1
Gabby
I have exactly three rules for surviving senior year: keep my GPA above a 3.8, get through my clinical rotations without falling behind, and stop letting my best friend talk me into things that begin with the words trust me.
The third rule is currently going very badly.
“This is illegal.”
Maya doesn’t look at me. She’s fixing her eyeliner in the passenger-side mirror, using the flashlight on her phone because the parking lot we’re sitting in barely has any lighting. Beyond the windshield, at least two hundred people are scattered between a pair of abandoned warehouses, modified cars, motorcycles, pickup trucks, and groups of people drinking from plastic cups. Music pounds from somewhere beyond the rows of cars, the bass vibrating through my steering wheel while engines rev loudly enough to rattle the windows.
“I know,” she says.
“You knew what this was when you brought me here?”
“Yes.”
I turn to look at her. “You told me we were going out.”
“We are.”
“I thought you meant a bar.”
“I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you.”
That, at least, is true.
I stare through the windshield at the sprawling industrial lot and reconsider every decision I’ve made since agreeing to leave my apartment tonight. A black car tears around the side of one warehouse, tires squealing against the pavement before the driver disappears behind a wall of people who barely bother moving out of the way.
“This is where you come on Saturdays?”
“Sometimes.”
“How many times have you been here?”
“A few.”
I look at her.
She finally glances over.
“What?”
“You’ve never mentioned this.”
“Because I knew exactly how you’d react.”
“I haven’t reacted yet.”
“You’ve been sitting here for five minutes refusing to turn the car off.”
I look down.
She’s right.
I turn the ignition off.
Cold October silence settles inside the car for approximately half a second before another engine roars outside.
Maya reaches for the door.
“Come on. If you hate it, we’ll leave.”
“You said that about the frat party sophomore year.”
“And we left.”
“At three in the morning.”
She smiles slightly. “You survived.”
Then she’s out of the car.
For a few seconds, I seriously consider staying where I am. It isn’t that I’m scared of the people outside. Most of them are probably students from Westbridge or people our age from town. It’s the unpredictability of it that bothers me. There are no security guards. No bouncers. No obvious person in charge. Just hundreds of people gathered in a place they probably aren’t supposed to be, drinking and watching cars drive far too fast.
I grab my jacket and get out.
I’ve known Maya Torres since freshman orientation, when we were randomly seated beside each other during a welcome lecture. We had almost nothing in common then, and three years later, that hasn’t changed much. Maya makes decisions quickly. I think about mine until I’ve exhausted every possible outcome. She can walk into a room where she doesn’t know anyone and leave knowing half of them. I still rehearse what I’m going to say before calling to make an appointment.
Somehow, it works.
Most of the time.
I’m twenty-one. I have an eight-thirty clinical on Monday morning, three assignments due next week, and a mother who still texts me reminders about things I’m already doing. I like knowing what my week looks like before it begins. I keep a calendar. I make grocery lists. I know those things aren’t particularly exciting, but I’ve never needed my life to be exciting.
At least, I didn’t think I did.
Maya waits until I catch up, then we start toward the crowd together.
The farther we walk, the more I realize just how many people are here. Girls stand around in jackets that aren’t warm enough for the weather. Guys lean against cars with bottles and plastic cups in their hands. Music pours from speakers in the bed of a pickup truck. The air smells like gasoline, cigarettes, weed, and cold pavement.
We pass a guy with blood on the front of his white T-shirt.
I look at Maya.
She sees him too.
“Don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
I look back at him. “Do you know what happened?”
“No.”
“Does that not bother you?”
“Someone probably got into a fight.”
The way she says it makes it clear that isn’t unusual here.
That does bother me.
We continue around another row of cars until the crowd becomes thicker. A wide stretch of asphalt runs between the warehouses, with people gathered along either side. Two cars wait at one end while someone stands between them. Headlights cut through smoke hanging low over the pavement.
It takes me a few seconds to understand what I’m looking at.
“Street racing.”
Maya nods.
“You could’ve mentioned that part.”
“You would’ve stayed home.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
There’s no point arguing because she’s right.
We stop near the edge of the crowd, far enough back that I don’t feel like I’m about to get run over. A woman in a leather jacket is collecting money beside one of the cars, and people around us are shouting numbers at her.
“They bet on this?”
“Yeah.”
“You bet?”
“Sometimes.”
I look at her.
She shrugs. “Not much.”
I shake my head but don’t say anything else.
The truth is, I’ve been spending too much time at home lately.
I know that.
