Her head tilts, confusion evident in her frown. “What do you mean?”
I toss the tools in the trunk, feeling raw and tired. “Well, I figure the chances of you wanting to ride back with me are pretty slim, considering that I fucked up and—”
She steps forward and kisses me on the mouth. The feeling is instantaneous, a burst of warmth through my body. Sugar ends the kiss almost as soon as it starts, pulling back and swallowing anxiously.
I touch my lips. “What was that for?”
“Luck,” she says, burying her hands in her pockets. “I guess whatever’s going on with your brother can’t be solved tonight. But if you need to keep someone safe, then do it.” Her eyes are full of steel and the shadow of a secret, like we’re conspiring against something bigger than ourselves. “Always. You get me?”
I stare at her, stunned, feeling both steadied and unmoored by this one tiny girl. She has every right to bail on me—to be afraid. But the racing, what happened in class for Georgia, Always. When it comes to protecting someone, maybe Sugar gets it.
It’s a more solid form of forgiveness than our truce ever was.
16
Sugar
I watch Bass’s car idle at the starting line over by the boarded-up Food Court. The crowd has grown since we first arrived, people of all ages hustling for a good place to spectate. It’s a strange, awkward mishmash. There are a few teenagers that look way too young to be out here, and then older gear-heads who should probably be at home with their wives and kids, and plenty of others who fall somewhere in between. It’s the same kind of vibe as last time; loud engines, air thick with exhaust, the occasional fireworks. The sulfur mixes with the clinging scent of weed, and heavy bass from portable speakers bounces off the buildings.
It’s a straight up party.
I take a deep breath and work my way toward where I spotted Georgia earlier, sitting in the back of Emory’s truck. Like always, crowds like this stress me out, but tonight it’s hard to really dwell on it. Instead, I dwell on Bass and what I just witnessed.
Because he beat the shit out of his car. His car. The car that he named and talks about as if it were an actual person. The car that, according to him, he’d built himself, through blood and sweat, without any help from his parents, something that’s completely his.
It’s not that it didn’t scare the shit out of me, because it did. Seeing him like that, all raged out, fists flying, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to run. Each time he made contact with the metal of the car, I could almost feel it, remembering what it’s like being on the other side of that raw, angry power.
I should have run.
Instead, I squared my shoulders, marched up to him, and stopped it.
Stupid.
Completely, inexcusably, ridiculously stupid.
It just wasn’t like him. And knowing that, deep in my bones—knowing him well enough to understand this—was enough to drive me forward. People don’t just go around hurting the things they love for no reason. Not unless they’re complete psychopaths. Sebastian is a lot of things, but I’ve seen a real psychopath. I’ve lived under the heel of one for long enough to know the signs.
Sebastian Wilcox, for all his impulsive, hot-headed nature, isn’t that. This guy’s got some serious shit going on.
I didn’t want to run from him, I wanted to sink inside him. I wanted to cool his fire and be warmed by it, at the same time. I wanted to cut away all his frayed edges and see him still again. I wanted to pull him back from the chaos, because I’ve been wrong. So fucking wrong. That look in his eyes—angry and feral, yes—but also so full of anguish, is one I know well enough, and why shouldn’t I?
Until a few weeks ago, I’d seen it in the mirror, every goddamn day. I just needed to know. I needed to know that someone like Sebastian, so strong and sure, could grasp that anguish and conquer it. Because if Sebastian Wilcox can’t, then what hope do I have?
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours practically gagging for a chance to feel him against me again, solid and alive. That part was easy, winding my arms around him, coaching him to breathe with me, our bodies flush. He was so warm, so strong, even on the verge of falling apart. Hearing the pain in his words, the admission that he was caught up in something bad with his brother. The guilt for going back on his promise to me. His need to protect someone.
It’s that warmth that I carry with me as I cut through the crowd to reach my new friends. I tuck into it like I’m hiding behind a shield, the tingling sensation of Bass’s body against mine. For so long, touch has been something so bad, so painful, that I truly forgot that it could also feel like this: good and pure and so warm that I just want to fall into it and stay there.
I already can’t wait to feel it again.
“Hey, you’re here!” Georgia says, when I finally reach her. She shifts over, giving me room to climb into the truck bed.
Aubrey and Emory sit on the top of the cab, his arms wrapped around her shoulders from behind. Along the sides of the bed, a few other kids from school are hanging out. I give them a small nod, watching Carlton sneak a sip from a longneck.
“Where have you been?” Georgia asks.
“Talking to Sebastian,” I explain, looking toward his car. I brought Mr. Lee’s zoom lens, and it’s not great for such low light, but I can just get Sebastian in frame, close enough to see the way he’s looking out the windshield, intense and eerily still. I press the shutter without thinking.
“Holy shit.” I can hear Emory shifting behind me, a slow inhale sucked through his teeth. “Is that Jasmine? What the fuck happened to his car?”
Carlton adds, “Oh, shit! She’s all busted up.”
Lowering the camera, I mutter, “He’s racing and isn’t very happy about it.”
“He is?” Emory says, glancing back at Ben. “Did you bet on him?”
Ben grins back, patting his front pocket. “Got it in at the last second. Sounds like he was a late addition.”
I slide him a cutting look. “He said his brother is making him race.”
They all look at me and Emory frowns. “Wait, you’re saying Heston is here?”
“I guess.”
“Where?” Georgia asks, looking around. I’m not imagining the way her expression shifts to something tight, hunted.
“I saw him a few minutes ago,” Aubrey says. “With Sydney Rakestraw.”
Emory’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus, not that I’d put anything past Heston, but since when does he sniff around high school girls anymore?”
I look to Georgia to get her reaction to all of this, but she’s uncharacteristically quiet. I ask, “This Heston guy… is he really all that bad?”
She ducks her head, hiding her face. “You know I love Bass. I mean, I’ve told you repeatedly to give him a chance, so obviously I’d vouch for him. But Heston?” She shakes her head. “That guy is a fucking psychopath.”
Carlton overhears and pipes in, “Hey, go easy on the psychopath community. Pretty sure even they don’t want to claim him.”