Outlaw's Last Race Page 2

  But I’ve never seen this side of him before.

  “Nash. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.” I hear my voice waver, and hate myself for it. “Promise me you won’t go looking for—for him.”

  Nash runs his fingers through his hair. “I won’t. I already promised Drazic. He’s right—it’d only make things worse for everyone.”

  He’s not meeting my eyes. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold.

  “But trust me, if that shitbag knows what’s good for him . . . he’ll stay far, far away from the crew. From the races.”

  Lennox staying away from races? That doesn’t sound at all like the Lennox I knew.

  But the Lennox I knew would’ve never driven drunk, either.

  I guess the Lennox I thought I knew and loved wasn’t really him at all.

  2

  Elena

  I finish fine-tuning the GTO for Nash, and the boys decide to head out to the warehouse district in what’s left of Ridgecrest’s downtown. Cyrus, the final member of the crew, meets up with us in his decked out Mitsubishi, while Jagger decides to bring his favorite Mazda out to play. I’m more of a classics girl myself; I make some quick adjustments to Drazic’s favorite, an old BMW M3, and ride out with them to see how the GTO runs now.

  “Usual circuit,” Drazic says, after the boys maneuver their vehicles into a single-file line in one of the warehouse district alleyways. We almost never race against each other in trials. Here, it’s all about racing against the clock. “Elena’s got stopwatch duty. I’m gonna head up to the roof to observe from above.”

  Jagger peels out first, his throaty exhaust rumbling through the battered brick alleys. I close my eyes and listen to the way his engine sounds as he weaves through the decaying streets. We checked the police scanners before we started, but no one’s going to mess with Drazic’s crew. Not up here in the downtown area—there’s no one left to care.

  Ridgecrest was a mining town first, then a manufacturing town, and now it’s not much of anything, but I don’t mind. We’ve made our home in the mountains and we can claim these streets for our own. There’s a beauty in the emptiness and grit, and the lonely peaks and high desert plains that surround us.

  Jagger’s engine roars back around the circuit—a mix of the downtown streets and then the mountain ridge vista with nothing but a guardrail between the street and the valley far below. As soon as he enters the alley mouth, I click off the watch.

  “Under nine minutes,” I announce, once he climbs out of the car. “Last week you were almost at ten.”

  Jagger flashes his rock-star grin. “Can’t wait to have those upstate boys kissing my ring.”

  “And their upstate girls riding your dick?” Nash asks, ribbing him.

  “That’s the plan.” They high-five while I share an eyeroll with Drazic.

  “Nash. You’re up. Show me what this baby can do.”

  Nash wraps his arms around my waist and tucks his hands into my jean pockets. “I know you’ve built me a winner, babe. I just hope I’m worthy of it.”

  “Please. You were creaming the Calvert crew in that little piece of shit import. You’ll be just fine.”

  He pinches my ass with a wink, and heads over to the GTO.

  It runs a lot quieter—a meaty growl, but not the kind that echoes like Jagger’s drifter does. Once he’s past the second turn, I don’t hear him at all.

  Cyrus puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s Hispanic, tall and husky with a deep tan from his job at the impound lot. He’s always been the strong, silent rock of the group, but ready to turn enforcer at Drazic’s command. After the accident, Cyrus kept Nash from hurting himself and anyone else. I wonder if he’s up to the task now.

  “You take good care of him,” Cyrus tells me, his voice pitched low. “Probably better than he deserves.”

  I shrug. “It’s what anyone would do.”

  “No. You’re different, hermana. Much stronger than they give you credit for.” His lips twist downward. “But you deserve a break sometimes, too.”

  As Nash pulls back off the mountain ridge drive, I hear him again. He’s pulling the wheel too tight—it’s all in the way the tires hug the turns. Cyrus is wrong. I don’t get a break. Not now, when Nash is so tense. I’ve got to keep him calm.

  “Let us take care of him tonight,” Cyrus says. “You’ve got work to do.”

  I click the stopwatch off as Nash pulls in. Just over eight minutes. “Yeah. Okay.”

  I love Nash. But I’m afraid of him right now. I only hope that the guys can get his head on right so we can go back to normal.

