Page 98 of Crash into me
Callum clicks on the television. “Good evening, Miami!” The meteorologist smiles. “It’s looking like we’re in for a regular storm. The tropical storm has dissipated over the area and tonight, instead of a hurricane we’ll be dealing with slight winds and a drizzling rain.”
Any other time, this would be great news … but not tonight.
“What does this mean for the bets?” I wonder.
Foster takes a sip of his water. “It changes nothing; most of the bets are placed already. The observers will make a few, but the majority already locked down their spaces.”
“It’s time,” Foster announces.
We’re at his house, but it isn’t the normal happy atmosphere. Every person here is on a mission; they’re all racing for us. The only sounds are that of boots shuffling towards the garage.
They grab their gear and helmets from the hooks, getting ready. “Be careful,” Kate begs Ryder.
“Always.” He kisses her forehead before slipping on his helmet.
“Ground’s still wet.” Foster shakes out his gloves and slips them on. “And there’s going to be flooding on the roads, so be aware and alert.”
I nervously thrum my fingertips along the gas tank of Foster’s bike. “Don’t lose your head out there. We’re too close.”
He cups my face with his leather gloves. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“We’regoing.”
“It’s storming,” he reminds me.
I nod. “You heard the news. It’s pretty much just a regular little storm. I can’t watch the livestream again. I need to be there when you cross the finish line.”
He nods, but I can tell he isn’t happy. A text chimes through every phone in the room, an update from the circuit. “They don’t want bikes.” Foster places his helmet back on the handlebar.
“What then?” Callum wonders, pulling out his phone.
Foster reaches in his pocket, rolling a set of keys around his finger. “Cars.” He grins, tapping the hood of his Cuda. “Wanna ride, Freckles?”
He takes the Challenger key off the ring and tosses it to Ryder. “Take mine. Callum, take your Charger.”
I slide into the seat of the Cuda after giving Kate a hug, “Is this thing fast?”
“It’s the fastest thing I own.” His inked hands rub the dash.
The pitch-black interior matches him so well. “Why don’t you race this more?” I ask as we pull out of the driveway.
He shrugs. “That’s its purpose. It was built for speed. The Challenger is my every day, you know.” He frowns. “This was my dad’s … and I don’t want anything to happen to it.”
“Nothing will,” I promise him. The ground is shiny, but the puddles won’t be a huge obstacle in the car versus the bikes. The rain has completely stopped, and I can see why they would want something different with the cars since there isn’t a storm for these fucked up betters to drool over.
He holds the wheel, inhaling a deep breath. “Sky, if we win this, we’re done. Our debt is paid to the Keeper.”
Just the mention of the debt being paid pulls some weight from my shoulders; the idea that this one last race could fix all of our problems seems so far away from reach.
But as we pull up to the starting line, I know it’s within our grasp.
We have our crew, and they’re all racing for Foster. But there are many more, about forty racers all revving their engines. Some people didn’t get the memo, so they’re parked with their bikes, observing.
A car pulls up beside us, sleek and black. I know who it is before they roll the window down due to the neon green lights gleaming underneath the fenders.
Envy.
She rolls her passenger window down. She’s putting on a show tonight, in a shiny super car with dark curled hair and diamonds dripping across her neck. “Hey, Foster.” She winks.