn’t the precursor to the IC beneath you?”
“Aren’t you the racer who treats every race like a chess match?” I ask him.
“Come on, RC!” He stomps his foot, showing the immaturity that came with his eighteen years despite being the youngest top-ranking racer at the Gathering. He barely holds on to his driver’s license, and already he places fifth. “You can’t seriously be taking her side?”
I listen to him complain, unimpressed. I know all too well that Slipstream is a cold tactician. I’ve trained many hours in the orphanage’s simulator with him. He’s a hard one to beat if you let your guard down. His potential increases as his experience grows. I predict he’ll become a monster on any course one day. And that unsettles me. I give his GT90 a quick study. The low-to-the-ground car with its hard angles showcases Slipstream’s talent as a racer. Not anyone can handle the power of a V12 engine beneath that lemon-yellow carbon fiber hood.
Tapping her cheek, Star rakes a predatory gaze over Slipstream. She glides toward him and hooks an arm over his neck, bringing him down slightly. Her other hand rubs his chest. “You’re a little young for my taste, but I can work with that. What do you say, kid, ready to pop your hood?”
He snorts. “I’m no virgin. And only a couple of years younger than you.”
Star hampers his attempts at shoving her away by clamping down like a stubborn wheel bolt. “Who’ve you been doing it with, huh? Don’t tell me it’s one of the rally girls. They’re all skanks.”
“All hail the queen of skanks.”
“At least I know how to give you a damn good time. I’m turbocharged and always ready to go, baby.”
“Get away from me!”
Star releases Slipstream, but not before she licks one side of his face. The poor violated guy swipes at his cheek. I hold in the grin threatening to tug at my lips. As much as I love watching them bicker, what I’ve been waiting for captures my undivided attention.
Chapter Four
HOOTS AND whistles rise above the techno. Fists are pumped into the air. Cheers and jeers. Just the sort of welcome Ace and Bedlam always get as two engines roar up the mountain path. The first is a deep growl that reaches into my gut and squeezes my insides. The second has a metallic wheeze from an engine equipped with an enlarged radiator. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can pick out which is the Street Fighter and which is the Zonda. My heart revs like the pistons in my GT. Both cars are beasts on the road. I paint an imaginary target on them.
“Ladies and gents, I believe the studs of the show have arrived. My hate for them has returned. I envy these bastards,” one of the commentators says over the speakers.
“Preach it, brother,” his partner chimes in.
The female reporter in her tight bun and equally tight blazer is speaking rapidly into her mic. She pushes her way through the sea of rally girls and motor heads. Good luck to her. Those gathered know how best to keep the press occupied so no one bothers the top five. It’s an unwritten rule. We never give interviews during a Gathering. This place is all about the race.
Heart in my throat, I struggle to stay upright. My decision is made. I’d race at least one of them tonight. The crowd grows still. Anticipation hangs in the air. Even the techno lowers from blasting to mellow thrumming. All eyes land on the first corner down the path. Two camera drones position themselves right above the apex.
Headlight beams wave at the Gathering. A cheer, like a great exhale, reverberates from the crowd. This is a different kind of adoration. It’s blind, almost cultish. Ace and Bedlam can say jump and we will all scream “how high?” They are gods. The energy their arrival injects into everyone is akin to the countdown on New Year’s Eve. The din gets louder and louder.
Over the speakers a commentator says, “Motor heads, gird your loins. Rally girls, pull up your panties. Ace and Bedlam have arrived to party.”
I grin. You never know when Ace is coming during a race until all you see is his taillights after passing you. Bedlam is plain insane. When he gets going, he doesn’t care who he kills to win. Only Ace can keep him in check. I certainly hope I’ll be able to clear the hurdle Bedlam presents. My relationship with him is nothing short of complicated. Actually, I think we define the word. But I remind myself that he’s what stands between me and Ace and victory. During a race my only loyalty is to myself and my car.
“Ace’s SF22 comes around the corner first. Listen to that 2000 horsepower engine encased in a carbon fiber Kevlar-blend composite body. The best money can buy and the only one of its kind. All that white accented with black side panels. The sleek lines resemble a shark in the water. I need a tissue to wipe myself off. It’s a sin to give that much power to one guy. Ace, man, you have to share!” Envy coats the second commentator’s voice. It’s the same reaction every time. I wonder if the viewers are as sick of it as I am.
“Power isn’t everything,” the first commentator gripes. “I’ll put my money on the intimidation factor that oozes out of Bedlam
’s Zonda GR. Six headlights that resemble spider eyes. Body lowered to the ground in gunmetal silver. He modified the bodywork to include front and rear diffusers for improved aerodynamics. That monster can go from zero to sixty in three point three seconds. What more can you ask for? I’m getting stiff just thinking about it.”
“Ah, but the Street Fighter beats the Zonda at zero to sixty by at least point eight seconds,” the second counters. For as long as I’ve been forced to listen to them during races, they’ve never agreed on who is better between Ace and Bedlam. One is always more superior than the other in one aspect while the other dominates in another. I shake my head. Get on with it already.
Gaze glued to the white Street Fighter, I watch it smoothly back into its specified parking space at the front of the field. Anyone who drives into the plateau will see the handsome hard edges of the supercar powered by a twin-turbo engine first. The sight of my nemesis is definitely a blinding one. It eats at my gut like termites that I still haven’t challenged him to a downhill race since we started racing five years ago. It pisses me off that, outside his SF, Ace is kind and charming. It’s so hard to hate him, which makes me hate myself instead.
The SF’s driver door lifts upward like a wing. My heart stalls. Silver hair gelled into spikes stick out first as Ace exits his car. He tugs at his shirt and cargo pants, smoothing some of the creases out as best he can. He does a quick scan of the crowd and flicks a wave at the rally girls. They all swoon at the sight of him, calling his name; even the reporter is lost in her own dumbstruck world, blushing madly. Several pieces of underwear land a yard away from him. He pays them no attention. He smiles when he spots me and saunters to where I stand. I close my eyes from the bright glare, like staring straight at incoming headlights. He’ll never change. When I recover from my momentary blindness, I lift my lids. I refuse to adjust any part of my clothing or hair. I absolutely won’t look uncomfortable in front of him. Totally won’t lose my cool. I fold my terribly shaking arms across my chest.