Prologue

ARIELLE

I tear through a red light—a horn blares at me, a middle finger is aimed in my direction, a curse word is screamed through an open window. But I ignore it all, pushing forcibly down on the gas pedal as if I’m not already maxed out in speed.

I don’t care.

I want to go faster.

It was all a part of the high associated with street racing. The illegal part of it made it that much more exciting, but it wasn’t about that. It was about the feeling of being behind the wheel. Of the adrenaline that pumps through my veins. The way my heart hammers inside my chest as if it’ll bruise my bones. The way my hair stands up on the back of my neck at the familiar rumble of my car engine.

Racing is my fucking heroin.

But that damn cocky asshole is right beside me, as if all my efforts are useless. He was known for being tough to beat, and his ego was just as gigantic as his record on the streets and in the sheets.

I know I can beat him though. I can feel it in every twitch of my muscles as I use every single fibre of my being to move my vehicle faster than everyone else’s.

If I didn’t win, at least I could say I gave him a run for his money—quite literally speaking.

When we turn around the next corner, I’m tempted to look through the passenger’s window at him, but I don’t. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He’ll do nothing but rub it smugly in my face, only angering me further.

I can see him pulling away slightly, and I grip the steering wheel in my hands. How does he do it?

His gaze is set on me on the straightaway. I can feel it in the way it burns at my skin, bringing about an unwanted flush. I know he’s giving me a cocky smirk—something else he was famous for.

Everyone knew all about Nate Carter and the three C’s—his car, his chick(s), and his cock.

I can feel myself getting distracted, and so I pull myself to focus, gripping on the steering wheel tightly again, staring at the looming finish line. I could see the barely dressed blonde at the invisible line, standing there cluelessly as she picks at her nails.

It was so typical. So many women showed up at these races hoping to get with one of the drivers. It was sad, but it was the truth. They simply came here to hook up with the winner and not much else.

I’ve even seen a few familiar faces—the ones that show up at several races a month, trying repeatedly to get with one of the guys.

Even in my barely distracted state, I don’t notice the pole in the middle of the median that I’m driving straight at. I move to swerve towards Nate ‘s car, but he turns his wheels towards mine, which forces me to skid in the opposite direction to avoid hitting him.

I don’t miss the light pole. In fact, I hear the horrid screeching as my paint is scratched from the surface of my passenger’s side door during the bumpy ride over the median and my car comes to a halt in the oncoming lane.