Lennox (5 page)

“Nash.” Uncle Drazic runs up to us, with Jagger and Cyrus
in tow. “You need to cool your heels.”

“Drazic, is this fucking runt mouthing off to one of mine?”
Mama McManus asks. She spits out the side of her mouth as she looks
Uncle D over. “You better get your puppy housebroken if you
don’t want me to do it for you.”

“He’ll behave himself,” Drazic says, with a
definite edge to his tone. He turns back toward Nash and me with a
glower. That’s all we need to slink off after Jagger and Cyrus.

“Brilliant job,” Jagger says, as soon as we reach the
entrance to our usual warehouse. “Picking a fight with a
McManus. And how did you think that was going to play out?”

“I didn’t know he was a fucking McManus until now,”
Nash snaps. “And don’t
you
lecture me about acting
without thinking.”

“Not where Mama McManus is involved! That woman could use me
for kindling,” Jagger says.

“And make all our lives hell,” Cyrus adds. “Not
just yours. But I see you’re not thinking about that. Again.”

Nash snorts at him and crosses his arms. I reach toward him to rub
his shoulder, but he jerks away from me. “Stop being so goddamn
clingy. Jesus.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Drazic shoots us both a look. I stuff
my hands in my pockets, ashamed. Why can’t I seem to calm him
down?

“She’s just worried about you. We’re
all
worried about you,” Drazic says. “You need to hold your
shit together long enough to drive this circuit. If you don’t
think you can do that, then I’ll pull you and put Cyrus in the
GTO.”

Cyrus ducks his head. “That’s really not necessary, sir—”

“But you’d fucking do it if I asked you to, now, wouldn’t
you?” Drazic says. “Because that’s what it means to
be a crew. We do what’s best for the crew.”

Nash kicks at the gravel with the toe of his loafers. “Lennox
didn’t.”

“Excuse me?” Drazic says, louder.

Nash juts his chin out as he lifts his head. “Lennox didn’t
do what was best for the crew. When he got in that car. When he
killed my fucking brother—”

“And as far as the crew is concerned, Lennox is dead to us. He
no longer exists. Whether he’s in prison or not, with the
McManuses or not, he’s fucking dead to us.” Drazic spits
onto the pavement. “And there’s no use picking a fight
with a corpse. So don’t do it.”

Nash stares him down for a few seconds, but then eases back, slumping
against the warehouse wall. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Drazic takes a step back. “Take a few
minutes to calm your ass down. Then let’s get ready to crush
these fuckers.”

“All right!” Jagger claps enthusiastically, but the rest
of us just look at him. None of us are in much of a mood to
celebrate. He glances at Nash’s expression, then mine, before
turning to Cyrus. “Say, uh . . . why don’t
you walk me through the course one more time?”

“Sure. Let’s go over here.” Cyrus beckons him away,
leaving me alone with Nash.

I work my jaw back and forth, trying to gather up the nerve to tell
him off. What the hell did he mean, I was being clingy? All I’ve
been is supportive. The past week, I’ve given him his space,
letting him go drinking with the boys every night, or running jobs,
whatever the hell it is they’ve been up to. Not spending time
with me, that’s for damned sure. But I built him a sick ride
out of a hunk of metal, and I’ve done everything I can to help
him prep for tonight’s race. Yet the moment I open my mouth to
tell him so, the angry twist to his lips makes me think twice.

“What can I do?” I finally manage. “What can I do
to help you? Because everything I try to do seems to be just the
wrong thing.”

Nash doesn’t look at me for a while. Then he sighs, and runs
one hand over my head. Like I’m still a little kid he’s
tolerating. It stings. “You don’t need to do anything,”
he says. “C’mon. Let’s just get through this race.”

It doesn’t make me feel better.

“All right, my brothers and sisters, my sinister stunters and
icy-hot rollers!” Sleazy D bellows through a megaphone.
“Racers, get in your slick-ass rides and get ready to roll!”

I squeeze Nash’s hand for good luck. Usually he’ll lean
in for a deep kiss, but he just squeezes back and heads toward Uncle
D and Jagger for a last-minute pep talk. I clutch my hand to my chest
and try not to think about what I could have done differently. I’m
not doing anything wrong. Nash just needs time. Right?

