Accelerate

  Accelerate is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from LOVEGAME by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2015 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book LOVEGAME by Tracy Wolff. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9780553395013

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: tankist276/Shutterstock

  readloveswept.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Jordan

  Chapter 2: Nic

  Chapter 3: Jordan

  Chapter 4: Nic

  Chapter 5: Jordan

  Chapter 6: Nic

  Chapter 7: Jordan

  Chapter 8: Nic

  Chapter 9: Jordan

  Chapter 10: Nic

  Chapter 11: Jordan

  Chapter 12: Nic

  Chapter 13: Jordan

  Chapter 14: Nic

  Chapter 15: Jordan

  Chapter 16: Nic

  Chapter 17: Jordan

  Chapter 18: Nic

  Chapter 19: Jordan

  Chapter 20: Nic

  Chapter 21: Jordan

  Chapter 22: Nic

  Chapter 23: Jordan

  Chapter 24: Nic

  Chapter 25: Jordan

  Chapter 26: Nic

  Chapter 27: Jordan

  Epilogue

  By Tracy Wolff

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Lovegame

  Chapter 1

  Jordan

  I didn’t know cars could look like this. Didn’t know they could sound like this.

  I mean, I’ve seen hundreds of thousands of automobiles in my life—in every size and color of the rainbow. I’ve heard the loud reverberations of an engine turning over. The high-pitched scream of brakes squealing. The sharp, tight whir of wheels spinning out on asphalt. Who hasn’t?

  But this—this kaleidoscope of color and light and sound—this is something else entirely. It’s bright and bold and sexy, so sexy that I don’t know where to look first. Don’t know what to feel first.

  Except the excitement that’s beating in my blood, that’s thrumming in my soul and tearing at my spine even as it shreds every last preconception I’ve ever had.

  Then again, that could just be the bass that’s ripping up the air around me like a jackhammer. It’s a full-out assault on the senses, but then everything about this place is. The lights are too bright, the music is too loud, the people are too out there. And the cars…the cars are too everything.

  Which is why I love it. After spending so much of the past few years jumping at shadows, I love every fucking thing about being here. Including the fact that I refuse to be afraid.

  Too bad the same can’t be said for my best friend, Vi, who’s currently clutching my hand like it’s a lifeline as I weave us between the gaps in the rows of brightly colored cars. They’re lined up fifty or sixty deep, hoods proudly popped to display what they’re packing, and there are so many of them that I can’t help wondering if every drag racer in five hundred miles is at this private speedway right now.

  It’s an exciting thought—at least for me. But then, I grew up in a town so small that racing our cars up and down the main drag was the only action teenagers could find on a Friday evening. Not that I ever got to race. And even if I had, it wouldn’t have been in the same stratosphere as this…

  “Tell me again why we’re here,” Vi whines as she closes the distance between us and burrows right up against my side. I’m not sure if the gesture is because she thinks she needs protection or if it’s because the coolness of the San Diego night is getting to her in her tiny skirt and even tinier tank top.

  “You know why,” I answer, tugging her between a purple, highly customized Toyota Matrix and a cherry-red Ford Mustang.

  “How are you going to find the guy in all this confusion? It’s not like you even know what he looks like.”

  “I don’t have to know what he looks like,” I tell her as I use my free hand to tug my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. “I know what his car looks like, which is even better.” I pull up the photo my friend Victor sent me.

  “Oh, yeah?” She perks up a little bit. “What is it?”

  “A bright green Honda with a tail fin.”

  Her perkiness visibly deflates as she waves an arm at the lines of cars in front of us. “Like that narrows it down? There are five of them in this row alone. There must be at least fifty of them in this parking lot tonight.”

  “Yeah, but how many of them have purple stripes down the side?”

  She snorts. “Probably twenty-five of them.”

  Okay, so maybe she’s got a valid point but there’s not much I can do about it now. I need the seats fixed on the 370Z I bought at a police auction last week—when the cops impounded it, they tore the upholstery all to hell looking for something. Drugs, probably, considering the auction was for south San Diego, right across the border from Mexico. I bought the car despite the damage because it was cheap and had low mileage. Plus Nissans are supposed to be really dependable. In fact—

  I cut the long line of justifications short, reminding myself for about the hundredth time since I bought the car that I don’t have to justify myself to anyone. It’s my car. It’s my money. It’s my life and I can live it any way that I want. No one’s looking over my shoulder ready to criticize—or pity—my every move. Not now. And not ever again.

  It’s a hard lesson to learn after everything that happened, but it’s one I’m determined to master.

  Besides, I have better things to worry about right now—like finding Raul Dominguez. He’s the guy who owns the bright green Honda I’m currently looking for and Victor swears he’s the best at fixing upholstery. He also says he’s cheap, which is the main reason I dragged Vi to the Friday night drag races. I’m on a shoestring budget here and if Raul wants to meet at the drag races, then that’s where we’ll meet.

