Until You (Fall Away, #1.5)(47)

Derek Roman, a freshman in college and former classmate, made it back to town once in a while to race. He pulled his 2002 Trans Am up next to mine, and my fingers tightened on the wheel.

He carried some weight. Some people bet against me tonight in favor of him. Kind of insulting, but it served my needs. The smaller the odds, the bigger the payoff.

“All right!” Zack called out, his voice deep and commanding. “Clear the track for the main event of the evening.”





With the college kids back at school, we had fewer races happening now than during the summer. Madoc’s and mine were the only ones tonight.

Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I dug out the fossil necklace and hung it around my rearview mirror. I caught sight of Tate watching me through the rearview mirror, and my throat got thick. I didn’t know if she could see, but I definitely didn’t want her to. The necklace, her mother’s, would be hard to explain.

Devon Peterson, one of the few hot girls I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole, sauntered up in front of our cars in her short school-girl skirt and spaghetti strap shirt. She was a year behind me in school and had made it very obvious that she was available if I was interested.

I wasn’t.

She was actually down to earth and nice, but she was nice to everybody. That was the problem. Sometimes you just had to know when a good time wasn’t worth the risk.

“Ready?” she called out, her eyes sparkling at me.

Come on. Come on. My left knee bobbed while holding in the clutch.

No girls, no parents…just me, running from all of them.

“Set?”

Roman and I revved our engines.

“Go!”

My legs jerked into action, one easing off of the clutch, and the other hitting the gas with full force. The tires spun for a brief second before Roman and I took off down the track. My stomach dropped, and I smiled at the feeling.

I loved this shit.

Gripping the steering wheel, I pounded in the clutch again as I shifted into second and then straight into third. I’d often forget and try to skip gears the way I did when I wasn’t racing, but you can’t do that on a track. My mother got aggravated last year when she bought a new car—a manual—and I taught her how to drive it.

“What do you mean, I can skip gears? Jared, they wouldn’t put them there unless you’re supposed to use them.”

I just shook my head at her, realizing it wasn’t worth the aggravation.

The Boss jerked again when I slammed down into fourth, and I let the music and the car tear me up into a thousand pieces and scatter me to the wind. I couldn’t think or worry about anything, even if I wanted to.

This is where I lived. The Boss wouldn’t fight me. I owned it, inside and out.

Roman and I charged head to head, but the first turn was coming up. I had a slight gain, but he wasn’t slowing down.

Fucking prick.

Someday I was going to have to give this guy the beating he deserved. We wouldn’t be able to make the goddamn turn together, and he knew it. One of us would have to slow down, and it wasn’t going to be him.

And he knew that I knew that.

I strangled the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, pulling behind him and onto the inside lane. Right on his ass, I breathed hard and shook my head, trying to keep my lead foot from ramming his car.

Pulling the wheel to the left, I rounded the first turn, kicking up dust and feeling the car’s rear slide as my heart pounded in my throat.

But Roman’s car slid more.

Shifting back into second and hitting the gas, I turned up Godsmack’s I Stand Alone and f*cking took off.

Each second, my blood vibrated through my veins stronger, and I didn’t care whether I won or lost. Nothing could ruin this for me, and nothing could make it better.

Through each turn, Derek Roman cut me off and made me pull behind, or I spun out more than I wanted. Either way, I wasn’t gaining a lead, because the * would rather play bumper cars than race.

Asshole. I was breathing a thousand breaths a minute, not because I was nervous, but because I was f*cking pissed.

He’s rather see our cars totaled than see me win.

Laying on the gas, I gripped the wheel as Roman and I charged ahead. The crowd flew past the car, and my stomach fluttered as we finally crossed the finish line.

I let out a breath and gritted my teeth, slowing the car. I wasn’t sure if I’d lost, but I wasn’t certain I’d won, either.

And at this point, I really didn’t care.

I wanted to hit something, and Roman was it.

Bolting out of the car, my arms were as rigid as steel bars as I rounded the car and met him halfway.

“You’re an *,” I ground out.

Please. Take a swing.

We were almost nose to nose. Roman was about the same height as me, but not quite.

“You were pushing into my lane!” he sneered. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to handle your car.”

I almost laughed.

“There are no lanes on the track.” Idiot. “And let’s not talk about who can’t handle their muscle.”

Roman, greasy, black hair slicked back, pointed his finger in my face. “I’ll tell you what, Princess. Come back after you’ve grown some balls and taken off your training wheels. Then you’ll be man enough to race me.”