Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(143)

Owner Guy looks over at his friend hovering near the passenger door. His friend shrugs. “I bet she’ll keep her mouth shut.”

“I will,” I blurt. “Keep my mouth shut.”

Owner Guy curses under his breath. “One race.”





Isaiah

I lean against my car door and assess the group illegally loitering in the parking lot of the abandoned strip mall. Green, blue, and red neon lights frame the bottom of different makes and models. A few of us puritans remain on the streets, refusing to decorate our cars like Christmas trees. The bass line of rap rattles frames and a couple drivers are brave enough to blare the screeching electric guitar of heavy metal.

Clouds cover the sky, leaving all of us in a dark pit. Close to a week after Christmas, the presents have been opened, the turkey dinners have been demolished, and mommies and daddies are either tucked in bed or sucked into a bottle of Jack. Time for the rats to hit the streets.

“Isaiah!” Eric Hall abandons two girls in short skirts and faux fur jackets and heads for me. Most people underestimate the bleach-blond, skinny son of a bitch, but that mistake could prove lethal for your billfold and your health. On the streets of the south side, this nineteen-year-old is king. “Merry belated Christmas, my brother.”

I accept his outstretched hand and the half hug.

Eric is who I came to see, and if I don’t watch myself, I’ll end up indebted to him. My goal in life is to be free of everyone—foster care, school, social workers. Eric Hall may not be official, but he’s an organization all his own with the street business he created. He even has “employees”: guys with bats and tire irons that willingly beat the hell out of anyone who doesn’t pay.

He motions to the two giggling girls. “Santa brought me twins and in the spirit of the season, I’m willing to share. That is, if you drive for me tonight.”

This is the reason why I’m here. Noah and I need cash and Eric can make that happen. If I play this right, I’ll rake in money and stay free.

While sucking on a lollipop, the twin with black hair stares at me longer than her sister. “Ho, ho, ho,” mumbles Eric.

My thoughts exactly and I turn my back to them. I have a bad track record with girls with black hair. “You know I don’t street race.”

Typically, I don’t. Street racing can put my ass in jail and cost me the setup I have with Noah. I have no intention of being placed in juvie or worse—a group home. I race legally at The Motor Yard, but The Motor Yard is closed for the holidays. Tonight will be a one-time deal.

He leans in close as if what he’s saying is a secret. “I’ll give you twenty percent of what I make on top of the Christmas cheer. I’m giving my other boys ten.”

Eric has never offered anyone such a commission, but if he’s starting off high, maybe he’ll go even higher. “Twenty percent isn’t going to cover my bail if I get arrested.”

“I know you, my brother,” says Eric. “You need speed and I have the need for green. Say yes and you can race my recently acquired suped-up Honda Civic with two full tanks of nitro.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m looking for a one-time race, Eric. That is, if we can come to an understanding.”

The sweet purring of an engine grabs not only my attention, but that of every hot-blooded, car-worshipping male in the lot. Jesus—that’s a 2005 Mustang GT. And unlike the other muscle cars parked on the strip, not a piece of her looks like it’s seen the inside of a body shop.

A flood of male bodies surround the beautiful pony. I drop back and let the wolves have first crack. A car like this is here for one reason—to race, and any new piece of machinery has to pass Eric’s inspection. Someone is going to have to approve the engine and I have no doubts I’ll be the one caressing that soft underbelly.

The driver shuts down the engine, opens the door, and a halo of sunshine slides out of the car and into the light of the only working streetlamp. Fuck me. God does exist and he sent an angel in a white Mustang to prove it.

Angels are small—at least this one is. She stands barely a foot taller than the top of her car. Her long golden hair curls at the ends and she has a slender frame. Her leather-gloved hand grips the top of her door and she uses the door as a shield between herself and the street rats.

“Nice car.” Like a vulture, Eric slowly circles her.

“Thanks.” She glances at two guys exiting a Corvette. Those college boys belong here even less than she does. All three of them are easy prey.

The angel tucks her hair behind her ear. “Is this where I can drag race?”

I wince internally at her words. Asking for anything on the streets is a cardinal sin. Asking nicely is basically serving your soul to the devil. God didn’t send this angel to save me. He sent her as a sacrifice....