The track’s lit up like a crime scene when I get there.

Cars scattered around, parked like they were dropped from the sky, engines rumbling low, people yelling over music that keeps cutting out every few seconds. It’s always chaotic, but this? This is feral. This is ridiculous, and I do not have the patience. I’m not even out of the car yet and I can already tell this night’s gonna end in hospitalization.

I didn’t want to come. I made that clear on the phone. But it’s different when it’s Winter. Nobody gets to threaten her without consequences, I don’t care who they are. The only person who intimidates me enough to make me second guess that is Jane Doe, but even then…

I’d risk myself, I’m not even sure I’d actually have to think about it. Winter takes priority.

I kill the engine and lean forward, peering through the windshield. Yeah, it’s bad. I recognize half of these cars—and more importantly, I recognize a few of the people leaning on them. Rival crew types. Not the worst of the worst, but that’s not saying much.

I can already picture Pierce’s dumbass standing in the middle of it all, hyping himself up for a fight he absolutely cannot win. He’s good at one thing, and it’s being the loudest person in a group of people who want to punch the loudest person. Most of the time he’s important enough that they refrain. He must have talked some serious shit this time.

I sigh and step out of the car, immediately hit with a gust of cold air and cigarette smoke. The gravel crunches under my boots as I take in the crowd, not visible to them from where I’m standing, since I parked behind the bleachers on the other side. I’m not here to get involved like that, I’m here for damage control.

And maybe vehicular assault, actually. We’re extremely outnumbered. I’m not risking my car to save Pierce of all people, though.

I spot Pierce’s car angled crooked near the edge of the lot. Door open. Empty. Figures.

I follow the noise as I make my way towards it—where it’s loudest. Yelling. Not the hype kind. The aggressive, rhythm-breaking kind. That chest-thumping, ego-bleeding sound that means someone’s about to get their shit rocked. I don’t even need to see it. I already know.

There are way too many people between me and the fight. I stop, plant my hands on my hips, and assess my options. Do I really need to go to this extreme? I just want to resolve this quickly.

I could push through. Get shoved, maybe punched. End up in the middle of a dogpile and hope Pierce hasn’t already gotten his teeth knocked out. Hope he can stand enough that we don’t get absolutely destroyed.

I've been in too many situations like this to risk that, though. Pierce is in the middle of the mass of people. Belladonna is off to the side, glancing frantically around the lot. Probably for me. I came in the back way.

Yeah. I’m just gonna hit them with a car.

A slow roll. Nothing fatal. Just enough to disrupt the mess. Strategic nudging. Crowd-control-by-fender. Honestly? It’s sounding better by the second.

But not my car. No way. I already have a dent in my door, after all, which clearly offends Pierce so much since he loves to bring it up constantly. Don’t want to make it even more of an eye sore for him, of course.

I glance back at his car.

I don’t think about it much more than that.

I approach, checking around like I’m not about to commit a crime in front of fifty people. No one’s paying attention. Everyone’s too busy yelling and recording like this is internet-worthy content. I guess it is. Most people don’t see this level of chaos regularly.

I slide into the driver’s seat and reach under the steering column. It takes me maybe six seconds to pop the panel, strip the wires, and bring the engine to life.

It’s easier than it should be, probably because Pierce is stupid and it likely ties back to that somehow. I immediately put the car in drive, keeping the headlights off until I’ve lined it up properly in front of the crowd. Then, I turn on his annoyingly extra LED headlights. Brights, too, which is practically blinding.

Everyone looks at me.

I rev the engine.

And floor it.

I’m a skilled enough driver that I can do this without hitting any innocent people. Sure enough, driving around them and skidding, while revving the engine and just generally doing donuts around the crowd freaks them out enough to get most of them to disperse. I don’t stop until the majority of them have actually gotten in their own vehicles and left.

Then, I skid sideways to a stop right in front of the only few people left. The only ones with the balls to not run for the hills as soon as I went off the fucking rails on purpose. It looks like there’s about four of them. They’re all squinting at the car, pissed off expressions on their faces.

I shove my gun in my underwear since there’s no way the pajama pants will secure it properly, and even that’s not ideal. I wince at the coldness.

Then, I exit the vehicle.

The steps I take are slow, mostly to build suspense since I’m a dramatic bitch. It’s all about presentation. I don’t stop until I’m silhouetted in front of them, finally able to properly gauge the situation in front of me.

One of them is holding Pierce in place while another appears to have been landing blows. There are a couple more people off to the side, one guy seeming angry and like he wants in on it while a girl appears completely indifferent to the situation, tapping around on her phone.

The headlights auto-shut off a moment later, so I’m now bathed in the dim streetlights and they can properly take in my appearance.

The guy, possibly their leader or something, who is holding a delirious-looking Pierce in place, snorts. He looks at me, unimpressed, which makes sense. That was a lot of suspense for someone as non-threatening at the moment as me. The pajamas do not help.

“Seriously?” The man scoffs. I quirk a bored eyebrow at him. He glances over at Belladonna, who is visibly on edge. The expression on his face is condescending. “A twink in Hello Kitty pajamas? That’s your backup?”

“It’s My Little Pony,” I correct, tilting my head a bit. He doesn’t appear to appreciate the fact that I’m not scared of him, which makes sense. Westbelt racers are always cocky. I’ve definitely beaten this guy before, though. I think his street name, at the very least, is Scooter. Which is stupid. His appearance is even dumber, he has sideburns and he does not pull them off.

Right then, I’m grabbed from behind.

I really wanna go home.

“Dumbass,” a low voice hisses in my ear. I feel something sharp digging into my throat, and there it is. Why I carry a weapon on me at all times. Why my weapon of choice is a fucking gun. I can fight just fine, but not well enough to have made it this far. Not when I’ve been on my own so long.

No, my gun is the only reason I’m still alive. I know that for a fact. I will never feel guilty pointing it at somebody, and I will absolutely never hesitate to pull the trigger.

That’s the problem with a lot of racers. All bark, no bite. Even if someone pulls a gun, they’re not willing to use it half the time. This gives me the frequent advantage of being underestimated.

Scooter laughs like he’s already won. Belladonna’s face falls, but the hope is still there. She knows I’ll get out of this.

“Seriously.” The guy holding me continues. “How fucking stupid are you? Thinking you can just—”

The music has stopped.

I point the gun I’d been subtly reaching for at his foot.

Scooter clocks it fast, and his eyes widen in alarm. He’s immediately glancing at the guy holding me, fear taking over his face a moment later. Once the threat processes.

“Miller, wait, he—”

I pull the trigger.

The shot rings out through the parking lot like it’s time to start a race, but nobody moves. The man holding me screams and falls to the ground, knife clattering beside him. He lands on it, hard, and lets out another annoyingly loud noise of pain.

Pierce is looking at me in disdain. Knowing him, he’s probably furious that he needs me to save his ass.

Scooter lets him go, taking a step back and staring at me warily. I quirk an eyebrow. Oh, now they’re gonna take me seriously? I’ve been through too much shit to play nice, if you threaten Winter and keep me up until two in the fucking morning, I’m not going easy on you. Don’t bring a knife to a Crenshaw fight, it’s that simple.

Pierce stumbles to the pavement, groaning. I shove my gun back in my pants, in the back so he can’t see it. I know guys like him, one shot is enough. Just the fact I put it away right after might even add to the intimidation factor. I don’t give a fuck about these people. They don’t scare me:

“Which one of you threatened Winter?”