But to be safe... “Where did you go to high school?” I ask.

“Worthington Private,” he says with the arrogance most guys from my school use when saying the word private.

“I go there.” And I don’t bother hiding my grin.

Neither do they. The car owner continues to be the spokesman for his duo. “What year are you?”

“A junior.”

“We graduated last year.”

“Cool,” I say. Very cool. My brother would be a year behind him, but West has made it his business for people to love him. “Do you know West Young?”

“Yeah.” He brightens. I’ve seen that look before with guys as they talk to other girls at school. ’Vette boy thinks he’s so close to scoring. It’s hysterical that he has that expression with me. “He’s a hell of a guy. Do you two party together?”

I laugh and I can’t stop myself. “No. He’s my brother.”

Their smiles melt quicker than a snow cone on a summer’s afternoon. “You’re his baby sister?”

“I prefer to be called Rachel. And you are?”

He runs a hand over his face. “Going to get my ass kicked by your brothers. I saw the last guy that pissed off West Young and I’m not interested in a nose job. Forget I said anything about racing, or that we even saw each other.”

As he inches to his car, I spring over the small concrete barrier. I only meant to make sure the guy would keep his distance, not sprint for Alaska. “Wait. I want to race.”

“Your brothers don’t play around when it comes to you, and aren’t you supposed to be sickly or something?”

Stupid, stupid brothers and stupid, stupid rumors and stupid, stupid hospital visits when I stupid, stupidly was so panicked my freshman year I had to stay overnight twice. “Obviously the whole sick thing is wrong and if you don’t take me to the drag race, I’ll tell West about tonight.” No, I won’t, but I’ll try bluffing.

Owner Guy looks over at his friend hovering near the passenger door. His friend shrugs. “I bet she’ll keep her mouth shut.”

“I will,” I blurt. “Keep my mouth shut.”

Owner Guy curses under his breath. “One race.”

Chapter 5

Isaiah

I LEAN AGAINST MY CAR door and assess the group illegally loitering in the parking lot of the abandoned strip mall. Green, blue and red neon lights frame the bottom of different makes and models. A few of us puritans remain on the streets, refusing to decorate our cars like Christmas trees. The bass line of rap rattles frames and a couple drivers are brave enough to blare the screeching electric guitar of heavy metal.

Clouds cover the sky, leaving all of us in a dark pit. Close to a week after Christmas, the presents have been opened, the turkey dinners have been demolished, and mommies and daddies are either tucked in bed or sucked into a bottle of Jack. Time for the rats to hit the streets.

“Isaiah!” Eric Hall abandons two girls in short skirts and faux fur jackets to head for me. Most people underestimate the bleached-blond, skinny son of a bitch, but that mistake could prove lethal for your billfold and your health. On the streets of the south side, this nineteen-year-old is king. “Merry belated Christmas, my brother. Did Santa bring you some good shit?”

“Don’t know if I’d call it good.” I accept his outstretched hand and the half hug.

Eric is who I came to see, and if I don’t watch myself, I’ll end up indebted to him. My goal in life is to be free of everyone—foster care, school, social workers. Eric Hall may not be official, but he’s an organization all his own with the street business he created. He even has “employees”: guys with bats and tire irons that willingly beat the hell out of anyone who doesn’t pay.

He motions to the two giggling girls. “Santa brought me twins, and in the spirit of the season, I’m willing to share. That is, if you drive for me tonight.”

This is the reason why I’m here. Noah and I need cash, and Eric can make that happen. If I play this right, I’ll rake in money and stay free.

While sucking on a lollipop, the twin with black hair stares at me longer than her sister. “Ho, ho, ho,” mumbles Eric.

My thoughts exactly and I turn my back to them. I have a bad track record with girls with black hair. “You know I don’t street race.”

Typically, I don’t. Street racing can put my ass in jail and cost me the setup I have with Noah. I have no intention of being placed in juvie—or worse, a group home. I race legally at The Motor Yard, but The Motor Yard is closed for the holidays. Tonight will be a onetime deal.

He leans in close as if what he’s about to say is a secret. “I’ll give you twenty percent of what I make on top of the Christmas cheer. I’m giving my other boys ten.”

I consider twenty percent. Eric has never offered anyone such a commission, but if he’s starting off high, maybe he’ll go even higher. “Twenty percent isn’t going to cover my bail if I get arrested.”

“I know you, my brother,” says Eric. “You need speed, and I have the need for green. Say yes and you can race my recently acquired suped-up Honda Civic with two full tanks of nitro.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Recently acquired” means some messed-up kid got in over his head on a bet and lost the papers to his car. He possibly also spent a couple nights in the hospital.

“Nitro and Honda,” I slur as a curse. “Give me American-made with a real live engine pushing horsepower.”