  I spend the next few minutes dragging Vi up and down the aisles looking for Raul’s green Honda, without much luck. I know I should probably ask someone about him, but the truth is, no matter how fascinating I find this place, it’s still taking every ounce of courage I have just to be here. The idea of drawing attention to myself, of actually talking to these people—all of whom seem larger than life—makes my stomach hurt.

  So I make myself a promise. If we don’t find him in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll ask someone. Until then, I’m free to just wander. Free to just look.

  So I do. I don’t know much about cars beyond the usual—makes and models and how often I need to change my oil—but that doesn’t stop me from being fascinated by what I see. Cars in every color of the rainbow, some totally tricked-out and fancy on the outside, some totally streamlined and sexy. But the one thing they all have in common is the shiny, perfect engines that gleam and glisten under the huge floodlights.

  Even Vi seems impressed—three rows in, she loosens up enough to unplaster herself from my side. Five rows in and she’s smiling and even dancing a little bit as we
continue to weave our way between cars and human bodies. Which is exactly what I expected to happen. Vi’s a chameleon—it may take her a few minutes to get the vibe of a place, but once she’s got it she blends in like she was born to the life.

  It’s a talent I envy, considering I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb everywhere I go.

  Guys have started smiling at us, checking us out—checking Vi out, more likely considering I’m dressed in jeans and a soft pink sweater while she’s in a bright red mini-skirt—but I pretend not to notice. I’m no good at flirting, no good at talking to guys beyond asking them what they want to order, even when I’m at my most comfortable. Here, in this crazy, wonderful, exhilarating place, it’s out of the question.

  Vi doesn’t feel the same way, though, and as we turn down an aisle with three bright green Hondas—three—she smiles at a guy with a fire-engine red Corvette. He says something to her that I don’t quite catch amidst the noise, but she must because she laughs and bats her eyes at him a little. The next thing I know, he’s grabbing her hand, pulling her—and by default, me—to a stop.

  I know it’s stupid, know she’s happy to be talking to him and that out here—in the middle of all these people—he’s probably harmless. And still my every muscle tightens. Still the whole fight-or-flight response that’s been a part of me for so long roars to life. Still I have to force back the nausea rising in my throat.

  I swallow it down, refuse to give in to the nerves shooting through me. The fact that I can, the fact that I’m not freaking out or running or God forbid, screaming, is a definite improvement over the me of three years ago. Which is why I’m totally going to count this as a win in the running tally I keep in my journal.

  The guy’s name is Cris and he seems nice enough as we stop and chat with him. Or, more precisely, as Vi chats with him and I stand there smiling weakly. I tune out the conversation—with all the noise and music and adrenaline pumping through me, it’s pretty much impossible for me to concentrate anyway. At least until I realize they’re both staring at me inquisitively.

  “What’s wrong?” I blurt out once I realize I’m the object of their scrutiny. Oh, God. Did I do something wrong? Did I read the social cues wrong again? Was I supposed to—

  Vi must see the crazy flashing through my eyes because she immediately wraps an arm around my shoulder to steady me. “It’s okay,” she says, her voice low and soothing. “Cris knows Raul, says he usually parks on the other side of the track. He offered to help us find him.”

  “Oh. Right.” Relief swamps me, makes the words come out soft and shaky. “That’s great, thanks. I mean, I don’t want to disturb you. If you could just point us in the right direction…”

  “It’s no biggie,” he tells me with a grin that lights up his whole face. For the first time I look past the tattoos and piercings to realize how handsome he is, with his golden brown eyes and tanned skin and shaggy brown hair. Vi certainly seems to think so, at least judging by the way she’s batting her eyes at him. “I was thinking of heading over there anyway.”

  It’s a lie, but Vi doesn’t call him on it so neither do I. Instead, I follow along as he guides us through the throngs of people. The noise level has increased exponentially in the last few minutes, the air practically seething with excitement and anticipation that I can all but taste.

  We round the curve at the top of the track and make our way over to the other straightaway where four cars are lined up, a race obviously about to begin. For a second, I think that’s what all the excitement is about—the race—but it’s still there even after the cars run the track in the fastest match I’ve ever seen.

  In fact, the deeper we move into the crowd, the more intense the anticipation seems to get. I look at Vi, try to gauge what she thinks of the sudden shift in atmosphere, but she’s too busy fawning over Cris to notice anything short of a bomb going off.

  I try to ignore it, but eventually my curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, “What’s going on? Why is everyone suddenly so worked up?”

  Cris grins at me even as he nods toward a small group of cars about thirty feet ahead of us. Unlike all the other cars around us, they’re not parked in a neat row. Instead, they’re parked in a tight circle, front ends facing in with their hoods firmly shut.

