A black car slid around the corner and slowed.
Even though Drew gave no indication of surprise, I knew he was.
And I was immediately on guard.
All my instincts were screaming. We’d been followed.
The Camaro from the speedway jerked to a stop on the other side of my Mustang. Part of it was sticking out onto the road because the shoulder wasn’t big enough for all three cars.
The guy hadn’t even stepped out yet; I hadn’t even laid eyes on his face.
But I didn’t like him.
The door swung open and a dude stepped out.
Instantly, I understood why.
Drew
No fucking way.
I would have known.
There was no way in hell this cocky bastard was the one I raced tonight at the speedway.
But it was the same black Camaro with the same tinted windows.
“What the fuck are you doing all the way out here?” Trent snarled from behind me.
Lorhaven was an award-winning asshole, and I trusted him as much as I loved opera (which was not at all), but there was something about this guy that totally rubbed Trent the wrong way.
No one ever rubbed Trent the wrong way; he usually got along with everyone.
Not Lorhaven.
Trent disliked this guy from the second we heard his name whispered among the local indie racers. When they met face to face, his dislike only intensified.
“You took off so fast I didn’t get the chance to congratulate you on your driving tonight,” Lorhaven remarked and smiled. It was a fake smile. The kind a wolf would give a sheep to try and prove it wasn’t about to become his dinner.
I stared at him levelly, taking in his faded jeans, white T-shirt, and army-style green coat. Had it been him behind the wheel tonight? It seemed that’s what he wanted me to think…
I scrutinized the outline of his head, the nearly buzzed haircut, and tried to tell if it matched what I could make out earlier behind the tinted windows at the track. I couldn’t be sure… Shit, it’s not like I ever looked at the guy hard enough to know the shape of his damn head.
Besides… “I thought you weren’t welcome at the raceway,” I replied.
According to all the regulars there, Lorhaven used to dominate in every race. Not only was he a good driver, but he had a fat bank account to modify his cars with the top parts—a luxury most people in this town didn’t have.
He’d probably still be dominating if he hadn’t gotten caught betting illegally on the side. And of course, once he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, everyone started questioning if all those wins beneath his tires were honest.
Honor was almost as big in the racing world as winning.
Cheating and stacking the odds in your favor was a total buster move. Hell, a driver could be the dirtiest on the road, but as long as he was honest about it, no one said shit. But the second you started being sleazy and cheating to cross the finish line first, it was game over.
He’d gotten banned from the raceway shortly after, the illegal betting the official reason he was off the asphalt. Unofficially? He was out on his ass because he was a lying bastard.
“Who said I was there?” he asked innocently.
Trent bristled beside me, but I was the one who spoke. “That’s a nice car.” I gestured to the Camaro with my chin. “Looked especially sweet in my rearview.”
“Wait ‘til you see it from behind. Looks even better.”
“If you’re driving, that’s a sight we’ll never see,” Trent remarked.
Lorhaven’s midnight stare snapped to Trent. Arrogance and challenge shone in his face. “Yeah? I’d like to see you win against me.”
Trent drew himself up to his full height and crossed solid arms over his chest. The waves of dislike he emitted were intense. I never really thought of Trent as an intimidating guy, usually because he was too quiet, too laidback. Too quick to smile.
But damn.
He wasn’t smiling now. The way he seemed to glower down at Lorhaven made one wonder if the guy ever cracked his lips in joy.
Trent wasn’t a small guy. He was tall, bulky, and wide. Playing college football for the past four years honed his body, and his physical strength could only be matched by other athletes.
Lorhaven and I were drivers. Racing was a definite sport. Yet racing required more skill than strength. In fact, being a little on the lighter side was an advantage. Less weight in the car.
In short, if I were Lorhaven and Trent was staring me down with his wide pythons on display, even under the coverage of his coat, I wouldn’t be so quick to act like I could kick his ass.
“Name your time and place,” Trent intoned. He was serious, too. He’d get behind the wheel right now, and he’d regret it.
I’d regret it.
As much as it chapped my ass to admit it, Lorhaven would win.