Eric shakes his head. “FYI—James Dean died over sixty years ago.” He pauses as realization snakes onto his face. “You aren’t saying no.”

“I’m looking for a onetime race, Eric. That is, if we can come to an understanding.”

The sweet purring of an engine grabs not only my attention, but that of every hot-blooded, car-worshipping male in the lot. Jesus—that’s a 2005 Mustang GT. And unlike the other muscle cars parked on the strip, not a piece of her looks like it’s seen the inside of a body shop.

A flood of male bodies surround the beautiful pony. I drop back and let the wolves have first crack. A car like this is here for one reason—to race—and any new piece of machinery has to pass Eric’s inspection. Someone is going to have to approve the engine and I have no doubt I’ll be the one caressing that soft underbelly.

The driver shuts down the engine, opens the door and a halo of sunshine slides out of the car and into the light of the only working streetlamp. Fuck me. God does exist and he sent an angel in a white Mustang to prove it.

Angels are small—at least this one is. She stands barely a foot taller than the top of her car. Her long golden hair curls at the ends and she has a slender frame. Her leather-gloved hand grips the top of her door and she uses that door as a shield between herself and the street rats.

“Nice car.” Like a vulture, Eric slowly circles her.

“Thanks.” She glances at two guys exiting a Corvette. Those college boys belong here even less than she does. All three of them are easy prey.

Eric knows how to play people. He told me once he was voted most likely to succeed in high school. If bleeding people dry of their money and manipulating them into deals that only benefit him is a measure of success, then Eric met his high school buddies’ expectations.

The angel tucks her hair behind her ear. “Is this where I can drag race?”

I wince internally at her words. Asking for anything on the streets is a cardinal sin. Asking nicely is basically serving your soul to the devil. God didn’t send this angel to save me. He sent her as a sacrifice.

Several people laugh, and her eyes flicker over the crowd to pinpoint danger. I watch the two guys cowering near the Corvette. Come on, boys. Now’s the time to step up and protect your girl.

Eric’s eyes wander the length of her body. I agree, she’s something to look at in the black fabric coat tailored to her curves, but everything about her screams high-priced and high-maintenance. Only the conceited girls at school wear clothes that nice. Eric gestures to the Corvette with his chin. “Are those your boys?”

Answer yes, angel. Tell him those rich boys are cocky serial killers with jealousy issues and will happily take down anyone who messes with their girl.

She clears her throat. “No. They told me about the race.”

Dammit. A muscle in my jaw jerks. It’s like the girl wants to be taken advantage of. If this were any other night, I’d shove my way through the crowd, toss the girl back in her car and tell her to go home. But this isn’t a normal night, and I need money. I can’t do it. I can’t get involved. My neck tightens, and I pop it to the side to release the pressure.

A sly smile spreads across Eric’s face. “Good. Then we’ll work out a deal. Open the hood and we’ll get started. Isaiah, I need a little help.”

Because no one messes with me, the crowd parts without my having to say a word. The angel’s eyes widen and travel over my arms. What is she concerned about? That it’s forty degrees and I’m not wearing a coat? Or is she unnerved by the tattoos?

It doesn’t matter. In less than ten minutes, this girl will be out of my life.

I raise the hood and a rush of adrenaline hits me when I see the pure power and beauty before me. My eyes snap to hers. “Do you have any idea what you’ve got in this?”

Of course she doesn’t. She’s some stupid rich girl who got her Daddy’s leftovers for Christmas. She bites her lower lip before answering, “Four point six-liter V-8.”

“The girl knows her shit,” says Eric with a hint of respect. Too bad her knowledge of engines won’t save her from him.

I place my hands on the frame of the car and bend over to get a closer view. “It’s the goddamned original engine.” Untouched as if it just rolled off the line. The engine’s aluminum has a shine that only comes with reverence. Someone has taken care of this beauty.

The girl abandons her safe shield of the door and flitters to my side, waving me away. “I’d really rather that you not touch it.”

Yeah, because I’m trash that knows nothing about cars and my one stroke will destroy the engine. “Scared Daddy will know you lifted his car if he finds fingerprints?”

She takes a possessive step, wedges herself between me and the car and looks me square in the eye. Her chin lifts in a kittenish cute-pissed way. “No one but me touches that engine.”

A chorus of “Ohs” and “Damns” rises from the crowd. One of my eyebrows slowly pushes toward my hairline. She called me out. If she were a guy, my fist would have already made impact, but girls deserve respect. She holds my stare for a record-breaking five seconds before losing her short burst of courage and lowering her head.

“Please don’t touch my car,” she says softly. “Okay?”

Her eyes dart to mine for assurance, and I incline my head a centimeter. If this was my car, I wouldn’t want anyone else touching it, either. “Go home,” I mutter so only she can hear.

Lines wrinkle her perfect forehead, and Eric claps a hand on my back. “What’s the verdict?”