His eyes are blue.

That was the first thing I noticed about him, the day I met him three years ago. A darker shade on the outside, fading into a lighter one around the pupil. I've never seen anything like it, they've always been distracting. Nothing has changed, either, because even now... despite the situation, that's what I'm focusing on.

He has caramel skin, which contrasts the lighter hue. Black curly hair falls into his eyes, full eyebrows furrowed over an icy gaze—narrowed in a glare aimed flat on me. His huge arms are crossed, slightly faded but detailed sleeve tattoos decorating them down to the wrist, as well as a couple on his fingers. He also has a white tank top spotted with oil stains and jeans smeared with dirt on the bottom, a combo that tends to make up most of his everyday outfits.

He towers over me, his porch lights behind him framing him in a divine glow. Every once in a while the light catches on his eyes, too—making them look like they shine, just for a moment. His heavy boots thud as he shifts his standing position to one more aggressive, and his voice raises, which is the only reason I tune back in and begin to process what he's saying.

"—and you didn't hear a single thing I said, did you, Desmond?"

Ew. I hate that fucking name. The main downside of this guy: he almost exclusively calls me it. I'm pretty sure it's at least a little on purpose.

"Sure I did, Cavanaugh," I respond, pulling the same shit.

Winter's dad narrows his eyes. They glint in the light again, which distracts me. He drops his arms from their crossed position and narrows his eyes further, jaw flexing. His curly hair falls into his eyes even more as he tilts his head down, holding eye contact. I ignore the urge to fix it.

"It's Mr. Torres," he corrects me for the billionth time. He glances back at my car and his eyebrow twitches, corner of his mouth twitching downward. "Just have her home by 9."

I will not have her home by 9.

He goes inside before I can argue.

I roll my eyes, hoping he can see it somehow even though he definitely can't, just so he knows how I feel about the situation. I don't know, he sure acts like he has eyes on the back of his head. I take my time turning around and walking down the porch steps. I then make my way down the driveway and over to my yellow corvette, which is parked on the side of the road.

As soon as I'm in the driver's seat, Winter is interrogating me. "What'd he say?"

No idea, I was too busy staring at his mouth. And arms. And shoulders. I can't exactly tell her that, though, so I instead just notify her of the part I was listening to, "to have you back by 9."

Which is true, I'm not lying. That was also the last sentence he said to me and might've had nothing to do with the rest of his lecture, but whatever.

"Really? She asks, and I finally glance over at the girl. "You were over there for a while."

Winter has skin the same shade as her father's and bleached blonde hair, which has grown out so the brown roots are more pronounced. She has on a t-shirt and leggings, with flip flops on the floor that she took off for some reason. She also has these huge, nerdy glasses she refuses to get replaced despite the fact she's had them since freshman year. They even have tape on the bridge.

"Yeah but that was the gist of it," I tell her simply, watching the girl frown before I turn back to face the windshield. I put the car in drive a moment later, turning on the wipers when it starts to rain. Shit. If they shut down the race I'll be pissed. They probably won't, Robards won't risk losing that kind of money—it's a big night. It's Saturday.

The entire drive there, Winter talks. She tells me about her day at school, a story that happened at work a few days ago, and a few more things that sound like gossip in her friend group. I listen the best I can, though my mind keeps wandering.

I think about Cavanaugh—Vaughn—Torres for a little while, but that doesn't really count since it's basically my default state. For the most part, I'm worried about tonight.

It's a big race, with big names, most of which don't like me. Racers don't like anybody who wins a lot, it's the pit crews and fans and Robards who give a fuck about my appearance at these things. I'd probably still do it even if I sucked, however.

Again, though—it'll be a big race, and Winter always wants to tag along. She's a difficult girl to say no to, so here we are.

Still, I'm not worried about any of that. No, my dread is caused entirely by the pit stop I'll have to make before taking her home.

When we arrive at the track, I pull my car up to where the rest of the racers are parked. As soon as I put it in park, and step out of the vehicle, I hear people calling to me. I don't pay much mind to them, though—distracted by Winter's boyfriend approaching.

He's another racer.

He's also a secret.

His name is Pierce and he sucks. I've been racing with him for way too long and he's only ranked above me a couple times, mostly when I was just starting out and usually when I was already having a bad day.

I don't like the way he talks to Winter. I don't like the way he looks at her, either, and I especially don't like the bruises on her arms that she constantly has to hide from her dad. And me, though that's not as much of a priority for her, since I'm fully aware I have no authority over anything she does.

There's only one real thing that seems to bother her, though. The many women that constantly surround Pierce—typical for any racer. Except me, maybe. People tend to keep their distance where I'm involved.

Pierce opens the door for her because he's such a fucking gentleman and she steps out, hugging him. As she does so, he gives me a smug look, even winking which causes a spark of disgust in me despite the fact he's conventionally attractive and most would probably like it. I don't care.

Anyway, he thinks he's rubbing it in my face. Just about everyone I know aside from Winter herself believes I have a crush on her, and I allow it.

The truth of my feelings is far worse than any rumor.

That said, Pierce thinks dating her is some sort of win over me, since he's unable to perform well enough to beat me on the track. I don't give a shit, especially since she hasn't ridden in his car for a race once. She's always with me. It bothers him, and it's funny.

"I see you still haven't fixed your door, Cren," he remarks, referring to the small dent in my door.

I blink at him. Again, trying to make me look inferior to him. He's hardly even subtle about it anymore.

"I see you still don't have a number," I respond easily, because he doesn't. He hasn't won enough. Again, it's funny.

I'm 2. He's nothing, and I'm pretty sure the only reason he's still here is by looks alone. He has a whole fanbase, so he brings in the crowds. Still, despite his established name—though Crenshaw, or Cren, is a bit more known—he's still not good enough for a simple fucking number. Neither are a lot of people, but still.

Like I said. He sucks.

He grabs Winter and drags her off somewhere. She allows him, glancing at me nervously.

I sigh and look for Robards.