  Except, with Lennox out of prison, I’m wondering what normal even looks like for me.

  The boys plan to head out to the bar once we close up the auto shop, with Cyrus as the night’s DD. After they handle some crew business, Drazic adds, patting me on the head. Great. I know just what that means. So I won’t even ask. I don’t mind, though. I like having some time to myself at the shop, to catch up on the bookkeeping and think to myself.

  It’s the strangest thing. I grew up in this shop; it’s as familiar to me as Uncle Drazic’s house. So many warm memories of laughter with the boys, of kissing Nash for the first time, or learning everything I know about cars right at my uncle’s elbow. But tonight, as I log the latest receipts and draft minimum payment checks to cover the shop’s debt, all I see when I look across the mechanics bay are the times I spent here with Lennox.

  There, when he hugged me and let me cry in his arms the first time I got my heart broken in middle school. And there, when fourteen-year-old me helped him write the perfect Valentine’s poem for his girlfriend, though I was secretly pretending he was writing it for me. And then, sitting on that counter, our voices hushed, when he clasped my hands in his and made me a promise for once I grew up—

  I’ve barely thought of him since the accident—certainly since he was kicked out of the crew. It was like he’d died, and we’d all buried our memories with him. I thought he’d faded from my mind completely, but the memories sure haven’t. They were just locked up with him, and now they’re loose too.

  I shake my head and toss the overflowing file of receipts into Drazic’s safe. I’ve got to pull myself together. Nothing’s changed. Lennox betrayed us all, and he hurt Nash the worst. I can never forgive him for that, just like the crew can’t forgive him for taking the life of one of their own.

  It’s just eerie, is all. To know he’s no longer a ghost. To think of him as a living, breathing human again, and yet, I can’t feel the same obsessive love I felt for him when I was younger. Because he’s no longer that guy.

  I lock up the shop and grab the keys to my favorite of Uncle D’s cars—the 1979 Camaro, with its liquid blue paint job and its engine that purrs.

  The back roads outside of Ridgecrest dazzle with starlight and warm night air blowing up from the desert. There’s a highway that runs right by Drazic’s house, but it’s studded with potholes and tourists on their way to the mountains for skiing or the desert for hippie communes. I prefer this path—just me and the mountains, my headlights kissing the tree trunks as I wind my way along the ridge.

  And then there’s this poor idiot in a stripped-paint Camry pulled over on the shoulder with his hazards flashing.

  I’m sorely tempted to drive past—my nerves are shot for the day and I can’t wait to sleep—but I can’t bring myself to do it. I pull over behind the Camry and slap on my hazards. I’ve got a decent selection of roadside emergency tools in the trunk, but I need to diagnose the issue first.

  Uncle D always warned me to be careful offering help late at night. I fumble with my key ring until I’ve got my butterfly knife ready to snap open in case there’s any sign of trouble.

  Never can be too careful.

  “Hey there.” I keep a respectful distance as I approach on the highway side of our lined-up cars. “What seems to be the problem?”

  The driver ducks out from behind the popped hood. My heart leaps into my throat. Fuc
k. It’s Lennox Solt.

  And he looks good.

  Lennox was always fit—not in a tight-shirted, show-offy way—Nash’s favorite way to bare his physique. Instead, Lennox always carried this quiet, flinty strength, ready to help out whenever needed. Now, though, his body looks whittled away, with nothing but bones and lean muscle remaining. And his olive skin is covered in tattoos, swirling like vines up his arms and peeking out of the collar of his shirt. He’s sporting a goatee now, trimmed and casual, and his thick dark hair is just long enough to wisp at the ends, begging for fingers to run through it—

  My keys slip out of my hand and hit the gravel shoulder as I suck in my breath.

  “You, uh . . .” He furrows his brow. Tries to smile at me, but it looks forced. “Dropped something.”

  I scramble for my keys, then take a nervous step toward the front of the Camry. “Lennox,” I mumble. “Hey.”

  “Elena Drazic.” He glances skyward, shaking his head. “Well, I guess if I had to break down, at least I had the good fortune of you showing up. Best damn mechanic in the biz.”