It’s been almost a month since Evan and I broke up. Two years together ended in less than ten minutes after I found out he’d been sleeping with someone from one of his classes for nearly three months.
There wasn’t much to discuss after that.
I packed the things he’d left at my apartment and dropped them off the following morning. I deleted his number. I removed him from everything. Then I went back to class on Monday.
Maya thinks I’ve been avoiding dealing with it.
Maybe I have.
“You’ve barely gone anywhere since the breakup,” she says quietly.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“I have clinicals.”
“I know.”
There’s no judgment in her voice, which makes me less defensive than I would’ve been if she’d pushed.
She looks out toward the cars. “I just thought you might need to do something different.”
I follow her gaze.
This is definitely different.
“Next time, tell me where we’re actually going.”
“I will.”
I don’t believe her, but I let it go.
Something changes in the crowd a few minutes later.
A few people turn toward the opposite end of the lot. Conversations shift. Two girls standing nearby look in the same direction, and Maya does too.
I follow her gaze.
A man is walking toward one of the cars.
He’s tall, with dark hair that falls carelessly over his forehead. He’s wearing a faded black T-shirt despite the cold, and tattoos cover most of one forearm before disappearing beneath his sleeve. His jeans are worn, his boots scuffed, and there’s something about the way people move around him that tells me he isn’t new here.
A cigarette is tucked behind one ear.
His knuckles are scraped.
He says something to the guy walking beside him and smiles.
That’s when I get a proper look at his face.
He’s attractive.
Enough that I notice immediately.
Not in the clean, put-together way I’m usually attracted to. There’s a small cut across his cheekbone, dark stubble along his jaw, and his hair looks like he hasn’t bothered doing anything to it. A silver chain disappears beneath his shirt.
He reaches a black muscle car parked near the starting line. Two girls approach him almost immediately, and one of them puts her hand against his chest while speaking to him.
I look away.
“That’s Beck Mercer,” Maya says.
I hadn’t asked.
Maybe she noticed me looking anyway.
“Do you know him?”
“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“I know who he is. Everyone does.”
I glance toward him again. “Why?”
“He’s been coming here for years. He works at his uncle’s garage on Franklin.”
“Does he go to Westbridge?”
“He did. Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard different things.”
That answer makes me curious despite myself.
Maya continues before I can ask.
“He races. Gets into fights. He’s been arrested a couple times.”
I look at her. “For what?”
“No idea. I don’t know him like that.”
Across the lot, one of the men standing near Beck says something. Beck looks over at him. The man steps closer, and whatever passes between them changes the atmosphere around the car almost immediately.
The other man shoves him.
Beck barely moves.
For a moment, he just looks at him.
Then the guy swings.
Beck moves out of the way and punches him directly in the jaw.
People around them start shouting.
The other man stumbles backward, and Beck moves after him before two people grab his arms and pull him away. He doesn’t look angry anymore. If anything, he looks strangely calm.
I stare at the scene.
“That happen often?”
“With him?”
“Yeah.”
Maya considers it. “Pretty often.”
I look back at Beck.
Someone is talking to him now. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glances at the blood there, then lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe it away.
My gaze catches on his stomach before I can stop it.
Muscle. More tattoos. A narrow line of dark hair disappearing beneath his jeans.
I look away.
Maya notices but, thankfully, doesn’t say anything.
The races begin about fifteen minutes later.
I don’t want to admit it, but after the first few, I understand why people come here. The danger of it still makes me uncomfortable, but there’s something about the anticipation right before the cars take off that gets under my skin. Hundreds of people go quiet at once, waiting for the signal, and then everything explodes into noise.
For a little while, I stop thinking about everything else.
About Evan.
About school.
About what happens after graduation.
I just watch.
Eventually Beck’s black car pulls up beside a red one.
The crowd presses closer.
His window is down, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. There’s none of the aggression I’d seen during the fight. He looks almost detached from everything happening around him.
Someone steps between the cars and raises both arms.
The engines get louder.
Then the signal comes.
Both cars launch forward.
My stomach drops as they disappear down the road.
Less than a minute later, shouting erupts farther down the stretch.
“Beck won,” Maya says.
I look at her.
She smiles. “He usually does.”
I don’t know why I look down the road again.
We stay through another race before Maya sees someone she knows and disappears into the crowd. She tells me she’ll be back in five minutes.
After ten, I text her.
No answer.
I wait another few minutes before deciding to head toward the car.
I’ve barely made it around the side of the warehouse when a man steps into my path.
He’s blond, probably around our age, and drunk enough that I can smell the alcohol before he says anything.
“Leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Already?”
