Impulse Page 5

  The insanity of it all. I love every second of it!

  “Keep your eyes on the road!” Zamara screams.

  Time to work. I slip the pencil into my boot and reposition the rearview mirror. I return my hands to the wheel just as the car exits the corner. “Okay, I’m going to start driving seriously now.”

  “You mean—”

  “We’re entering the three S-curves,” I cut her off. My grin morphs into a full-blown smile of pure evil.

  “Brake!” Zamara’s screams continue, barely drowned out by the screeching of tires on asphalt. “RC, brake!”

  Without slowing down, I tackle each corner, giving the princess glimpses of the ravine drenched in darkness. Five centimeters. That is all. One mistake, like missing the apex of a corner or understeering and losing control of the car, and we die. That is what it means to be a racer. If Zamara truly wants to be a part of this world, she must understand.

  “Son of a b—” The rest of her sentence ends in a wail as the car fishtails out of one corner and dives nosefirst into the next.

  “What a filthy mouth you have, Miss Zamara,” I tease. For a split second I imagine that mouth on different parts of my body. I bite down and force the image out of my mind. Not the time to be thinking about lips and tongues and what they can do. Shit. Driving never fails to turn me on.

  The tires squeal in time with Zamara’s cries. The speedometer hardly stays below eighty kilometers per hour and climbs to as much as a hundred eighty in some corners and straights. I have to hand it to Goose. The Zagato is made for sprinting at breakneck speeds. Its engine rejoices at the pace I put the car through, not backing down from the challenge.

  “We’re reaching Suicide Curve now.” I lose all humor in my voice.

  “R-R-R-C! Slo-slo-slow down!” Zamara keens like a calf with a broken leg. Ice should be dotting her forehead. Her breathing is shallow and quick. The reaction I’ve been aiming for.

  At the mouth of the widest corner of Mount Giga, I engage the handbrake, then twist the steering wheel at an impossible angle with both hands. The engine snarls. The car jerks violently sideward. The back practically becomes the front. The rear tires leave rubber on the blacktop, shrieking as we go.

  AT THE penultimate hairpin curve near the base of Mount Giga, I ease the Zagato into a road embankment behind the guardrail for cars in need of repairs or drivers in need of rest before tackling the steep climb. I glance over at the snoozing girl beside me. I suppress a laugh for fear of waking her. Killing the engine, I make a mental note to commend Goose for his tuning skills. A V12 doesn’t belong in a downhill race, but he managed to find the right balance between the weight and power ratio. The Zagato is a monster on the straights, and surprisingly, it responds well to drifting—the suspension and tires topnotch. The organizers will not be happy with the stunt I pulled tonight, but Bedlam and Ace will more than make up for it.

  Speaking of which….

  Girding my loins, I press two fingers on my earpiece. “Mac, you there?”

  “Would you mind telling me what business you have driving a V12 down Giga, pushing it to the limit? Not even Slipstream is that stupid!” comes the reply.

  I pull out the earpiece halfway through Mac’s tirade. His bitching doesn’t help my already fried nerves ever since my body began to wind down from the adrenaline rush caused by driving like I won’t die in a crash.

  “You done?” I slip the earpiece back into my lobe. Heavy breathing responds to my question. “Did Goose get my GT back in one piece?”

  “Why do you insist on giving me a heart attack by doing these crazy stupid stunts? And this close to the Impulse Cup too!” Mac breathes in deep and releases the irritation-laden air he’d taken in slowly. “Why don’t you just jump off a cliff if you’re so intent on killing yourself?”

  “I already know how I’m gonna die, Mac, and it’s not by jumping off a cliff.”

  “What got into your head anyway?”

  “I had to teach Zamara a lesson.” I give the softly snoring girl a sideways glance, strands of brown hair fall on her cheek. “Is Goose there?”

  “He and Screw are talking about that ludicrous driving line you took. Be sure that Ace was watching you.”

  What Mac failed to add was that the rest of Terra One watched as well. Not a bad thing. Consider it my unofficial challenge heading into the Cup. “Put him on for a sec, will you?”

  Crackling white noise signals Mac passing an extra earpiece to someone.