  And that’s not the only difference between them and the other vehicles. Whereas most of the cars around us are imports—souped-up Hondas and Toyotas and Mitsubishis with every embellishment available and in every color of the rainbow—these cars are all sleek, all dark, all American. And they’re all sexy as hell.

  As are their owners. Five guys and two women stand in the center of the circle, and though they’re all dressed in jeans and T-shirts, they are by far the hottest people out here. Maybe even the hottest people I’ve ever seen. And the toughest.

  Especially the tall guy with the dreads. Danger all but radiates off him.

  It’s in the set of his shoulders.

  In the loose clench of his fists where they hang by his sides.

  In the way he’s balanced on the balls of his feet, like he’s expecting trouble—and more than able to handle it.

  Most of all, though, it’s in his laser-green eyes. They shine like a beacon against his caramel skin, and though it’s obvious he’s focused on what the blond guy next to him is saying, it’s equally as obvious that he knows everything that’s happening around him. My breath stutters in my chest at the thought.

  “Who are they?” Vi asks in a hushed tone.

  Forget the rest of them, who is he? I want to demand. With his too broad shoulders and too lean hips, with his thick arms and even thicker thighs, he is the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen. And that’s without taking into account his fallen angel face and don’t-fuck-with-me stare.

  But Cris, bless him, manages to answer both our questions at the same time. “That’s Nic Medina’s crew. He runs Hotwired.”

  Immediately, I know Cris is talking about him. That the guy with the dreads is Nic Medina. He’s the obvious alpha of the group, the one everyone else looks to and revolves around.

  “What’s Hotwired?” The question comes out before I even know I’m going to ask it.

  Cris looks surprised that I’ve spoken as well—except for asking about where I can find Raul, I haven’t said anything in the twenty minutes Vi’s been chatting him up. Or maybe it’s my ignorance he’s surprised at, since even Vi seems to know what he’s talking about.

  “It’s one of the biggest garages in San Diego,” she tells me.

  “The biggest and the best custom garage in all of Southern California,” Cris corrects her. “Anybody who’s anybody in the drag racing world gets their cars worked on at Hotwired.”

  I glance around at all the tricked-out vehicles around us. “So he’s done all of these?”

  “He’s done some of these. Nic and his crew are pretty selective about which jobs they take these days. But then, they can afford to be. People come from all over the country for the chance to have him or one of his people work on their cars.”

  “Did he do yours?” Vi asks.

  “Damn straight. I had to wait six months to get in, but my baby’s the fastest thing on four wheels.”

  “Faster than that?” I nod at the sleek black car Nic is standing in front of. I don’t know cars, so I couldn’t say what it is, but everything about it screams raw, brutal, unmitigated power. Including the man it belongs to. Especially him.

  Cris barks out a laugh. “Nothing’s faster than Nic’s classic Hemi ’Cuda—at least not when he’s driving it. But mine comes pretty damn close.”

  “Is he going to race tonight?” I ask.

  “Fuck, yeah, he’s going to race. He and his crew don’t show up unless they’re ready to throw down.”

  “Are you going to race him?” Vi asks curiously.

  “Nah. The buy-in’s too rich for my blood. Especially when I’m smart enough to know I’m going to lose.”

  “The buy-in?” I repeat.

  “
What you have to put up for the race. Everyone puts in. Winner takes all. Then there are all the side bets that are going around. Crusher organizes those.”

  “Crusher?” Vi giggles. “That sounds like a wrestling name.”

  “He’s big enough to be one,” Cris tells her. “Which is why he takes the bets. Nobody welshes when they know they have to deal with him.”

  “What kind of money is the buy-in?” I don’t know why I’m asking all these questions, except that this whole world of street/drag racing unwittingly fascinates me. Almost as much as Nic Medina does.

  “Tonight? To race against Nic? Thirty thousand.”

  “Dollars?” Vi demands, sounding choked.

  Cris laughs. “Yeah. Nic doesn’t play around.”

  “Obviously,” I murmur as I watch Nic pull a roll of cash out of his pocket. He slaps it into the hand of a man so giant I can only imagine that he’s the Crusher Cris was just talking about.

  Crusher nods, slaps his other hand against Nic’s in some kind of weird handshake. The two shoulder bump and then he moves on, leaving Nic standing amidst his crew again.

  He’s not talking now, though. Instead his eyes are scanning the crowd, watching where Crusher is going. Figuring out who his competition is? I wonder. Or looking for someone?

  I turn to follow his gaze, and meet Cris’s knowing smile instead. “You want to meet Nic?” he asks.

  “What?” Heat crawls up my neck to my cheeks. “No! I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  “You sure? ’Cuz I can introduce you. He likes redheads.”

  I’m not sure whether to be insulted or intrigued by that statement. On one hand, it’s totally sexist, like hair color is all that’s important in a woman. On the other hand…on the other hand, Nic Medina likes redheads.