Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

25 | Pit Crew

JUEVES
7:46 PM

Reid Harlow

I took another drag of the cigarette.

My skin basks in the sun as it lowers into the horizon, casting an orange-pink glow across the sky in its place. The silhouettes of trees paint the perfect landscape, flocks of birds rustle from the branches and ascend north, leaving.

The nicotine registers in my system and releases a dopamine that could closely relate to euphoria. A numbness to sensation, a buzz through my veins that elevates my high. It creates a sense of peace—though artificial—and it makes me feel relieved. On some days, it slows down my heart and on others, my chest races out of my ribcage.

It's a coin flip.

But it's so fucking worth it.

I feel the seat beside me fill with a body, and our knees knock.

"You know smoking is bad for you, right?" Claudia declares, quite stuck up and bitchy. She doesn't turn my way, and instead focuses her eyes to the view before us.

"You know I don't fucking care, right?" I mock, taking another drag of the cigarettes as the end chars with an inhale. "Don't you have a dick to suck? Or a clinic to visit? Why the fuck are you here?"

The moment after I finished, it registered how much of an asshole I sound like—but it was too late. I don't apologize, and despite my chest lighting with a string of guilt, it wasn't enough for me to take back my words.

Claudia inhales a sharp breath, and doesn't automatically return the banter. I clench my teeth, sharpen my jaw and remind myself that this is the way to go to keep people at arm's length. That this is the procedure to take to be safe.

"You're an asshole," Claudia mumbles under her breath, and from the corner of my eyes, her hands ball into fists. "Sometimes I want to punch you."

I scoff, turning to my foster sister and give her a challenging look. "then fucking do it. Punch me."

Her brown eyes flicker to my face, fury brewing behind them and a temptation that sweeps her features like a ticking bomb ready to dentate itself. Her jaw sharpens, and she looks as if she's debating a choice between her morals and her conscience.

Prove me right.

Almost like she could read my thoughts, Claudia shakes her head and unclenches her muscles. She swallows hard and turns away from me, calming herself before she does something irrational. Like, for instance, giving me a punch I deserve.

Goddammit.

"I'm not here to fight you," she begins quietly, her voice pitched with an edge. "I want to talk about Dahlia."

I froze. The cigarette between my fingers burns smaller and smaller, and the reminder of how Dahlia hates the smell returns to me. I drop the butt of the concrete—almost like some fucking tribute to her—and crush it underneath my shoe. I don't look at Claudia.

"Why?"

"My mom said she was here for dinner yesterday," Claudia recaps, her voice drawing steady, as if she was unveiling classified information. "And...you brought her."

I stay silent.

"She hasn't called me," Claudia said, her gaze flickering to me to see if I'm following. I am. "And she hasn't tried to text me or anything, and I know we don't see everything eye-to-eye—but I'm concerned about her."

I don't want to say anything, because I feel like everything Dahlia shared with me was confidential. It was a thin layer of trust she bestowed on me, and even the most delicate move can fracture it.