LITMIR.BIZ

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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?”

      The angel and I glance at each other. Come on, don’t make me get involved more than I already am.

      “Isaiah?” prompts Eric.

      Damn. “The car has speed,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. Eric can make plenty off the unsuspecting owner, but he cashes in on side bets. “But it’s the original engine. No modifications. No nitro.”

      “How much?” Eric asks her.

      “How much what?” Holding her elbows, she folds into herself, as if becoming smaller will help the situation. Go home, angel. Take your beautiful pony and park her back in a safe garage in an upscale neighborhood where you both belong.

      Eric chuckles deeply and his fingers flick the air. The movement reminds me of the way the legs of a spider gracefully work as it spins a web. “How much money are you putting down to race your car?”

      “Can’t I just race someone?”

      “Excuse me.” The driver of the Corvette approaches us at a strange, hesitant yet eager pace. As if his feet are afraid to move, but the top half of his body gravitates toward us. “Did you mention that she needs to make a bet?”

      The angel closes her eyes as she visibly relaxes and mumbles, “Finally.”

      “Yes,” says Eric, mimicking the asshole’s more formal tone. “Are you willing to place that bet on her behalf?”

      “Are you the person that holds the bets?” he asks.

      Eric eyeballs Corvette Guy. “Yes.”

      The guy becomes eager as he reaches for his back pocket. No. Not happening. I’ve seen that front hundreds of times on guys at races—the attitude that says he gets a hard-on from betting. This girl will lose the slip to her car by the end of the night if he gets involved.

      Fuck. Just fuck. “Do you have money?” I glare at the angel.

      “Yes,” says asshole Corvette owner.

      “Not you, dickhead.” I size him up and stare him down to keep him from opening his mouth again, then snap my gaze to her. “You. Do you have money?”

      Her golden eyebrows furrow together. Worry isn’t an expression angels should wear. “I have twenty dollars.”

      The crowd laughs and so does Eric. I pull out my wallet and slam my last twenty onto the hood of Eric’s car. The laughter stops and the only sound filling the night is a pounding bass line and an electric guitar.

      Eric slides a hand over his drawn face. “Whatcha doing, my brother?”

      “Calling my race.”

      Eric glances at the crowd that’s completely absorbed in us. I’m costing Eric money, and everyone here knows it. Assessing me, Eric takes a tripped-out gangster stride in my direction and leans in close. “Fill me in on what I’m missing here.”

      I match his low tone. “You asked me to race for you. This is me accepting.”

      “Racing for me means I pick the races you drive and I negotiate the racing fees.”

      I know that. Hell, everyone here except the angel and her fucked-up friends knows that, but I claim ignorance. “My bad. We never got to the negotiating part.”

      “True that,” he says slowly. “Are you trying to play me?”

      I assess the Corvette owner. Two feet distances him from the angel. He’s either the worst boyfriend ever or she meant what she said earlier—he just informed her about the races. Still, she shouldn’t be in this position.

      Regardless, this girl ruined whatever negotiating room I had. “She’s got an ’05 Mustang GT. Original engine. I’m curious if my pieced-together Mustang can take hers. You get better betting when the cars are evenly matched. Let me do my shit and you do yours.”

      Eric stares at the angel before replying. “Fine, but the next time you decide you want a personal race, you talk to me first. Did you get a good look at that college boy? I could have made a couple grand off of him.”

      The boy wears slacks and a watch that costs more than I make in a year working at the auto shop. Eric shakes his head, clearly disgusted at the lost opportunity. “Your commission is twenty percent tonight as a signing bonus, but because I like you, I’ll give you fifteen every night after this. You’ll drive my cars, not your own. American-made can’t beat nitro.”

      “Tonight is a onetime deal.”

      Eric snorts. “Sure it is.”

      He turns, and I remember the question I should have asked before I accepted the deal. That damn angel shot this whole night to hell. “What happens if I lose?”

      From

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