Page 8 of Bratva Beast

“I’m good. Let’s race.” I’m a much better driver, and we’ll never get to the higher speeds in a drag race on that course.

Trent hustles out of the club to get to the valet first. He takes his keys from the college kid, parking the cars, and chuckles as he hurries for his car. I nod to the kid, who pulls my keys from the box. He runs to claim my ride and drives my car to the entrance. Trent is gunning his Lambo, impatience swallowing him whole, and I can’t help but laugh. He’s young and out of control, an easy combination to beat. I slide into my rented Vette and put it into drive, meeting Trent at the bottom of the drive. “The road course is still set up from today’s race. Let’s do it again.”

Trent’s eyes light up as he moves his car in front of mine onto the road.

Watch your speed, punk. We don’t need the heat of the cops. We pull into the area near the road course and line up side by side.

Trent yells through his open window, enthusiasm dripping off him like icing on a too hot cake. “What do I win when I beat you?”

“You get the satisfaction of knowing you won. Men don’t need a prize for motivation. We look for opportunities to succeed and be the best. We’ll know it and that’s enough.”

He shakes his head. “Whatever. I thought we’d be racing for pink slips.”

“What is this the 1950s? And these are rentals, dumbass.”

The kid chuckles. “Set your phone alarm for 11:50. That will be the green flag.”

“Sure.” I set my phone and make sure the volume is all the way up. My head counts down, with my feet ready to go. The alarm goes off, and I hit the accelerator, punching it off the line. The tires scream, and I move. Trent seems to be sitting after I move. Not as quick off the draw. Ha.

The course is dark, with breaks of light between the trees, completely different from driving in the daytime. I glance in my rearview to see Trent coming up from behind. His car has more horsepower, and a more experienced driver would be catching up faster, but he’s green. His daddy’s money got him his opportunity, not his skill. We make the second turn, and I swerve around the shifted barricade. That little movement is enough to give Trent room to get closer. I can hear the whine of the engine, and I’m sure this little baby has never been run like I’m doing tonight. The third turn is the one before the straightaway. That will be where the kid can catch me if he dares. We hit the straightest part of the race, and he gets to the corner of my rear bumper before he has to downshift to make the next turn. He’s sloppy and loses control, shoving his nose into the side of my bumper. My car gets squirrely at the next turn, and my brain works out that I’m going to hit the barricade. Trent over-corrects his car, and his nose hits mine again. It happens in slow motion that the nose of my car lifts just enough that dread slams into my soul. Shit. I’m losing control.

Trent has lost command of his vehicle and skids, slamming into the barricade at what would be an intersection. The nose of my car has raised, and I’ve caught air. “Fuck.” There’s nothing I can do but pull my arms into my chest. The final image in my brain, before I hit, is my father’s disappointed face.

“Oh God, I’m on fire.” My eyes open as the flames whip up my neck and face. Voices scream out and sirens wail as something cold hits my face and body. My brain is trying to comprehend what’s happening, but darkness wins, and I drift off.

Beep, beep, beep. “God, I hurt and that fucking noise.”

“Cynric?”

I hear my name and something touches my hand. I try to open my eyes, and they’re gritty and something is holding themclosed. I raise my hand, expecting my arm to pull up. It’s being held down. “What the fuck?”

My father’s stern voice silences my thoughts. “Cynric stop!”

A female voice speaks. “Turn down the fluorescent lights. They’re too bright. His eyes have been covered, and he’s not accustomed to the light.”

Something touches the right side of my face, and tape peels from my temple. I wait on bated breath to see as the material holding my eyes closed is removed. “Fuck.”

“I said, be still.” My father starts swearing in Russian about my stupidity, and I can’t disagree, but I’m alive.

I move my arms, pulling on the restraints. “Let me go.”

“You have to wait. The doctor is on his way.” The woman has a soft raspy voice like she screamed all night at a concert.

I groan. “How bad is it?”

My father scoffs. “You were never the pretty one, but you’ll make a full recovery.”

“I want to see how bad it is. And it hurts like a bitch.”

The doctor enters the room, and my eyes struggle to focus on the movement. “Good morning. How’s the patient?”

My father growls. “Impatient. He wants the restraints removed.”

My vision is blurry, but I see an older man in the long white coat as he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. We can’t have him mess with the bandages.”

“I won’t.”

My father nods. “I’m going to take them off.”

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