Shift

I pull my seat belt out from my chest and let it fall snug against my skin as Ha

Spectators peel away as I crawl from the side of the road to the pavement. The lights from the last two racers glow in the distance. They’ll be back in seconds. Nobody cares. Money flashes around me. I catch rolls of it exchanging hands in my periphery. I knew Vegas would bring in the money. I only hope the cops keep their unspoken promise and stay away tonight. We have a no-harm-no-foul agreement that’s never been uttered out loud but is understood, mostly because the chief’s son has been racing out here for years.

The cars in the race before ours hit their brakes several hundred feet away, and the one on the right smokes and fishtails from his inexperience. It takes a few minutes for the driver and his friends to get it to the side of the road and crack open the hood. While we wait, I glance over to my competitor, amused as he’s smooshed against his door in an effort to give his right side the room it needs to work. I lean forward a little more and wave to Lawrence, who gives me a thumbs up as he rocks back and forth to whatever music he’s pumping through his earbuds.

“What are you doing after this, sweetheart?” Alex shouts. His voice permeates my entire body. My eyes narrow on him after I see Ha

My hand reaches to the right, gripping the shaft with enough force that I may yank off the metal ball.

“Letting Dustin take me shopping with all his wi

Alex rolls his eyes and shakes with laughter I know is an act. He doesn’t like being disrespected like that. The one thing I know for certain from the short time we spent together in Vegas is that Alex has zero problems getting women to fall at his feet. That cologne of his must stop working past the state line.

She rolls up her window before Alex can think of a good comeback, and her eyes lock on the road ahead. She’s stoic, like me. Learned behavior from miles and miles of watching me do the same thing.

Atta girl.

Ava Cruz strides between our cars, her long nails dragging along the chrome and glass as she passes through and continues several feet until she’s far enough in front of us that she’s clear to see. Looking at her, you would never know she’s a mom of five and in her forties. Earl’s her father, and Ava’s been known to drag on this road a time or two. I’ve heard stories from Tommy’s dad about the hell she raised back in high school. She’s royalty on the Straights, and if it’s a race that matters, she still comes out to start it.

I nod at her through the windshield and tighten my grip before relaxing into my zone. For the next four minutes, nothing else matters. I breathe in the mix of warm desert air and cooled AC that’s trapped in here with me—with us.

No. I have to remember that I am here alone, even if I’m not.

Alex’s engine revs and I allow one last glance to my right. He’s locked in, and it seems he convinced Lawrence to chill out and sit still in the tight space next to him. My eyes scan along the dash and I will myself to forget the passenger in my car. I am all that matters. I breathe out, the air spilling slowly through my slightly parted lips. One blink. Two.

Ava holds her arms high in the air, the bright yellow scarf wrapped around her wrist as the tail flaps in the breeze above her. My hand caresses the knob of the shifter, my touch light and seductive. You can’t punch a car into driving past its limit; you have to coax it. And faster than the other guy.

I rev.

Alex revs.

The scent of burnt oil and toxic gas fills the air, permeating through the vents and filling my lungs with my secret serum. When I feel like this, I am unbeatable.

I count the sways of Ava’s hips. I’m too far away to see the smirk on her bright red lips, but I know it’s there. This is my home court advantage, and I know it’s the reason she’s here. Six sways and the yellow will fall. My muscle twitch is ready, the rhythm in my lungs as calm as an early morning lake prime for fishing. Nobody is here—no Tommy; no crowd. It’s just me and a yellow scarf that will drop in three . . . two . . .

My foot takes over and my hand follows. My limbs dance together, each knowing what to do independent of the other yet coming together when they should. The wheel feels good, ride smooth despite the roar hugging me through the leather seats. I don’t need to look to my right; I already see Alex’s lights. The desert dust catches everything, and it tells me all I need to know. I only have him by inches, but I have him.

The next series happens fast. The climb from third to fifth is effortless, and I push to sixth sooner than I should because I’m feeling it. The drag isn’t there, and I blow out a hard breath because I took a risk and it paid off.

“Come on, baby,” I mutter, glancing down then up over and over as my speed climbs over a hundred, one-oh-five, one-ten. Dust particles, insects, and the glimmer of desert brush lit by my headlights whir by and the light to my right dims. I have him by feet now. Not many, but I have him.

I lock my arms and hold the line, feeling the road, knowing the posts we’re blowing past by heart. The flip is coming, and it’ll come fast, but I think I’ve got the edge. I won’t need to give up my lead. Alex doesn’t deserve to feel comfortable.

The familiar stretch in my lips inches up and my breath steadies in and out of my nose. My chest barely moves. My muscles are locked, holding their position for thirty seconds, for twenty, for ten. My hand knows exactly where to go, gripping the shifter while my legs work the clutch, the brakes, the gas. The spin to double back happens so fast I barely remember going through it, the only proof I ever spun at all the stench of burnt rubber and the faint trail of smoke illuminated by the red of my taillights.

I don’t know where Alex is, but he’s close behind. His headlights light up the road to my left now, the specks on the pavement too bright. He’s too close. I lean forward ever so slightly, wanting to be ready for the unknown. The Tahoe’s coming up ahead. I don’t know whether it’s heading right at us or if it’s parked, but I know it’s there, and I know the lights are off. It’s going to be a matter of seeing it first and gaining the position. Only one of us will be able to pass. Whoever gets there last will have to slam the brakes.

My palm instinctively pounds the wheel, willing my baby to go faster. My jaw clenches as relaxation loses out to grit. I don’t like this, not knowing. I grip the shifter on a gut feeling, and the glow to my left gets brighter.

“No fuckin’ way,” I fume, my foot heavy on the pedal. My body rocks forward and back as my eyes scan the road, the mirrors, the road, my left, the road—the Tahoe. It’s just a hint of the bumper, a faint reflection that most people wouldn’t notice, but I see it. It’s there, and it’s directly in front of me. I’m either going to have to beat him outright or give up my position to get behind him and pass to the left.

If I do that, I lose. And I don’t lose. Not ever.

I inch closer to the line between us, my tires warning me of the action, the constant drumming of reflectors being ripped from the ground under my tread. I move in closer, sensing the nearness of my back tire to Alex’s front. He’s holding his position, and there’s time, but not a lot. My mind races through the calculations as I lean back and let feel take over. Tommy wasn’t completely wrong. This is a gamble. And this is the moment it all comes to a head. What I do and what Alex does, both independently and in response to one another, shatters into a dozen possible outcomes: he hits my tail and I spin out; he hits my tail and rolls into the desert; I hit the brakes and he sails by, which is not an option; or he chickens out and I beat him outright.