Cyrus taps me on the shoulder. “Let’s stake our claim on
the roof.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I follow him up the fire escape to our usual spot on top of the S&P
building. We’ve got a great view of the starting and finish
line, as well as several sections leading out toward the ridgeway
drive. What we can’t see from here, the drones will make up
for; we’re facing the projections from two of them, currently
showing the twinkling streetlights of downtown and the ridgeway as
their operators maneuver them into place.

Nash pulls the GTO into the starting line, right next to Jagger’s
Mitsubishi. The Calaveras boys are both in Mazdas, while Rory McManus
is riding in an apple-green Viper. On the other side of Rory, I spot
Lennox. No more piece of shit Camry for him—he’s in a
sleek black vintage Mustang, purring and eager to run. Damn. The
McManuses loaned him that? They’re doing even better than I
thought.

Uncle Drazic joins us on the roof and we all pop in our Bluetooth
earpieces. “You copy, Nash, Jagger?” Drazic asks.

“Jagger copies.”

There’s silence for a moment, then Nash answers with a short,
sullen “Yeah.”

“All right, boys, you got this.” Drazic cracks his
knuckles. “Take it steady like we practiced, and don’t
get too greedy on the ridgeway. Right?”

“Right on, D,” Jagger says.

Nash doesn’t respond.

One of Sleazy D’s girls, wearing metallic silver hot pants and
a tie-front bikini top, sashays out front of the line of racers.
“Racers, start your engines!”

The starting line roars with all the different engine tones. For a
moment, I close my eyes and relish that noise: hot, smoky, and laden
with potential.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . .
GO!”

The tires squeal against the broken pavement as they lurch into a
start. The crowd fills in the space the cars just vacated as everyone
strains to watch the race. I follow Drazic to the corner of the
rooftop to watch the first stretch.

Nash easily nabs an early lead, deftly making the tight turns along
the empty downtown grid of streets: up Third, down Caverns, up
Fourth, down Desperado. Lennox’s Mustang is rumbling with
throaty, bone-rattling engine sounds, but he’s way too heavy
around the turns. I’m already mentally cataloguing all the ways
he could probably stand to shave some weight off his rig before I
catch myself. Rory McManus is fighting to stay relevant, but Miguel
seems to always be right there to block him. From what little of his
expression the drones capture, he’s none too pleased about it.

“Fucking upstate asswipes,” Jagger shouts into the
earpiece. “Give me an opening, Cy.”

“Hold tight, I’m looking.” Cyrus glances from the
streets to the projectors. “Okay, if you can squeeze past
Miguel . . .”

“Left. Pass him on the left,” I shout.

Cy nods at me, approving. “What the lady said.”

“Thanks, Elena.” The distant high-pitched zip of Jagger’s
Mitsubishi engine ricochets over the rooftops. I turn toward the
projectors just in time to catch sight of him surging past Miguel’s
left side to take third place.

They’re out of the grid, and winding around the bypass on their
way toward the ridge. We’re blind except for the drones’
footage now. The lead drone catches sight of Nash through his side
window, and his expression is like a lance through my heart. He’s
so goddamned tense. His lips are curled back, and he’s got a
death grip on the steering wheel. One hard bump and he’s liable
to crack his teeth.

“Loosen up, Nash,” Drazic tells him over the earpiece,
but he doesn’t change a thing. I remember this expression all
too well from Troy’s funeral, back before Nash and I were
together. His hatred is like a laser, burning a hole through anything
that gets in his way.

A wide shot from one of the drones catches a glimpse of Nash as he
swings onto the ridgeway. He’s still in the lead, but Lennox is
quickly gaining ground. Looks like he’s found the right balance
between the Mustang’s weight and its engine, because he’s
definitely putting it to work. Nash never seems to make up time on
the straightaways like this. Lennox may not know it, but he’s
got a real chance here to pull into the lead.

My breath hitches as the lead drone swings over Lennox’s car,
blasting his face all over the warehouse walls. The fading sunset
light glitters against his face. His expression is determined, too,
but it’s a different intensity from Nash’s. He’s
projecting an easy, quiet strength, despite whatever else lies
beneath the surface.

I remember that look all too well—the one that pulled me out of
a tear-stained sorrow so long ago. A few of them, in fact. Lennox
never talked down to me, or tried to sugarcoat anything, but he also
never expected me to handle more than I could bear. He was my hero,
patching up my wounds, helping me choose my battles with Uncle D,
even letting me cry over how much I missed my parents from time to
time, long after I thought I’d lost the right to mourn them.
Lennox was my hero. How could he be anything else?

