CharlieTwo Weeks LaterIt had been two weeks since the final race of The Streets series. Two weeks since Benji’s accident, and ten days since he was released from the hospital. On a sunny warm Tuesday morning I found myself sitting by the window in a cozy coffee shop, waiting for Harley to join me with the coffee drinks she was ordering.I watched the pedestrians wander by outside and thought about how much had changed over the last six weeks. Ever since meeting Benji, my entire life had done a one-eighty. He had become my priority, whether I was aware of it happening or not, and even now he was all I thought about.Harley dropped into the seat across from me, passing me a coffee with an inch of foam on top and a pretty leaf design poured through it. I wrapped both hands around it and inhaled the rich scent of coffee and caramel.“So,” Harley said, getting comfortable and crossing one leg over the other, “how is Benji doing? Is he getting back into the swing of things?”I took a sip
Book ThreeRickA parade of scantily clad women sauntered across the road in front of me. Their eyes, lined with black and long fluttering lashes, traced the lines of my car, a Saleen S7 twin turbo in midnight blue. The paint reflected the sun and dazzled as brightly as the glittering crop tops and strappy heels the women wore.The underground street racing scene out here in Los Angeles was a lot flashier than The Streets back in New York City.Where New York was all sharp contrasts and edgy fashion at the race tracks, LA was bright colors, boob jobs, meaner drivers, and faster cars.And it was the place that had saved me from my own downward spiral.One of the women at the front of the herd, a blonde with cherry-red lips and a pair of high-waisted skin-tight denim shorts, pulled her sunglasses down her nose to look at my car. Then her gaze flicked up toward me over the top of her frames, and she ran her tongue along her upper lip before pushing the glasses back up and continuing her
RickI pulled into an angled parking spot along a concrete median. On the other side was the track, and nobody was allowed to roll onto it yet. Once every car was registered, we would pull out of our waiting spots and wait in our starting positions behind the line.All eyes were on me as I killed the ignition and the butterfly doors on the Saleen pulled upward. I stepped out, straightened my shirt, and clicked the fob in my pocket as I walked toward the registration table. I didn’t look back as the doors slid closed behind me.“Rick Thomas, Saleen S7, Twin turbo,” I said to the young woman working the registration table. She had a whole crew with her who scrambled through pamphlets, looking for my information. One of the other women at the table handed her my record, and she drew an X through my name, wrote a number on the top right corner, and slid the sheet into a binder.She smiled up at me. “Welcome to The Underground. You’ll be starting in third. Do you have any questions, Mr. Th
HarleyOn Sundays, I didn’t set an alarm to wake me up in the morning.It was the one day of the week where I let myself sleep in and didn’t have anything on my agenda. It was a day for self-care. For indulgence. For eating whatever the hell I wanted and spending the entire day, from start to finish, in loungewear.When I opened my eyes, my room was awash in sunlight. The powder-blue walls were soothing, and I let myself snuggle deeper into the blankets for another five minutes before I rolled onto my back, stretched my arms over my head, and indulged in a full-body stretch that cracked my spine and curled my toes.I inhaled deeply and held the breath, feeling the strain in my chest, and then exhaled and let my muscles relax. I sank deeper into the mattress and stared up at my ceiling.It had been six months to the day that Rick Thomas packed up and moved to Los Angeles.Six months.It felt like so much longer. Like it was a lifetime ago. I draped my forearm across my eyes and let out
RickI still hadn’t gotten used to the view from my high-rise condo.Well, it wasn’t mine, per se. It was a rental place. But damn, it was fine, and it was a hell of a lot fancier than my house back in New York that had been sitting empty for six months. It was a good thing Mason was back home to check up on the place for me.With the money I’d won at the race on Saturday, I could easily afford something even nicer if I wanted. But I liked this place. I’d moved into it about four months ago after crashing at hotels while I got my foot in the door of the racing scene out here. Then, when the money started coming in and my name got bigger, I opted to really settle in and find a place that was mine.I never dreamed I’d live in a place with floor-to-ceiling windows so high above the city I wouldn’t need curtains. Or have a fireplace in my bedroom that was also part of the bathroom. I knew it was a little much, but I had come to learn that life in LA was like that.A little much.After wak
HarleyThe Wolf was the definition of an average bar.From the outside, it didn’t look like much. In fact, when I stepped out of the cab and looked up at the wooden doors set with iron hinges, my first thought was, this hardly looks like the right setting for a first date.I adjusted my purse strap on my shoulder, lifted my chin, and stepped up onto the curb. I walked toward the doors and a middle-aged man coming out held it open for me. I thanked him, and as soon as I stepped inside, I was hit by the greasy aroma deep-fried food.The bar had a small-town tavern vibe. The furniture was all heavy-looking wood in dark cherry that matched the bar sprawled across the back wall. A giant mural of a wolf’s head hung in the middle of the bar and was flanked by shelves on either side loaded down with bottles of liquor.It was busy as hell.Almost every table was taken, and every stool at the bar was occupied, save one at the very end.I looked around for the man I was supposed to meet.I’d onl
HarleyJim smirked. “Damn. All right. Now I’m worried. Are you in the FBI or something?”I laughed and shook my head. “No. Definitely not.”“Why definitely?”“I’m a thorn in the side of law enforcement.”His brows drew together. “You’re a pimp, aren’t you?”I burst out laughing.He collapsed into his chair. “I should have known a chick so hot wouldn’t have a traditional nine to five.”“Who says a pimp can’t schedule themselves to work nine to five?”He studied me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Okay. In all seriousness, what do you do, Harriet?”I considered toying with him. It would be so easy. He was looking at me the way I looked at ice cream, and I knew without a doubt that he would believe whatever words came out of my mouth next.But that seemed like a foolish game to play.“I organize and host the underground street racing scene here in New York.”He blinked. “Whoa. Wait, what?”That was the reaction I was used to getting from non-race-car-driving men. “Yep. Have you heard of
RickThe Saleen looked more than a little out of place outside the motel in Greenwood, Indiana. All the other vehicles were either crossovers driven by young families, sedans owned by business people, or pickup trucks.My car caught more than a few eyes from the people lounging near the swimming pool on the right side of the motel when I got out and crossed the parking lot to duck into the lobby to book a room.A young man, probably twenty-four or so with curly red hair and trendy black-framed glasses, looked up from his phone screen, took his feet down from the desk, and pulled his headphones off.“Good evening,” he said a little hurriedly, realizing he’d been caught in the act of slacking off while getting paid.“Evening. I’d like a room, please.”“For one?”I nodded.“Name?”“Benjamin Harris,” I lied.Torq had been on my tail ever since I’d left LA three months ago, but over the last few weeks, I’d managed to shake him, and I was fairly certain that this time, he wasn’t going to ca