Page 1 of Austin

1

AUSTIN

The crowd parts like the Red Sea as my ’69 Chevy Camaro rumbles its way through the abandoned lot. Guys stare at the sleek lines and dual exhaust while the girls stare at me. Everyone wants a piece of one or the other, and my place as the god of this racetrack is evident the second I show up.

A blonde in a tight leather skirt mouths something to her friend. The way her teeth skim across her bottom lip lets me know she’s saying my name.

Falcon.

She’s just like every other girl here—waiting for a chance to bed a driver. There are six of us tonight, and there’s no doubt I would get first pick. Too bad I don’t sleep with pit girls. They’re not worth risking my anonymity.

I rub my thumb over the angel charm that sits on my gearshift. It might be superstitious, but I have a routine I run through before every race. Closing my eyes, I say a silent prayer to—

“It’s about time you showed up.” Gregg’s loud voice interrupts my thoughts as he swings my driver’s-side door open.

I glare in his direction. “Nobody fucks with me until I get out of the car.”

Gregg doesn’t seem fazed. “Get over your goddamn ritual and get out here. Beckett Smith is talking mad shit. I can handle this crowd by myself for only so long.”

“Beckett’s a joke. He’s only here to cause trouble and shake things up, so people don’t realize how small his dick is. We should just kick his sorry ass out.”

Gregg and I have been orchestrating these races for the past eighteen months. How he manages to secure prime locations in the outskirts of the city without getting cuffed and bagged amazes me.

He gives a devilish grin. “And miss the chance to watch you run him off the road? Now, what would be the fun in that?”

I ignore his comment as I kiss my thumb and touch it to the angel. “To the moon and back,” I whisper to the bronze charm.

After I make sure my sweatshirt hood is covering my snapback hat with the word LUNATIC written across it, I exit the car. I know no one actually sees the hat, but I love knowing I have it on. It fits how I feel when I’m behind the wheel.

Everyone here knows me as Falcon, the undefeated street racer, and not Austin Sexton, middle son of one of the most prominent families in San Francisco. That’s why I always have a hat pulled low over my brow with my hood covering the sides.

Luckily, the headlights of surrounding cars are the only lights in the area as Gregg and I walk toward the pit.

“What got you all riled up tonight?” Gregg asks. “Did Bryce not kiss your ass like you’d hoped?”

I clench my jaw at the reminder of the fight I had with my older brother, the great and powerful Bryce Sexton, at the gala I was forced to attend earlier tonight at the Gala. “Fucker thinks I’m not doing my part. Says I act like I don’t want to be there.”

He shrugs. “You don’t. You hate working for your father.”

I shake my head and crack my knuckles before turning to Gregg. “You know why I’m there. Especially since my gold-digging stepmother entered the picture. That bitch can’t wait to push me and my brothers out.”

“Missy?” He lets out a sharp laugh. “When did sex and stilettos start selling papers?”

“When she became a twenty-five percent shareholder of Sexton Media.”

Just the thought of my father giving half of his shares to that woman has me tightening my fist harder. It’s all a disgusting insult to my late mother’s memory.

Maybe racing Beckett—and winning—will calm this firestorm about to blow inside me.

We’re approaching the pit where Beckett is standing with a group of guys around his Mustang. I cross my arms and appraise his bravado. He’s flapping his arms in a wild gesture while making a crying face. My blood was already boiling, but seeing him just lit it on fire.

I stop and turn to Gregg. “What’s Beckett been saying?”

“He says Falcon can’t handle him, and that’s why he’s not slated to race you. That you’re”—he makes a quivering gesture—“scared to lose.”

This isn’t the place for that shit, and everyone here knows it. This is an invite-only event. Anyone who wants to race their car has to prove themselves at smaller venues around the area. When I find them worthy, an invitation is placed inside their car along with an untraceable phone with only one number programmed to another untraceable phone.

Mine.