I move around him. “Have a good night.”
He shifts into my path again.
I stop.
“You here alone?”
“No.”
“Where’s your friend?”
I don’t answer.
I try stepping around him again, and this time his hand closes around my wrist.
My stomach tightens.
“Let go.”
“I’m just talking.”
“You don’t need to touch me to talk.”
I pull my arm back.
His grip tightens.
“Let go of me.”
“Relax.”
“Let her go.”
The voice comes from behind him.
The man holding my wrist turns.
Beck is standing a few feet away.
Up close, he looks rougher than he did across the lot. A bruise is forming along one cheekbone, and dried blood remains near the corner of his mouth. He’s pulled on a black jacket, and his hands are hanging loosely at his sides.
His eyes settle on the man’s hand around my wrist.
“Now.”
The guy releases me.
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
Beck doesn’t answer immediately.
He looks at him for a long moment.
“I saw what you were doing.”
The guy glances between us. “Didn’t know she was with you.”
“She’s not.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
Beck takes one step forward.
The man steps back.
“You don’t put your hands on someone who told you to let go.”
There isn’t anything dramatic about the way he says it. He doesn’t raise his voice. Somehow, that makes the warning feel more serious.
The other guy mutters something I can’t hear.
Beck moves closer.
I remember the fight.
“It’s fine,” I say.
Beck looks at me.
For the first time, his attention settles fully on my face.
His eyes are darker than I expected.
He studies me for a second, then looks back at the other guy.
“Go.”
The man leaves.
I rub my wrist, more irritated than hurt.
Beck watches him disappear around the building before turning back to me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“He hurt you?”
“No.”
His gaze drops briefly to my wrist.
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He nods.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
“Thanks,” I finally say.
“You shouldn’t walk through here alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to. My friend disappeared.”
“That happens around here.”
“I’ve noticed.”
His mouth moves slightly, almost a smile, but it disappears before it fully forms.
Someone shouts his name from somewhere behind us.
He ignores it.
“You parked out front?”
I nod.
“I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
There’s no flirtation in the way he says it. No expectation. He simply starts walking toward the parking lot, leaving enough distance between us that I don’t feel crowded.
After a second, I follow.
For the first minute, we don’t speak.
I can still hear the races behind us, engines tearing down the road and people shouting, but the sound gets quieter as we move farther away.
“You don’t seem like you come here often,” he says eventually.
“This is my first time.”
“I figured.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Kind of.”
I look over at him.
He’s staring ahead.
“My friend brought me.”
“Probably should’ve stayed with you.”
“She usually does.”
He nods once.
That’s all.
There’s something strangely easy about the silence that follows.
We reach the parking lot, and I point toward my car.
“That’s me.”
Beck stops a few feet away.
I turn toward him.
“Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
I expect him to leave.
Instead, his eyes drop toward my jacket.
Then he says, “Gabby.”
I frown.
He gestures toward my chest.
My hospital ID badge is still clipped to my jacket.
GABRIELLA BENNETT.
I pull it off.
“Right.”
His gaze stays on me.
“Gabriella?”
“Only when my mother’s mad.”
Another slight smile.
“Gabby’s better.”
I don’t know why hearing him say it makes me suddenly aware of how close we’re standing.
I slide the badge into my pocket.
“You’re Beck.”
He looks almost surprised.
“Maya told me.”
“Of course she did.”
“She said everyone knows you.”
His expression changes slightly.
Not enough for me to understand what it means.
“That’s not always a good thing.”
Before I can ask what he means, another engine roars from behind the warehouse.
Beck glances toward the sound.
I unlock my car.
“Goodnight.”
He looks back at me.
“Night, Gabby.”
I get inside and close the door.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
MAYA: WHERE ARE YOU?
I tell her I’m at the car and wait for her response.
While I do, I look through the windshield.
Beck hasn’t left yet.
He’s standing several feet away, looking back toward the warehouses as though he’s deciding whether to return. Someone calls his name again.
This time, he starts walking.
He doesn’t look back.
I watch him until he disappears between the cars.
Then I look down at my phone and remind myself that I came here because Maya thought I needed one night away from my normal life.
That’s all this was.
One strange Saturday night.
One illegal race.
One guy I probably would’ve never met anywhere else.
By Monday morning, I’ll be back at the hospital before nine, exhausted and drinking terrible coffee while trying to remember everything I’m supposed to know.
Beck Mercer will go back to whatever his life looks like.
And I’ll go back to mine.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I wait for Maya.
For some reason, I’m still thinking about him when she finally gets into the car.
