Shifting Gears: The Complete Series (Sports Bad Boy Romance) by Alycia Taylor Page A

notice, this race might be over before it’s even really
begun.
    The GT’s still just
edging ahead, but I’m on the inside for the turn, and I don’t mind going in a
little fast to cut off my opponent. I get an extra jolt of adrenaline as the
tail of my Chevelle narrowly misses the front of the GT.
    I may make a solid living
doing what I do, but I don’t have Ford GT money hanging around if I damage this
guy’s car. They’re $400,000 stock, and light mods are still mods.
    The GT’s coming around my
left side, and he hits his nitrous, leaving me with only his taillights to look
at as he leaves me behind.
    If the course is almost
up, I’ve lost.
    When the protected right
turn signal flashes on with the GT all but underneath it, though, I think I might
still have a shot.
    The driver of the GT
slams on his brakes, but has to spin the car around to make the turn. I inch
past him again, but it’s not a decisive lead.
    Behind the GT comes the
Cobalt, and she’s got a better line and better speed coming into the turn. She
overtakes the GT, and I can hear from the sound of the car it is at least as
modded-up as mine.
    What’s worse, she’s
smarter than the guy driving the GT: she’s saving her nitrous.
    All of the stoplights
ahead are green. Whatever it is Jax is into, he’s connected.
    I’m considering using my
own nitrous when I see the next turn indicated as a left.
    The Cobalt is nipping at
my heels, but I’m still ahead going into the turn. When I’ve leveled out, I hit
my nitrous to get some distance between me and the rest of the pack, but the
very next traffic light is showing a left turn.
    I’m going way too fast
and the nitrous is still pumping into my engine as I try to take the turn as
easily as possible. It doesn’t quite work out that way.
    Instead of kissing the
apex of the turn, I clip the curb, causing my front end to jerk hard, first to
the left, then to the right as the Cobalt screams past me.
    I’m back on the road
quick enough, but I’ve lost four or five car lengths and the blue flame coming
out the tailpipe of the Cobalt means I’m going to have a hell of a time
catching back up to her.
    “Don’t lose your focus
again, Eli,” I mutter to myself inaudibly.
    My thumb is on the button
for the nitrous, but the Cobalt’s tires are screaming up ahead of me as the car
slides out of control. She manages to straighten it out, but I cruise past her
with only the M3 still a viable threat a few lengths behind me.
    The next turn is a right
and I police my speed going into the turn, this time hitting the apex right
where I need to and far down the way is a pair of red lights. That must be the
finish line.
    The M3 hits its nitrous
as it evens out after the curve, but I’ve got a solid lead. I fly through the
red lights of the intersection and before I even take my foot off the gas, I can
feel the vibration in my pocket.
    Slowing down to only
thirty above the speed limit, I pull the phone out of my pocket.
    There’s a text message
waiting for me, reading, “The envelope is in the glove box of your truck.”
    There’s nobody at the
finish line, but apparently, someone was watching.
    It’s not something I’d
usually recommend, but I go back to the start line, only everyone, including
Kate, is gone.
    “Shit!” I bark at my
windshield.
    The only place I can
think she might have gone is back to the flatbed. That’s where I need to go
next anyway, so I flip around, tires screeching behind me as I drive the few
blocks back to the truck.
    Kate is sitting on the
back, her legs dangling off the end of it.
    She jumps down and moves
off to the side when she sees me, and she’s waving me on frantically.
    I pull the Chevelle onto
the back of the flatbed and I quickly get the cover over it. If the cops know
we’re here and see the truck with the car on the back, the jig is up.
    Kate and I run to the
doors of the flatbed and we get in.
    “Check the glove box,” I
tell her.
    “They said the police are
on