Page 46 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

He's leaning against a black Audi R8 sitting apart from the pack like a show pony at a dogfight. Too expensive, too clean, too wrong for this scene. People eye him with suspicion. Like the owner of that car's a cop, an idiot with daddy's money, or someone about to get jacked.

His shoulders are bunched, one hand pressing against his temple. Keys spinning so fast they're a blur. Not his usual rhythm. This is manic.

"That even your car?"

He turns. In the orange light, his pupils are blown wide. The scratches on his neck are still angry red with purple bruising at the edges.

"Rental." His voice is rough. "Needed something fast. Mine's... I couldn't drive mine right now."

"You brought a rental supercar to illegal street races in Carson?"

"Seemed like a good idea two hours ago. Now..." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up worse. "Now I realize how fucking stupid— Look, I just needed speed. Needed to burn through whatever this is."

The STI kid revs again, harder. Jax's jaw clenches.

"He's been doing that for twenty minutes," he says. "Wants to race the rich asshole in the fancy car."

"Are you going to?"

"Can't. Brain won't stop spinning. Hands won't—" He holds them up. They're shaking. "Can't focus enough to race without wrapping it around something."

Sirens. Distant but unmistakable. The crowd knows the drill—engines start in waves. The taco truck is already pulling away.

"Get in." He's moving before I can respond, that manic energy suddenly focused. "Now."

The R8 screams to life. Around us, a hundred cars scatter into the grid of LA streets. We merge into the exodus, just another set of taillights fleeing into the night.

"Where are we going?"

"Pacific Coast Highway. Need the ocean. Need curves. Need—" He shifts aggressively, the engine climbing. "Just need to drive until my brain stops doing this."

We hit the 405 North. Even at midnight, there's traffic, but he weaves through it like water. The speedometer climbs steadily—80, 90, 100.

"Talk to me," I say. "Your brain's spinning about what?"

"You. The garage. The way you sounded when—" He shifts again, harder. "And this fucking need that won't stop. I came three hours ago and I'm already—"

"Already what?"

"Already dying again. It's getting worse, not better. Like my body's addicted to—" He glances at me, then back at the road. "To you. To this. To whatever the fuck this is."

We merge onto the 10 West. Santa Monica ahead. The ocean getting closer.

"That's addiction talking."

"No. Addiction has logic. This is something else." He takes the transition to PCH North at 70, tires squealing. "This is insanity."

The highway at night is different. Ocean black on our right, mountains rising on our left. No traffic. Just us and asphalt and possibility.

He opens it up immediately. The V10 screams its happiness. 110 mph through Santa Monica. 120 past the Getty Villa.

"Slow down—"

"Can't. Need this. Need the speed to burn through the noise in my head."

125 mph into the first real curve past Topanga Canyon. My body slides sideways in the bucket seat. We're going to die. We're actually going to fucking die, and I should be terrified, but instead—

What the fuck?