Page 14 of Her Sloth

I still remember the day she crashed Father’s Bugatti. The news made it all the way to Hollywood.

Stop thinking, I tell myself, because I can’t be distracted.

My mind focuses. No more memories. No more thoughts. Just the street, me and a car.

The redhead kneels down with the flag going down, and I hesitate just this nano-second to make Cass believe she has won.

The Mustang with its immense power roars and doesn’t get full grip as I launch off behind her. It’s good. Let her believe she already won.

Cass knows the road better than I do, so I let her lead, staying on her tail. She isn’t even giving it her best; that’s how arrogant she is.

We turn into Sullivan Street.

Into Van Brunt Street.

Into Verona Street around said Coffey Park.

A long straight until she drifts left into Van Dyke Street. Another straight line before we’ll turn back into Ferris Street, the last corner and that’s where I’ll get her.

I press the little red button just before the corner. It’s my signature move, and everyone who ever raced me knows it’s their death. I spin the steering wheel left while we’re still on the straight line; the Mustang handles it quite well as the force of the NOS pushes it sideways forward.

We reach the corner, and Cass pulls her Hellcat into a drift, but I am already in position.

I drift around the corner, brushing past a tree on the sidewalk, overtaking her. The hair on my arm stands up because I know I won the race right here with this move.

I shift down.

Press the throttle with force.

The Mustang shoots forward.

And I am the first to reach the line drawn on the cobblestones.

I brake the Mustang hard, a grin spreading on my face as I soak in the victory I took.

People freak out as I step out of my car.

Screeching tires as the black Hellcat slides sideways towards me.

Cass jumps out, her eyes burning me down in murderous rage.

“You fucking bitch!” she shouts as she walks up to me, pushing me back.

I can deal with the emotion of one who has lost. Even more, I provoke her. I want her to hit me again. It’s the most alive I have felt in forever.

“Uhhh, someone felt too sure and now can’t deal with the defeat,” I say with a sneer, pushing her back.

Her fist in my face.

Yes.

I retaliate because I want her to fight me. I don’t care that my manager will kill me when he finds out I can’t film in a week because I got into a fucking street fight.

They all can fuck off.

The fucking Whitney Morgan Conglomerate.

The fucking lawyers.