  “How did she handle entering Suicide Curve? I saw your tail end skid too far in,” Goose says.

  I shake my head. The guy is a little too enthusiastic for someone who got kneed in the balls not half an hour ago. “You sound just like Screw.”

  “He shares my opinion.”

  “Why did you bring Zamara to the races? You know she shouldn’t be part of this world.”

  A loaded pause. “How many corners until she fainted?”

  I sigh. “She lasted until Suicide Curve.”

  “I’m sorry, RC.” The tone Goose uses belies a child apologizing for breaking his mother’s antique vase. “She really wanted to come. She wouldn’t have raced tonight. I promise you that.”

  “And yet you tuned the Zagato for the downhill.” I lean the back of my head against the seat. My free hand rests on my thigh.

  “Just in case.”

  I scowl at the smile behind his words. “Don’t be proud of yourself, Goose.” I stop myself. The guy probably has no clue what Zamara manipulated her father into asking me. “By now the entire gallery is buzzing with the presence of the boss’s daughter at a Gathering.”

  “You managed to take their mind off that with your shenanigans,” Mac says.

  “No one uses the word ‘shenanigans’ anymore, buddy.” The insulted silence at the other end eases the tension in my shoulders. “What do you have to say for yourself, Goose?”

  “She loves the races, RC.”

  “I have to wonder about that.”

  I don’t expect an answer from Goose. I want him to understand the precarious ledge we all stand on. There’s a difference between watching the races and participating in them. One reason why the races are so fun is that the real action happens outside the control of anyone but the driver. I don’t willingly put anyone else in danger for my passion. Yet Zamara keeps throwing herself into the crossfire.

  “The race is about to begin.” Mac’s excitement pulls me away from worrying.

  “Goose, you still there?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “How can I watch the race from the Zagato?”

  I don’t need to see Goose to know he’s smirking from ear to ear at the paddock. Mechanics pride themselves in adding accessories to cars that aren’t connected to racing but don’t hinder performance. I have a feeling the Zagato is no exception especially since Zamara is an avid race fan.

  “You see the CD player?” Goose replies.

  “An outdated choice,” Mac comments.

  “Shut up!” A smack accompanies Goose’s words.

  “Ow! You’re aware that you just hit a cripple, right?”

  “Boys! Boys! There’s a race to watch!” I snap. I don’t want to miss a single second of this rare battle between two masters. If I have a speck of a chance to beat them, I need to see what they are capable of against each other.

  “Press the power button and wait,” Goose instructs.

  I do as I’m told. From the CD player console slides out a black panel. It pops up to reveal an HD screen the size of a small tablet. The race between the SF22 and the Zonda flickers into focus. I wince at the annoyingly excited voices of the commentators. Zamara continues to snore beside me, oblivious.

  “How do you mute this thing?” I ask, but Goose’s reply comes too slow. Saying the word “mute” actually accomplishes the task. I whistle. “Voice-activated commands. Nice.”

  “Isn’t it?” Goose sounds too eager for his own good.

  My eyes are instantly glued to how the race is playing out. Ace and Bedlam are neck and neck as they enter the S-curves with Ace taking the lead. The parallel drifts they perform are breathtaking. Mere inches separate the cars’ sides from each other—a testament to their godlike control over their vehicles. They are the perfect examples of man and machine working as one. I don’t dare blink.

  “Goose, put Screw on the line,” I say as an afterthought.

  A quick shuffling, and then Screw answers my unasked question. “Yes, he undertuned his car. Two thousand horsepower is useless on a downhill race.”

  “But he’s still making Bedlam work for his credits despite it.” My heart pounds so hard I hear its beats in my ears. I grip the shift stick to anchor myself to the present. A hiss escapes my lips, too turned on by what I’m watching. A pulse begins at my core, begging for release.

  Bedlam takes a wider racing line in an attempt to pass Ace as they navigate the hairpin racers use as the first quarter marker. Barely an inch separates both cars. If any of them slips or releases the steering wheel lock too soon….

