Bad Boy's Last Race (10 page)

“C’mon, we’re just chatting.” He keeps grinning that ice-cold grin. “No need to get worked up.” His gaze darkens. “And you really think some two-bit lawyers have anything on me?”

I flinch. He has a point there.

Darla glances toward me. “You want him gone, Soph? Just say the word.”

I take a deep breath. Of course I do. But I’m terrified of where he might go. I set Jack and Ella down and push them behind me, then thrust my shoulders back in a feint of confidence. “Yes.”

Darla snorts. “Then scram.”

Tyler sidles toward the door, but then pauses, twisting to look back at me. “Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “You’ll come around.”

I shake my head. No. No. I can’t live this nightmare again.

“You always do.”

B
y Wednesday
, I still haven’t heard jack shit from Sophie. It’s like she just ghosted off the whole fucking planet. I thought I’d at least get a text telling me not to bother her, or something—anything. But turns out, she’s even more cold-blooded than I thought.

Or maybe Drazic and the guys have a fucking point. Maybe it really was a setup all this time.

I leave her one last voice message—“Look, just give me a fucking yes or no, okay? Is that too much to ask?”—and try to wipe her from my mind.

It’s easier than it sounds.

I kick around the garage, my nerves wound up tighter than a lug nut. I need something to take the edge off. Something to help me forget.

A fresh job to pull, maybe. I’ve been hearing lots of chatter about some ritzy new casino down in the southwest corner of the state, near the reservation, that’s drawing in all kinds of suckers with more cash than sense. That parking garage has to be ripe with potential pay dirt, and I’m dying to get my greasy fingers on it.

But Drazic’s right—we’ve got to shut that shit down until we’re completely sure we don’t have any federal agent bloodhounds sniffing up our asses. God dammit. I hate this not knowing. All this constant looking over my shoulder.

A nice, sweaty lay might take my mind of things for a while. But every time I think about it, I see the smooth, pale arc of Sophie’s ass bent over her couch. I remember how tight she clenched around me when she came, and how ragged and hungry she sound as she screamed. And all I want is to feel it, hear it, see it again. Every time I think about taking one of the skanks at the Crow Bar home, I already know they’ll only disappoint.

I really just want Sophie to turn up again. Spread her legs, kiss my way up her thigh, taste that silky-soft pussy so warm and wet . . .

Fuck. But I need answers from her. And depending on the answer, I may need to cut her loose for good.

If she hasn’t already cut me loose herself.

Drazic pulls the wrench from my hands. I’d been turning it over and over for god knows how long, watching him work. There’s no new inventory for me to haul, nothing for me to try to sell on the sly. I’m completely out of work, more than useless to him right now. Shit. I’ve got to find something to do.

“It’s a slow day,” Drazic says. Like they aren’t all slow. Business is real bad—has been for some time. “Maybe we should head out to the tracks.”

“You sure it’s okay to close up the shop?” I ask.

“Even if a fucking customer did manage to show up,” he says, “one look at your ugly mug would scare them off.”

I gave him a playful slug. “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”

“Well, better snap out of it. We need you in top form for the finals in a few weeks. I’ll call Cyrus, tell him to meet us over there.”

I groan. But I know he’s right. Lennox and I are the only members of the crew left in contention now, and I want to be damned sure I do right by everyone. But I also want to know what the fuck is going on. With Sophie. With that fucking fed douchebag who pulled me over. Nothing about it feels right, and it’s like a splinter under my skin. I don’t know how well I’ll be driving until it’s done.

No. Drazic’s right. Focus on the race. Driving’s always been my distraction and my golden ticket out of all kinds of shit. Might as well turn to it now, too.

Cyrus meets us at the track. The Ridgecrest Raceway is good for what it is—practice—but it’s no substitute for the adrenaline intoxication I get during a real race. Chicks screaming my name, the other drivers fighting me for space on the asphalt . . . there’s no substitute for that. The Raceway’s only got three tracks, too—one Indy-style oval and two different rally-style tracks, which are the closest they can get to replicating the street circuit experience.

