The floodlights lit up the car park, numerous sports cars on display for everyone to see and for their owners to show off. And tonight, for the first time in awhile; you were one of them.

Your father was a street racer, and shortly after he met your mother at one of them, you were born. You were an accident, of course, so your childhood was rough. Most of your fond memories were at these events. It was high energy, and if you ignored the alcohol and drugs⎯seeing all the cars and the race itself was exhilarating.

So here you were. Back 20 years later, but this time not as some child peeking over the barricades.

As a racer.

You’d parked at the marked starting point earlier, forced to wait for whoever you were up against as they took their sweet time. 20 minutes passed before they finally pulled up beside your car, where you leaned against the hood, nails tapping against the metallic surface impatiently.

You were getting a few confused and bewildered glances, as you’d quickly learnt this was an extremely male dominated sport. You’d dressed up for the occasion, and it had it’s intended effect.

Underestimate me, fuckers.

You looked over right as the window rolled down, and your eyes met a pair of hazel ones. It took you only seconds for you to recognise him as Simon Riley. A popular racer in the area, and a good one at that.

Simon’s eyes narrowed and gave you a quick glance over, then back to your car. “You sure you should be touching something that ain’t yours, love?” he asked, as though there was no plausible reason for you to be here. “You’re supposed to stand in front of us. Did no one tell you how to do this?”

He thought you were the flagger. Asshole.