  I refuse to think about the resulting collision. Racers make it a habit to forget about crashing their cars. It only adds undue stress to an already anxiety-riddled circumstance. A thousand and one things can go wrong. Brakes can fail. An oil slick at a corner. Tires blowing. Thinking about each of them will ensure at least one will send a car too close to the guardrails. Everyone at the Gathering thinks the top five are fearless. I disagree. The top five have several bolts and pistons missing from our noggins to be able to drive the way we do.

  An example is the maneuver Bedlam executes upon exiting the hairpin to get ahead of Ace on the second quarter stretch of the race. He pulls left, then veers right and barrels through. Two lanes are just enough room. But the Zonda never
gets a chance to pull away and create a winning margin after taking the lead. The Street Fighter stays on its tail like a magnet is tugging it along. Ace shadows Bedlam for the rest of the descent. The rear of Bedlam’s car progressively becomes more erratic with each corner it enters. He’s losing grip on his tires.

  “He’s oversteering,” Screw says.

  “He’s never one to stay calm on a course.” I lick the perspiration dotting my upper lip. The salt brings up a low moan. I can barely keep my hand from easing the ache between my legs. “Having Ace tailgating him must be eating at his nerves.”

  “Bedlam’s good, if a little unreliable in the sanity department.”

  And that’s what I find most attractive about him. As an answer to Screw’s commentary, Bedlam brakes too soon into a corner, almost clipping Ace’s front end with the bumper of his Zonda. Ace, merely copying Bedlam’s driving line, manages to avoid the attack by braking in time. They drift into a corner, and despite having the inner line open, Ace doesn’t take it. He continues to tail Bedlam. What can he be thinking? I would have taken the opportunity to lead.

  “That move must have pissed off Ace,” Screw says in a serious monotone, echoing my thoughts. “He clearly had a chance to lead. He’s going to make Bedlam pay for trying to kiss bumpers.”

  “Forget Ace being pissed. Bedlam shouldn’t even be thinking about hitting Ace. An accident on this tight road will mean both of them going down.”

  “And you think Bedlam cares about that?” Screw scoffs. “He’d willingly die just to take another driver with him. Why do you think only Ace is crazy enough to challenge the bastard?”

  “And here I thought it was because they had the same racing style. Ace can be a nice guy off the track, but in his car, he’s as much an asshole as Bedlam can be.” I leave the warm embrace of the Zagato and move toward the guardrail, hands inside the pockets of my leather jacket. I rest my foot on the guardrail. The squeal of tires tells me they are a couple of corners away. Ace will decide the race at the wide curve where I stand. I’ve watched him race enough times to get a sense of how his mind ticks.

  The Zonda rounds the corner first. The grip of its rear tires barely gives it any traction. Its lowered body keeps it on track, but not much else. The Street Fighter enters the corner a millisecond later. The drones fly furiously above them, playing catch-up. In a burst of engine power, Ace takes the outside line and pushes Bedlam into the mountainside rail. The shriek of carbon fiber on metal makes me wince in pain as if I’m the one being hurt. He applies the brakes hard until he reaches the back of Bedlam’s car; then he accelerates. He taps the Zonda’s bumper, sending the other car into a tailspin. His bumper barely clears where I stand, but I don’t move. The wind kicked up by the speed of his rotation whips my hair into my face. I don’t move, wide-eyed. My brain can’t process what Ace had done. It takes Bedlam three seconds to regain control over the wildly spinning vehicle. Three seconds that Ace uses to pull away and win. The real beast isn’t the one who’s wrapped in bandages.

  Swallowing, I raise a shaking hand to the earpiece. It takes everything I have to speak. My throat is drier than rust on a paintjob. “I have to beat Ace, Screw. Or die trying.”

  Chapter Six

  CRUISING DOWN Main Street toward HQ, I leave one hand on the steering wheel and reach over. I shake Zamara awake, uncaring how hard I jostle her. The princess sleeps like a rock on powerful sedatives. She twists to the side on an exhale and resumes snoring. Her head lolls to the window. Not exactly a pretty picture. So that’s how it is, huh?