  My face immediately heats up; I’m grateful the only light we’ve got are his headlights and mine, washing all the color out of everything. “I’m—I’m really not. I just learned from . . .”

  “No, no. Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?” I ask.

  Lennox ducks his head back behind the hood of the Camry. “Sell yourself short. Give all the credit to your uncle. C’mon.” Another strained smile. “Everyone learns somewhere. It’s what you do with it that matters.”

  I shove my hands into my back pockets, unsure what to say. I missed you? That’s the first thing that pops into my head, but I sure as shit can’t say that. I can’t believe you hurt us like this? Lennox busies himself fiddling with the engine, the filters, everything else, but I can tell by the glint of his eyes that he keeps looking over at me. It thrills me far more than it should.

  “So, um . . . What seems to be the problem?” I ask. “Aside from the fact that you’re driving this commuter piece of shit.”

  He laughs, bitter. “Yeah, well. Just got out of the pen. No one’s exactly gonna let me lease a Viper.”

  Right. I swallow, hard, and approach the hood. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Lennox takes a step back. He’s moving oddly—like he’s a wild animal I’ve cornered. Like he hasn’t yet decided if I’m a predator or prey. “Be my guest.”

  I pop the pen light on my keychain and poke around, checking out the pitiful machinery before me. Weak-ass engine, molding tubing, filters due for a change, crusted oil valve . . . None of it Lennox’s fault, I know, but it breaks my heart all the same. The Lennox of three years ago would have been appalled at the state of this car. Most likely he forked over a couple hundred in cash for it as-is, but knowing him, he’s got big dreams of fixing it up to make it last.

  I’m not sure it’s worth the effort.

  “Huh.” I prop my pen light under my chin and carefully peel back some still-hot tubing. I’m acutely aware of his presence over my shoulder, the warmth he seems to give off in the crisp evening air.

  He smells of hot oil and sandalwood, same as he always did. I blush again, remembering the time fifteen-year-old Elena once bought the shampoo he used, and woke up every morning pressing her nose against her pillow now that it smelled like him. God. I had it so bad for him, way back when. And now, surrounded by that smell again, it feels all too easy for me to slip back into those feelings.

  “Ah-ha. It’s your timing belt. Look—it’s about to go.” I gesture toward the bit of rubber about to tear clean through. “I can patch it up for you enough to get you home, but you’ll need to replace it first thing tomorrow.”

  “Home.” Lennox shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, El.”

  “Lemme go get my kit and patch you up.” I dig my toolkit out of the Camaro, clip a work lamp to the hood of his Camry, and get to work. It’s not easy—the rubber on his belt has fermented, threatening to crack apart any second—but it should be enough to get him through one more day.

  I can’t help myself—I start noticing all the other things that are wrong with Lennox’s junker. Loose, rusted screws near the engine casing, exposed wiring . . . God, he’d spend thousands trying to get this piece of crap in good working condition. He’d be better off just buying something new that wouldn’t leave him stranded on the ridge line. But I know it’s not in the cards for him right now. Not with a rap sheet like his.

  He killed someone, I remind myself, as I feel my pity for him start to seep into my thoughts. Not just anyone. Nash’s brother. It makes my stomach churn. But stranded on the side of the road like this, I can’t help feeling bad for Lennox. For the big-hearted man I once knew and loved. What happened to that man? How do I reconcile that memory of him with the murderer standing before me?

  I wrestle with one of the screws, trying to tighten up his engine casing, but can’t seem to hold it in place. I wipe a stray lock of hair out of my face, almost certainly smudging my cheek with oil, and lean back in.

  “Here. Let me help you with that.”

  “I’ve got it,” I snap.

  Lennox grins. “I know you do. But please—at least let me do something.”

  Lennox leans around me and fiddles with the screw. He holds while I tighten. My arm brushes up against his ribs, those hard notches of lean muscle and bone, and again I feel my face heating up. Get a grip, Elena.

  “There.” I straighten up and step back a little too quickly. I don’t like the way he’s throwing me off-guard, like I’m a teenager all over again and nothing bad ever went down. He’s a killer and a traitor to the club. No one gets to come back from a colossal fuckup like that.

