“No argument,” she protests. “No one will tell your dad. I promise.”

I dart my eyes to the two drones hovering overhead.

Dylan follows my gaze. “Oh, yeah,” she grumbles. “I forgot about those.”

Jax thought drones would be a great feature to use for overhead shots and video, as well as an easier way to capture what went on out on the off-roading tracks. While I could avoid the GoPros on the cars, the drones would get shots of who’s inside the cars, and my dad would eventually get wind of it.

“Clear the track!” Zack Hager, one of the track managers, booms over the speakers.

A flood of people disperses, clearing the area and heading to their preferred vantage point: the bleachers, their cars, or behind the fence. Music blasts into the air, and the huge digital clock counts down from thirty, letting the racers know they should be in their cars when it hits zero.

“Well, here I go.” Dylan exhales a heavy breath and smiles excitedly.

I brush her chin with my fist, fake punching her. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

She bumps my hip with hers. “Stay gold, Ponyboy.”

I always laugh at our customary farewell, quoting Casablanca and The Outsiders, respectively.

She climbs into her race car, a tricked-out Nissan Silvia that was part of her father’s collection, as I leave the track and position myself behind the chain-link fence.

Normally Jared prefers American muscle, but he was forced to broaden his horizons when he became such a big deal.

Madoc stands at my side with Fallon and their daughter, A.J., on his other side.

There are three cars lined up on the track, and I don’t recognize the other two drivers, but they look young, so it should give Dylan a decent chance. They likely won’t have much more experience than she does.

Engines fire up, and I feel the high-pitched whir vibrating underneath my feet.

“Any of this getting you excited?”

I look at Madoc, the ever-hopeful light shining in his eyes. “Like turned on, you mean?”

“No!” he bursts out, looking disgusted. “I mean like, do you finally want a car, so you can stop mooching off family for rides? Look at them.” He waves his hand toward the track. “They’re so hot. Don’t you want that?”

“Pay him no mind,” Fallon says, peeking around him. “He’s about to orgasm.”

I laugh, holding the waist-high fence with both hands. Exhaust pours out of the cars, the red stoplight shines bright in the warm evening dusk, and my stomach starts to flip a little. Dylan must be so nervous.

“Just go ride with Dylan,” Madoc suggests. “Get a feel for the car.”

“There’s drones everywhere. You know Dad will find out.”

“Dad dealt with me racing,” he points out. “He can handle you doing a ride-along.”

“She’s not interested, Madoc,” Fallon scolds. “Leave her alone.”

Thank you.

But then Madoc spits out, “She doesn’t know what she is.” And my smile falls at his harsh tone. “Her entire life has been played out from the palm of his hand since the day she was born. She can’t make a decision without running to Daddy for his input.”

My eyes flare.

“Madoc!” Fallon whisper-yells.

I jerk my head to face him, glaring. “What did you just say?”

He shrugs, a challenge in his smiling eyes. “I said you’re a wimp.”

That’s it!

I storm back onto the track and head straight for Dylan’s car. I open the passenger side door and turn to look at Madoc, shooting him my middle finger, because he’s an invasive, interfering butt-nugget who needs to learn how to shut up.

Everyone in the vicinity starts laughing, Madoc included, and I dive into the car, anger raging beneath my skin.

Dylan stares at me with her eyebrows raised in a question.

I breathe hard and pull the seat belt down over my head, the shoulder straps descending in a V in front of me as I fasten it.

“I have places I want to travel and recipes I haven’t tried. Stay on the road and don’t kill me in this thing,” I warn her.

But she just frowns at me. “Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”

Oh, whatever. I roll my eyes at her Back to the Future reference.

She chuckles and plugs in the iPod. “War playlist,” she says to herself, navigating the touch screen on her radio. “Track five.”

The screen reads “‘Stronger’ by Through the Fire,” but as soon as the song starts, Dylan’s door opens.

Jared leans in, looking at his daughter and holding out a necklace of some sort. It’s some kind of charm or something on a ribbon.

She smiles and reaches out slowly, as if shocked. “Thanks,” she says, her voice small.

He nods and gives her a half-smile, and then reaches over, pulling on her and my harnesses, making sure we’re locked in. Kissing her forehead quickly, he closes the door.

“What is that?” I ask, watching her hang the charm on her rearview mirror.

“It’s my mom’s thumbprint,” she answers. “It was a craft she made when she was little. My dad had it with him in every race for good luck.”

The charm looks like an oval piece of clay no bigger than a quarter, and in the middle is a small fingerprint pressed into the piece, like a fossil. It hangs on a tattered, light green ribbon that looks ages old.

The announcer’s voice shouts over the speakers outside, and I tense, hearing the crowd begin to go wild.