Last Ride by Laura Langston Page B

being an empath. That’s just a fancy word for feeling too much.
    But the only thing I’m feeling right now is scared. I saw Logan. At least I think I saw Logan. Maybe it was a trick of light? Or maybe I’m just tired? I haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.
    Punching down my fear, I focus on the other thing that’s bugging me. How could I let myself be conned into racing again?
    Because racing is what you do , my badass self says. It’s who you are.
    Not true, I repeat over and over again until I almost believe it. That’s not true.
    â€œYou finally got some color in your cheeks,” Ray says with a broad grin when I pull in a few minutes later. “That’s all it takes to bring you back to life. A little pedal to the metal. How much did you push ’er?”
    â€œDon’t know.” I toss the keys in his direction. “I wasn’t exactly looking at the speedometer.”
    A broad grin cracks his face. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
    A white blur peels around the corner and squeals to a stop within inches of Ray’s back door. I jump back. When I realize what I’m looking at, my heart goes into overdrive. It’s a shiny new Porsche Boxster. Top-of-the-line sexy. A whole lot of show but not much go. Not the kind of car I ever see at Ray’s.
    The driver door opens. A short muscular guy in jeans and white T-shirt jumps out. I stare at his upper arm. If I had a thunderbolt tat that big, maybe I’d wear T-shirts in the middle of winter too.
    Ray takes another drag from his cigarette before grinding the butt under the toe of his work boot. “Your pay’s in the envelope,” he says to me. He angles his head toward the desk in the corner. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    I head for the desk.
    â€œSantiago!” Ray turns to the Porsche owner. “I thought you weren’t getting here until next week.” Santiago answers, but I’m too busy counting my cash to catch what he says.
    â€œWhat the hell?” I must have made a mistake. I count again.
    No mistake. It’s a measly hundred and thirty-one bucks. I was banking on four hundred. Hoping for five. I need gas money, spending money, and I wanted to give Mom a few hundred bucks toward my medical bills. “Uh, Ray, there’s a mistake here.”
    Ray and I have a sweet deal going. Since I’m not a licensed mechanic, Ray pays me under the table, sometimes in cash but sometimes in parts for my car. “I don’t need any more parts, remember? The Acura’s fixed.”
    â€œHow could I forget? You owe me up the wazoo for it.”
    My heart knocks against my ribs. It’s the third time this week he’s brought up my debt.
    He waves his hand dismissively through the air. “That’s all I’m giving ya.”
    Like hell. I close the distance between us. “I worked twenty-seven hours this week. That’s worth two hundred and seventy bucks. And I sent three guys in. One wanted a complete rebuild on the front end. That has to be worth five hundred.”
    That’s the other deal Ray and I have. I refer people to his shop, and he kicks back a percentage of whatever they spend. And they spend big. Mostly because Ray will do whatever they want to improve the performance of their cars, whether it’s legal or illegal. Safe or unsafe.
    â€œWhat three guys? I didn’t see nobody.”
    Santiago is watching us, a tiny smile on his thin lips. He’s older, at least thirty. He looks tough but he’s not. When his gaze connects with mine, a shiver crawls down my spine. The guy’s naïve. And somehow Ray’s conning him.
    I hate knowing stuff about people. But I also hate being cheated. “Blair said he was coming in for a new front end.”
    â€œHe didn’t show up. Nobody did.” Ray grabs my arm and steers me back toward the desk. “Listen, Shields, you’re lucky I paid you anything at