Page 55 of Sweet Deception

Street racing.

Just the thought of it gets me going.

I shoot down into an underpass, concrete once again inclosing us in darkness. Slowing just enough to take a sharp right down an unmarked access tunnel that used to be part of the subway, I navigate to the secret entrance to the docks.

After one more turn, the Hub comes into view.

The underbelly of a huge industrial area sprinkled with docks, the Hub is a giant slab of concrete punctuated by tall cement columns that support the boardwalk above. The roar of the sea in the distance and the mechanized buzz of tricked-out sports cars—beautifully modified racing machines—fill the air, along with the scent of exhaust, oil, and scummy water sitting in puddles and divots all over the place.

Throngs of drivers, mechanics, gamblers, and fans populate the concrete. This is where street racing enthusiasts like me meet most nights.

It’s impossible not to notice the way Veronika sits up in her seat, swiveling her head in wide-eyed curiosity.

She holds Napalm a little closer to her chest. “What is this place?”

“The docks.”

“Who are all these people?”

“Fans.” I smirk. My inner show-off is a smug jackass, if I’m being honest.

Wait until she sees what happens next…

As my Aston Martin growls into the lot, onlookers, mechanics, and drivers give us their undivided attention. My windows are fully blacked out, so no one can see inside, but Veronika slinks back in her seat as if to make herself invisible.

“Why are they staring at us?”

“What can I say?” I rev down a ramp and swerve to a halt on an unoccupied patch of concrete. “My reputation precedes me.”

When I put us in park, she shifts toward me, her eyes coming to mine for the first time since…what happened in the bedroom.

“Seriously, though, what is this place?”

“We call it the Hub. It’s a street racing den.”

“A street racing den?” She surveys the area once more before her gaze returns to mine. “And who’s ‘we?’”

“Me and the other initiated.” I give her a hard look, ignoring the effect her full attention has on my heart. “This is where I usually am on nights like this. You know, when I’m not tracking down a hacktress.”

Her eyes remain intent on mine for a few more seconds, then that unstoppable desire sparks between us, and we both glance away. Whatever that was back at the safe house? Whatever we did? We need to drop it.

Classical music continues to play from the radio—dark Baroque bullshit with urgent, frenzied violin strings—and I attempt to focus on the world I know instead of the terribly beautiful and fascinating threat sitting beside me.

The serious racers are easy to spot, the usual suspects all in attendance tonight. They line up their modified cars away from the spectators, many of whom perch on the cement incline that encloses one side of this glorified underground track.

Before we exchange another word, a 350Z in bright tangerine roars on to the scene.

Black-and-white racing stripes down the hood. Black-tinted windows. Orange backlights that create a neon glow.

I recognize the car and its modifications from the last time I was here.

It’s the kid.

Don’t know his name.

What I do know is he’s young, hungry, and reckless. Definitely a showman, but who the hell isn’t at his age? Supposedly, he and his mechanic cut their teeth at some of the other reputable racing dens around town.

My last visit to the Hub was the first time I ever saw him here.