But my hero wouldn’t do what he did. He didn’t just kill
Nash’s brother. He wrecked our crew. Destroyed the family we’d
built. The only family I’ve ever had since moving here. I still
have Uncle D; I still have Nash and Cyrus and Jagger. But it’s
never been the same. The man who’d keep his promises to me
would never do something like that.

Then again . . . Nash doesn’t seem to be the man
I thought he was, either. I watch Nash’s GTO aggressively
bounce across the road, blocking every shot Lennox has at passing
him. This isn’t the Nash I fell for at all. He’s angry
and vindictive and out of control, and I feel helpless to contain
him.

They’ve almost reached the end of the ridgeway. It’s a
couple tight turns to start swooping along the access road that’ll
lead them back to the warehouses. One of them is completely blind,
yanking around the broad First Bank building, hulking on the edge of
downtown, empty and looming.

“Keep it steady,” Uncle D tells Nash over the earpieces.
“Don’t take any risks right here. We’re going to
lose sight of you.”

“No. He’s not getting the lead from me,” fights
Nash.

I grit my teeth. “Nash . . .”

One of the Calaveras riders is gaining on Nash and Lennox, even as
Lennox fights Nash for the lead; both of the Upstate boys are surging
forward as well, with Jagger hot on their tails. I know Jagger can
pull ahead of them on the access road, but this turn is too risky.
Nash had better watch his ass.

The First Bank building blots out our view as they take the turn. The
drones surge forward, trying to swing around the building’s
frame. But they’re too late. Metal screams against metal; the
horrible screech of tires echoes throughout downtown. I grip the edge
of the rooftop, screaming. No.
No.

A pillar of smoke curls around the First Bank building and swallows
up one of the drones. It’s too thick to reveal the wreckage
below.

My heart is lodged firmly in my throat. Cyrus is at my side in an
instant, tugging me away, but I can’t pull my eyes from that
dark column. Already I can imagine its smell, hot oil and metallic
tang, searing my nostrils.

Lennox.

Nash.

I sag forward against the roof ledge. Dammit, Nash.

What the hell have you done?

Elena

The smoke pours, thicker, curling around the building facades, but in
the distance, I can still hear engines roar. Did the other racers
bypass the crash? Was it not as serious as it looked? I wouldn’t
expect someone like Rory McManus to pull over and help, even if it
was Lennox who was hurt. But we have to do something—

The second drone catches up to the access road and approaches the
slow rolls of smoke. A dark metallic hood emerges from the thick of
it, unscathed.

Lennox’s Mustang.

I sag forward, more relieved than I should be. Lennox wasn’t in
the crash. But what about Nash?

No sooner do I think it than I spot the GTO emerging, as well. A few
streaks of chipped paint line his driver’s side, but he’s
maneuvering just fine. More than fine—he’s determined to
snatch the lead away from Lennox. But they only have a few blocks
left.

I look from the wall projection to the streets as they hum into view,
neck and neck. Lennox maneuvers the Mustang with grace, as if it’s
a thousand pounds lighter than it really is, and whips his way around
the block toward the entrance to the alleyway. His grumbling engine
is swallowed up in the sounds of the crowd’s cheers. I can’t
cheer for him—I don’t dare do it in front of Uncle D and
the rest—but I can’t stop the grin from spreading on my
face. He’s safe. He did it.

The Mustang pulls to a stop, just as Nash’s GTO swings into the
alley. Nash screeches to a halt behind Lennox. Before the crowd can
close in around them, Nash flies out of the GTO and storms toward
Lennox.

“And—and our first place winner is Lennox, repping for
the McManus crew!” Sleazy D announces.

Nash shoots him a death glare and shoves Sleazy D out of the way.
Grabs the driver’s side door of the Mustang and yanks it open.

“In second place, we have Nash from Drazic’s crew . . .
third place is still wide open, after Miguel from the Calaveras
collided with Kazuo—”

Nash is screaming, reaching inside the Mustang. Oh, god. My stomach
turns. He’s going to hurt Lennox. Sure enough, he rips him out
of the driver’s side and throws him to the pavement.