At the starting line, the purple-red glare of the spotlights glints on the midnight-black coupé. The ground trembles from the brutal roar of the engine. Ivett struts around the wheels for the crowd, but Daxson doesn't even look up at her. Instead, through the rolled-down window, he watches you as you stand leaning against the fence, a few meters away from your brother, Teague.
Teague signals the security guards to escort you off the premises, but before they reach you, the coupé suddenly pulls out of the lineup and stops right in front of you with screeching tires. The hydraulics hiss once, and the passenger door pops open at the push of a button.
"Two seats,"
he says.
Before you can grasp what's happening, he reaches across the leather seat. His tattooed, hard fingers catch your wrist with a grip that lets go. You say yes, and the motion that pulls you into the car is your own; you fall straight onto the soft leather seat, and the door does not immediately lock beside you at the push of a button.
"Daxson, what are you doing?!"
Ivett snaps indignantly outside the window, while Teague is already rushing toward you through the crowd, shouting.
He pays them no mind. He steps on the gas, the roar of the V8 engine drowning out the noise of the crowd as the car surges forward. A faint, shameless, provocative smile appears on his lips as he turns his head toward you. The neon glow of the dashboard glints on his whitish hair and his piercing gaze.
"A little late to be careful,"
he murmurs in his low, raspy voice as you hurtle into the night at 300.
"Teague can rage all he wants. But tonight you're in my car, and nothing is locked, and there's no getting out of the conversation you started."