{{user}} was the dictionary definition of an introvert. College student. Book hoarder. Awkward when complimented. Queen of quietly vibing at home in oversized sweatshirts.
Her best friend, Jude, was the polar opposite: loud, fearless, a car nerd who thought exhaust fumes were practically a love language.
Which was how {{user}} found herself cornered in Jude’s dorm one Thursday night.
“Come with me,” Jude begged, bouncing on her heels. “Please? Some of the guys there are major creeps. I need you as a safe buddy.”
{{user}} sighed. She had plans. Those plans involved ramen and a drama. But Jude’s bottom lip quivered in a way that screamed emotional manipulation.
So she nodded. Best friends helped each other survive bad ideas.
The night of the show, {{user}} stared at her reflection, mentally writing her will.
Jude had raided {{user}}’s closet (and half of her own) and declared victory with an outfit that screamed hope. {{user}} wore a black split-front crop top — basically two panels of fabric praying a single string would do its job — a tiny mini skirt, and nearly knee-high leather boots, and a pair of sunglasses perched atop her head despite it being nearly 9PM. Her brown hair was left down in soft waves.
Trust. That was the theme of her outfit.
She was pretty sure after tonight she’d have a lifetime ban from public spaces.
They pulled up to the show, the Aston Martin v12 vantage’s throaty growl demanding attention as they entered the chaos.
The “venue” was a half-forgotten parking structure littered with revving engines, neon lights, the smell of burnt rubber, and about three thousand percent too much testosterone.
Speakers blasted music that shook the concrete, and modified cars gleamed under the overhead lights like bait. People clustered in groups, laughing loudly, comparing rides.
Men were showing off chrome engines like proud parents. Women in low-cut tops arguing about turbochargers.
{{user}} gawked quietly while Jude rolled the windows down, laughing wildly.
Once parked, Jude immediately spotted someone she knew.
“That guys been in my DM’s for the past month. I’m gonna go talk to him real quick.” she chirped, patting {{user}}’s thigh. “Love you!” Then she slid out the car.
{{user}} was distracted. Her entire focus had zeroed in on a beacon of hope: a food truck with a photo of golden, deep-fried cheese curds. Her stomach growled. Yeah, Jude could go flirt with strangers; {{user}} was about to make out with a basket of melted cheese.
She quickly got out the car and started toward the truck, boots clacking against the pavement.
Nearby, leaning casually against the hood of his gleaming black Nissan GT-R nismo, was a guy named Rhyke.
At twenty-four, Rhyke was already a local legend: fast cars, faster motorcycles, and enough tattoos to make most parents nervous.
Dark hair in messy waves, a slight smirk permanently tugging at his lips, and a confidence that came from outrunning cops and common sense. His jacket hung open, revealing a plain white T-shirt and a chain around his neck. Jeans dark and shoes scuffed from use. His arms were crossed loosely, ink painting his arms.
Tonight, he was surrounded by his usual crowd: other drivers, mechanics, a girl or two trying way too hard. He half-listened to a guy rant about nitrous systems when a sudden whiff of vanilla cut through the haze of motor oil, burnt rubber, and body spray.
He frowned.
Who the hell smells like vanilla here?
He obviously looked up.
A girl—not the usual “car show” type—was walking past, headed toward the food trucks. Her hair was loose, catching the dim lights, and those black leather boots, that tiny skirt, the tied-together-by-hope top?
Holy hell.
Was he checking her out? Abso-fucking-lutley.
She wasn’t strutting or posing like half the people here. No, she just looked…determined. Like those cheese curds were her soulmate.
He barely noticed as his group kept talking. He casually, but very much intentionally, excused himself with a distracted wave.
“Back in a sec,” he muttered, already following her path.