It’s only a quarter-mile race. Less than fifteen seconds long. Maybe sixteen, with these two cars.

I can see Mason standing at the end of the line, watching to see which vehicle passes first.

Camille edges up. Her car is more than roaring—it’s bellowing. A wisp of smoke comes out from under the hood. She keeps pushing anyway.

I can’t help admiring her driving. Camille’s got balls. And she knows how to get the most out of her car.

Meanwhile, the G-Wagon wobbles unsteadily on its base. It’s top-heavy, and Bella probably has the gas pedal floored. Camille deliberately crowds the SUV. Bella jerks the wheel too hard to correct. The wobble turns into a fishtail. Camille flies past, crossing the finish line.

They circle back around, Bella driving recklessly fast as if she can still win, Camille moving cautiously, because there’s a steady stream of dark gray smoke coming out from the corner of her hood.

Before Bella’s even gotten out of the car, she’s already shrieking that Camille cheated. “That was horseshit! You tried to run me off the road!” she yells.

“I didn’t touch you,” Camille says.

“ ‘Cause you don’t care if you scratch up your piece of shit car!” Bella shouts, furiously. She turns and boots the side of Camille’s Trans Am, putting a dent in the driver’s side panel.

This is a big no-no in street racing. You do not fuck with anybody’s car.

Camille launches herself at Bella, only held back by Patricia and Carlo, who has thrown himself between the girls.

“Hey, hey, relax!” he says, stiff-arming them both in opposite directions.

“That is fucking IT!” Camille is shouting.

“Looks the same as it did before,” Bella sneers back at her.

“Here,” Grisha stuffs a bundle of bills in Camille’s hand. “You won. There’s some extra for the car.”

Bella smirks, pleased to have her boyfriend pay for her mistakes.

Camille takes the money, but she’s so pissed off that she’s shaking. She’s mad that Bella didn’t even pay her bet, let alone the damage. It looks like Camille has to silently count to ten before she can turn away from Bella, popping the hood of her car, and releasing a cloud of smoke-tinged with oil.

“Fucking garbage,” Bella hisses, not specifying whether she’s talking about Camille or her car.

Camille ignores her, focused solely on her ride.

Mason, Carlo, and I all circle around her, irresistibly drawn by our curiosity to see what went wrong. I stand next to Camille, peering over her shoulder. It’s exactly the position we took when she was looking at my car earlier today.

“Here we are again,” I say.

She gives me an annoyed look, not seeing the humor in it.

“Yikes,” Mason says. “That doesn’t look good …”

“COPS!” somebody shouts.

The effect is instant. The word is like a grenade thrown into the center of the group. Everybody scatters.

It’s not that I care so much about a ticket. It wouldn’t be my first. But I don’t fancy spending the rest of the night in an interrogation room, if the cops get the bright idea to try to put the screws to me while they have the chance.

I’m about to take off, until I see Camille standing helplessly next to her car.

“Come on!” Patricia calls to her. “Come with us!”

Patricia is climbing into Mason’s Supra. She gestures frantically for Camille to join them.

“I can’t leave my car!” Camille calls back.

I hear sirens closing in on two sides.

I should just leave.

If Camille wants to get arrested, that’s her dumb choice.

Camille rests her palm on her car, her expression anguished. Like it would kill her to leave the Trans Am. Like it’s her baby.

“Forget the car,” I bark to Camille. “You can come back for it tomorrow.”

She casts a frightened look in the direction of the cop cars, but she’s still glued to the smoking Trans Am. I hear racers speeding off in all directions, while I’m still standing here like a fool.

Propelled by annoyance, I scoop Camille up and throw her over my shoulder.

“HEY!” she shrieks. “Put me down! What are you—”

“Shut up,” I snarl, jogging over to my car.

I’m jostling Camille but I could care less. I wrench open the passenger door and throw her inside.

“I don’t need you to—”

I slam the door in her face and run around to the driver’s side.

A squad car is heading right for us. We’re the only idiots still parked along the main drag. Mason already peeled off as soon as he saw me grab Camille.

The cop has his siren blaring and his lights on. Over the speaker, he barks, “Stay right where you are!”

Instead, I set my foot on the gas pedal and press it all the way down to the floor.

7

Camille

“What are you doing!?” I shriek as Nero speeds away from the cops.

Two squad cars chase after us, sirens wailing furiously. The police are driving Chargers, basically the most aggressive cop car ever built. They’re new, fast, and built like a tank, with front racks to sweep us off the road if they get so much as a piece of us.

Nero is staring straight ahead. His face is oddly calm. No, strike that—I think he’s actually enjoying this. His perpetual scowl is wiped away, and the tiniest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Hey, psychopath!” I yell at him. “I think they want you to pull over!”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Nero says, calmly.

Jesus Christ. Just when I think I can’t get in any more trouble, now I’m evading arrest.

We’re racing down Wacker Drive, nearing the end of the strip that’s relatively free of traffic or lights. Soon we’re going to get jammed up in cross streets.

“Hold on,” Nero says.

“What? Why—”

He pulls the e-brake, spinning us around in a tight circle. The tires shriek, and the smell of melted rubber fills the car. The whole world spins around like a merry-go-round.

Now we’re facing the two cop cars barreling down on us, and Nero has floored the gas again. We’re hurtling toward them like a game of chicken. I crouch down in my seat, not wanting to be seen and also feeling like Nero’s about to crash us headlong into the police.

Instead, he shoots the gap between the two cop cars with only an inch to spare on either side. His side mirror hits the mirror of the squad car, ripping it off.

Then we’re barreling down the road again, going in the opposite direction. I hear the screech of the squad cars trying to brake and turn around. The Chargers are fast, but they’re definitely not as maneuverable. And presumably, the officers driving them actually care about staying alive, so they’re not whipping around like a demon in a go-cart.

“Just stop!” I beg Nero. “You’re gonna get us killed!”

“Probably not,” he says, as if he doesn’t much care one way or another.

Nero pulls a hard left down Adams, throwing me against the passenger door.

“You should buckle up,” he says.

I try to pull my seatbelt across my body, not easy to do when Nero is taking each new corner like he’s trying to confuse himself, only wrenching the wheel to the side when we’re almost past it.