  With one side of my mouth pulling up, I slam on the brakes. The forward g-force flings Zamara’s body forward. The straps that hold her in place dig farther into her collarbones and abdomen. She’ll sport a nasty bruise in the morning. The soft material of her V-neck sweater does nothing to protect her from chafing. A small price to pay for crashing the Gathering. I have no idea what she’ll do after this, and I’m done worrying over it. Despite fainting, I know Zamara’s had a taste of the adrenaline rush that comes with driving at full speed down the line between life and death and surviving. She’ll want more. As much as I loathe her presence at the races, I’d rather watch over the princess than have her sneaking around. The racing gods only know what kind of trouble she’ll find herself in if I don’t.

  Mourning the complicated twist in my life, I uncork the vial of smelling salts Mac handed me before we left Mount Giga and place it beneath Zamara’s nose.

  In a breath between an inhale and a snort, she jerks awake. She struggles against her restraints until she realizes why they are there in the first place.

  “I fainted.” She groans like an innocent prisoner served the death sentence.

  “You did better than most,” I concede, stoppering the vial and slipping it into my pocket. “Made it all the way to Suicide Curve.”

  “Ugh! Don’t remind me.” She moves her hand from her cheek to her stomach. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Don’t you recognize your own street?”

  “Not without cars on it, no.”

  Goes to show just how sheltered her life has been up to this point. I’m pretty sure—other than going to school and some short shopping trips to the mall—Zamara’s never been out this late. She probably has a curfew. I’m surprised she doesn’t have bodyguards following her around. The urge to tease Brody about it itches in my brain.

  “Where’s your security detail?” I ask out of curiosity instead of concern.

  She treats me to a cheeky grin. “I made Daddy agree to leave them home. Goose was with me. They knew where I was going. With all the camera drones….” She points to the ceiling. “They can keep tabs on me wherever I go.”

  I roll my eyes at how cavalier she can be with her safety. “For the daughter of the boss, you are so stupid.”

  Hurt crosses her pretty features. “You don’t understand,” she whispers. I barely catch the words above the car’s engine rumble.

  Trying for a carefree shrug, I return my hand to join the other on the steering wheel. “Then make me understand.”

  “I don’t know if I should laugh or be offended.”

  “Do whatever you want. You’re the boss’s daughter.”

  A short pause, then a huff. “Tonight is the first time I’ve ever left HQ without half my father’s security force surrounding me. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Eighteen years?”

  Instead of the annoyance I’m aiming for, tears well in her eyes. I open my mouth to speak, attempting to head off the waterworks before they begin, but Zamara blinks away the moisture gathering and says, “Make fun of me all you want, but tonight is the best I’ve had in my life. Being in the car with you. To actually watch you drive is unreal. Sure, I was scared out of my skull, but it was exhilarating.”

  Why do I get a “good while it lasted” vibe from her words? She bows her head and fiddles with the hem of her skirt. My gaze drops to her thighs. Despite her knees being pressed together, her inner thighs never meet. Perfect for a hand to slide up on. Keeping my sweaty palms to myself, I sigh and move my gaze down the empty road.

  Already regretting my next words, I say, “You think after tonight I’m going to let you out of my sight?”

  “What are you saying?” Her nails dig into the fabric of the straps she’s moved her hands to.

  Without thinking, I reach out and close my hand over one of Zamara’s tight fists. I don’t speak until she relaxes her grip. “Like I said, you did better than most. My goal was to get you to faint at the S-curves. Suicide Curve was halfway down the mountain.”

  “What does that mean?” Hope fills her jade irises.

  “That you’re on probation—”

  Like tires leaving rubber on pavement, Zamara squeals. She doesn’t even let me finish and yet she’s already clapping, bouncing in her seat.

  “Listen to me,” I command and she stills. But her clasped hands are trembling. She’s fighting hard to stay quiet. I close my eyes to keep them from rolling and continue. “Pack for a week. You’ll be staying at the garage.” Then I open my eyes and pierce her with a serious stare. “My goal is to win the Impulse Cup this year.” She nods frantically. When I see her lips part to speak, I cut her off. “If you can prove yourself useful and my team thinks you can help me win, then I’ll take you along.” I shift to first gear and step on the gas. “Tell your father about what I said. I’ll wait for a call from Brody tomorrow. When you’re given the okay, I’ll pick you up.”