Last Ride by Laura Langston Page A

Logan. I killed Logan.
    And I won’t ever let myself forget it.
    I’ve only been gone fifteen minutes, and Ray will give me a hard time if I return too soon, so I head a few miles east, away from the industrial park, toward Mulligan’s Ravine. I pass a run-down strip mall, a performance garage that’s Ray’s biggest competition, and a Dairy Queen. When my cell phone vibrates, I pull over to read the text.
    It’s Aisha. Where R U? I read. We’re at Drew’s. U coming?
    Maybe in a while , I text back. But I’m not going to the party. Hannah will be there. Probably with Cole. And seeing Hannah is too damned hard. I slap the phone shut, shove it in my pocket and head for Ray’s.
    That’s another reason I’m a badass. I have the hots for my dead buddy’s girl. How disgusting is that?
    The light ahead flashes amber, then red. I gear down, coast to a stop at the intersection and adjust my wipers. The rain has turned to a mean, sleety drizzle. It suits my mood. Hannah’s been spending too much time with Cole. And I’ve been spending too much time thinking about her.
    I turn on the radio, punch the buttons, search for some mind-numbing rock. A car pulls up beside me. I’m too busy channel surfing to care.
    Until I hear the rev of an engine.
    Until I hear the signal.
    I glance to the left, see two guys in a silver Nissan.
    The driver smirks and revs the engine a second time.
    Sweat blooms on my palms.
    If he knew about Logan, would he still want to race?
    Probably.
    Hell, I still want to race.
    But I won’t.
    I pull my gaze away, punch button number three on the radio and crank the volume.
    The guy revs his engine again. This time his passenger yells something.
    My head snaps up just in time to hear the second insult. “Wuss.”
    My spine stiffens. I might be an ass but I’m no wuss.
    I don’t look at them. Forcing my shoulders into a slouch, I pretend not to care. But my foot is poised, my eye is on the light.
    The second I sense the green, I floor it, launching away from the intersection a good car length ahead of them. There’s no time for doubt, just the exhilarating blur of the world flying by, the amazing sense of control as I weave the IS300 effortlessly around an suv like it’s a piece of trash in the middle of the road. Blood roars in my ears, makes me lightheaded, giddy with power.
    The past, the future—they fall away. Nothing matters but this. I’m in the zone. At one with my steel shell. Focused on the here and now. More focused than I’ve been in a long time.
    I’m back where I belong.
    And then I catch a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s a guy and a dog, heading for a side street. I do a double take. It’s Logan. Staring right at me.
    And the smell of cherry Twizzlers floods the car.
    My foot falls off the gas. The two jerks in the Nissan shoot past, waving their hands out their open window. I’m shaking too much to care.
    Logan is haunting me. Either that or I’m crazy.

Chapter Two
    I’m not crazy. I’m imagining things. I turn down the side street to follow the guy and the dog. The guy looked just like Logan.
    But there’s nobody there. All I see is a lone dog sniffing the base of a tree. The same dog I saw a minute ago.
    The same dog Logan was standing beside.
    My shaking kicks into high gear. The smell of the Twizzlers Logan loved threatens to choke me. Slowly I cruise down the block past the dog. Sleet hits the windshield with tiny pings , making it hard to see. I turn the wipers up to high and peer into the darkness. I’m searching for a body. Signs of life.
    Nothing.
    After about three blocks, my shaking stops and the smell of the Twizzlers fades. I turn the car in the direction of the garage.
    Mom says I’m overly sensitive. I’ve picked up on other people’s feelings since I was a kid. Only it’s gotten worse since the accident. She calls it