I’m most comfortable on their motocross circuit, which is shorter but jammed full of sharp turns and wild curves. The longer rally track is probably closer to the city conditions we face—block-length stretches, ninety-degree turns, but also a few curving roads that mimic access roads and bypasses like we often use in circuit tracks. I’m not as familiar with it, though, so of course Cyrus wants to drill me on it instead.

“I know we don’t practice on this course as much, but don’t worry too much about building muscle memory for this particular track,” Drazic says, as we set up at the starting line. “The important thing is being able to adapt. We’ll pick different starting points each time and have you run it the opposite direction some, too.”

“Sure thing.” I climb into the Firebird and ready to burn some rubber. Maybe burn all these shitty feelings straight out of my head.

Right after we start, I’m flying, leaning into all the turns and pegging the RPMs right where I want them. But right off the bat, I can tell something’s wrong. Not with the Firebird—Elena tuned her up just fine after the last race. Something in my head, I guess. I’m pulling my corners too slowly and jerking between gears something fierce. “Smooth it out,” Cyrus yells at me over the earpiece. “Unless you’re trying to burn your transmission out?”

After about three different circuits from various starting points, Cyrus tells me to pull over so we can reassess. Drazic’s arms are folded over his chest, tattooed forearms bulging, and his lip is twisted in a scowl. I jam my hands in my pockets, already feeling defensive. He wants a fucking fight? I’ll give him a goddamned fight.

“The fuck is going on with you, Jagger.” It’s a statement, not a question. “You’re losing your finesse.”

“I told you. Got a lot on my mind,” I snap.

“Well, we all do. You think I like the idea of someone sniffing around the garage?”

Cyrus narrows his eyes, his bald head gleaming in the afternoon sun. “Wait, what’re you talking about?”

“Jagger’s little girlfriend has ties to some kind of fed,” Drazic says.

“Now, wait a minute. We don’t know that for a fact.”

“Don’t we?” Drazic raises one eyebrow. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter the source. It’s our problem now, regardless.”

“But the feds?” Cyrus asks, then whistles under his breath. “Do they know about—”

“He didn’t know shit. Was just taking a stab in the dark.” I yank my earpiece off and stuff it in my pocket. “And we’re cool. We’re clean.”

“Then you shouldn’t be having any problems driving clean,” Drazic says.

I exhale slowly. Squeeze my eyes shut and try not to blow my goddamned lid. Drazic’s the last person I want to lose it on, and deep down, I know that, but it’s not always easy to remember when I’m this pissed.

“I’ll get there, okay? We’ve still got a couple of weeks on the race. I just need a few days more to clear my head.”

Drazic nods. “See to it that you do.”

* * *

L
ater that night
, I decide to check Darla’s house one last time to see if I can’t set the record straight and be free of Sophie’s grip on me once and for all.

The main house is mostly dark, and Sophie’s car is parked behind the freestanding garage—a good sign. I hadn’t seen her car here or at the youth center all week up to this point. I trot up the stairs to her apartment, do a quick peek through the lace curtains—her main light is on inside—and knock. “It’s Jagger,” I add, remembering how fucking jumpy she was the other time I came by her place unannounced.

The door cracks open and she stares at me, sullen. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please, Soph.” I cross my hands in front of me, trying to show her I’m not a threat. “I just want to understand what the fuck is going on.”

The door eases open a fraction. She’s bundled up in all kinds of layers, though it’s cool spring air outside. She’s trembling, too, and her face looks paler than usual, like she hasn’t gotten much sleep. “Fine.” She throws the door open and saunters away to the kitchen to pour herself some tea.

I shut the door behind me and stand in the living room. Don’t want to get too comfortable. Not until I get some answers here. She curls up in an armchair, tea steaming around her face, and stares into its depths.

“Look, Jagger . . .” She exhales. “My past really isn’t your business. And I’m upset that you didn’t want to respect that. That’s all.”

I stare at her, slack-jawed. “
That’s
what you’re pissed about?”

“Well . . . yeah.” She blinks. “I’m trying to move on from a really bad time in my life. I told you about it because I trusted you, not because I wanted to keep wearing it around my fucking neck like some scarlet letter. But then you keep dragging it up, all this shit that I’d rather forget. No, thank you. I can do plenty of that on my own.”

But there’s something off about her tone—a tension in her voice. Like there’s more she isn’t saying.

“It’s not really still in the past, is it?” I ask.