  “Thanks.” Lennox shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches forward. Maybe it’s just the headlights, but his eyes look so deep, so sad. I force myself to look away.

  “So, uh . . .” I keep my back to him while I put away my tools. “Are you, uh . . . staying with Amber now?”

  Amber Cartwright was Lennox’s longtime girlfriend. They had their ups and downs—one down in particular—but they always seemed to work it out in the end, much to dumb teenage Elena’s dismay. Amber knew better than to come around the crew after Troy’s death, though. Hell, she was in the car with them both that awful night.

  She could have told Lennox no. That he was too drunk to drive. But that’s not Amber’s style. She wanted to go home, and didn’t care who was fit to drive her.

  Lennox laughs, a bitter, rattling sound. I wince. “Yeah. Right.” He toes at the gravel. “Amber can’t wait thirty minutes for a pizza. You really thought she was gonna wait three years for me?”

  My shoulders stiffen. I snap my tool case shut and yank my work light off the Camry’s hood. “I—I’m sorry. I guess I should have known.”

  “Not your fault,” Lennox says.

  But it is my fault. Lennox is just too polite to point it out. At least prison hasn’t beaten that out of him. It breaks my heart all over again.

  I turn back toward him and meet those hard brown eyes. “I guess I always thought you guys were the real deal,” I say. “Yeah, Amber’s a diva, but your love always seemed . . . stronger.”

  “Yeah, well, prison showed me I’m not nearly as strong as I think.” Lennox shrugs with his whole body, lithe and fluid. “It’s fine. Life moves on, right?”

  “You were always strong to me.” The words are out before I can stop them. I just can’t line up the powerful, easygoing, passionate Lennox I knew and loved with this hardened man before me.

  Lennox looks at me sideways. “Elena . . . Please. You don’t have to . . .”

  “No. I do.” And all at once, everything I’ve wanted to say to him all these years comes bubbling up. I’m angry he left. I’m wounded. And I can’t keep it all inside a moment more. “You always told me to stay true to myself. My beliefs. You were my hero. How could you do that to Troy? Life doesn’t move on for Troy.” My
voice is trembling. “What happened to you?”

  “I’m not your hero,” Lennox growls. “You should’ve learned that three years ago.”

  But the anger’s burning in me still. I have to leave before I say more things I’ll regret. I blink back tears and sling my toolbox over my shoulder.

  “Elena. Hey. Wait.”

  I toss my gear in the Camaro’s back, take a deep breath, and look back at him.

  His shoulders are drawn forward, cowed. There’s still that hard glint in his eyes as he squints against my headlights, but he looks beaten down. He looks like the Lennox who used to stand up to Uncle Drazic. He’d fight and fight to change the crew’s future, to get them out of their dirty business, and he would lose, every time. But it never shook his loyalty. He always stuck with the crew.

  Maybe he’s no hero now, but there’s still a hint of the old Lennox inside of him.

  “You turned out all right,” Lennox says. “Gorgeous, clever, and strong for yourself. Stay true to that, okay? Don’t be strong for the crew—be strong for yourself.”

  “Is that what you did?” I ask. “You looked out for your number one?”

  Lennox shakes his head, running his tongue over his teeth. “Not even close.”

  I slide into the driver’s seat of the Camaro and put it into reverse. “I hope things look up for you, Lennox. Really, I do.”

  The sad smile he gives me as I pull away stings. It stings all the way back to Drazic’s house.

  Something isn’t adding up, and like a broken-down muscle car, I’m determined to fix it up.

  3

  Lennox

  It fucking figures that Elena was one of the first people I ran into after getting out of the pen. Of all the people I don’t want seeing me like this, she’s right at the top. Granted, the sweet, tender, shy, precocious Elena I remembered is a world away from the gorgeous, steady bombshell who bent over my piece of shit Camry and made all my engine troubles go away with the wave of her hand. She’s got confidence now and she’s grown into herself, but she’s still the same Elena—the Elena I left. The Elena I hurt. I’ve let her down. Betrayed her. Even more than all the rest.