Her arm is trembling; tea sloshes onto her sweatshirt sleeve and into her lap. She swears and sets the mug on the coffee table while she tries to dab at the spill with a blanket. Then she stops and just completely fucking melts down.

“God dammit,” she hisses, more to herself than to me. “God fucking dammit.”

“What the hell?” I reach toward her and throw my arms around her shoulder. She’s trembling like a spooked hare, and her cheeks are damp as I pull her close. “Sophie, what’s going on?”

“What happened, Jagger?” she whispers, swiping at the tears that trickle down her cheek. “What made you ask all those questions? He got to you, didn’t you?”

My blood runs cold. Tyler. Agent Brennan. I really had wanted to believe that I was crazy, that it wasn’t the same person and all and just some weird-ass coincidence. But it must be him.

“He came to you. That’s why you asked. Because you’re too fucking smart for your own good.” She shudders. “That’s a good way to get killed around him.”

I grimace. “So it is him. Agent Brennan. Nice of you to leave that part out.”

She covers once side of her face with her hand. “Fuck. You met him, didn’t you?”

“‘Met’ doesn’t begin to cover it, Soph. He fucking pulled me over.” I growl, feeling like the world’s biggest fucking fool. “And it’s because of you, isn’t it?”

“Shit.” Sophie groans. “I’m so sorry, Jagger. I should’ve known he’d do that.. I should’ve fucking warned you. I just wanted to forget . . .” She sucks down a breath.

“You
knew
he would?” I shout.

She shakes her head, over and over. “I was hoping that—I didn’t think he’d find me here. I thought I was safe. I certainly didn’t think he’d find
you
.”

“You’re sure you didn’t lead him to me?” I ask. I hate that I have to ask it, but I do. For the crew. For myself.

“No! Not on purpose.” She squeezes my arm. “Believe me, I came here to get the hell away from him. But he must have been watching us. That’s what he does. He works all his fucking networks, he turns the world into his own goddamned sick playground.”

“Okay.” I scrub a hand through my short hair. “Okay, we can find a way to deal with this. He can’t be all that powerful, after all.”

She shakes her head. “You have no idea.”

I stand up with a snarl. “C’mon, Sophie. Work with me. What is he? FBI? Organized crime?”

She shakes her head. “Drug Enforcement Agency. He’s got his own little fiefdom set up all across the Southwest. He runs the deals, he calls the shots, he decides who gets to keep their networks going and whose operation gets dismantled.”

“DEA. Okay. We can handle that,” I say.

“You don’t understand,” Sophie cries. “No one’s safe. Someone gave him too much goddamned power, and now he’s gone mad with it. Just enough people paying him tribute and stroking his ego, and he controls them all.”

“Well, now he’s putting you, me, and my whole fucking crew at risk. I’m not just going to lie down and let him fuck us all over,” I say.

Sophie scrunches up her face, looking pained. It kills me to see her like this. I just want to take it away. Even though I’m mad as hell, my first thought is to protect her.

Fuck.

“It’s too late for that,” Sophie says. “I already thought I was free, but he found me. And it doesn’t matter where you go or what you do. He’ll find you, too. Make you pay for so much as looking at me, if I know his sick, twisted head.”

I shake my head. “Well, there’s got to be some way we can shake him, them.”

“There’s no
we
,” Sophie says. “That’s the problem.”

I brace myself, afraid I already know what she’s about to say.

“As long as he thinks you’re interested in me—as long as you associate with me—you and your crew are at risk.”

“But we’re not—”

“It doesn’t matter how clean you guys are.” Sophie covers one side of her face with her hand. “And trust me, it’s better if I don’t know either way,” she adds, with a pointed look. “If Tyler Brennan wants to fuck you over for possession. Distribution. For being a fucking criminal mastermind—then that’s exactly what he’ll do.”

“Sophie . . .” I say.

Her expression hardens. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

I reach for her again. This time, she lets me wrap an arm around her shoulder. I squeeze her against my chest until she stops shaking. She feels so cold against me—not at all the warm, caustic badass girl I fell for. But it’s still Sophie. I still ache for her, dammit, and my untamed caveman side wants nothing more than to protect her and mutilate anyone who threatens her safety.