Collision

The Fight for Life series Book 1

By K.A. Sterritt

Copyright © 2015 by K.A. Sterritt

Editing and cover design by Murphy Rae at Indie Solutions

http://www.murphyrae.net/

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

www.polgarusstudio.com

Contact the author:

www.facebook.com/kasterritt

twitter.com/KASterritt

www.kasterritt.com

kasterritt@gmail.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

Dedication

To Adriana Leiker. I forged on because of you.

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” Oscar Wilde

Chapter One

Juliette

High-octane fuel and hot rubber fumes lingered in the cold morning air as I waited for the moment. Idling in neutral, I blipped the accelerator hard to hear the engine’s roar—music played by the god of petrol heads. My hands gripped the black leather steering wheel, not with fear but anticipation. Through the windscreen, the strip ahead beckoned with its smooth perfection, and the rush was so close I could taste it.

I glanced to my right and locked eyes with my rival, Scott Henderson. He shook his head and, despite the helmet covering his face, I could tell he was laughing by his full-body shake. I’d seen Scott before at the track and he was an awesome driver, but he was a peacock and a trophy hound. He’d lurked at the back of the line to pair off with me, no doubt assuming a mere female would present him with an easy victory. Peacocks are pretty, but show-offs didn’t intimidate me. He drove a BMW M-Roadster, and its power-to-weight ratio should see him cross the line ahead of my Mini Cooper, even if it was the John Cooper Works model.

Returning my gaze to the tarmac ahead, I concentrated on the multi-coloured starting lights—the ‘Christmas Tree’. On each side of the Tree are seven lights: two small amber lights at the top, followed in descending order by three larger LED lights, a green bulb, and finally a red bulb. We moved forward until the pre-stage light illuminated, indicating our front tyres had crossed the first marker. We were approximately seven inches from the starting line.

Edging forward, the stage bulb lit up, which meant we were positioned exactly on the starting line and were ready to launch. My whole body quivered with a surge of adrenaline as I focused solely on the lights on my side of the Tree. I revelled in the feeling of it pumping through my veins.

With my senses blissfully overloaded, the moment of truth had arrived and a serene feeling that everything was exactly as it should be engulfed me. I depressed the clutch, engaged first gear and dialled up three and a half thousand revs.

The amber lights flashed simultaneously, followed four-tenths of a second later by the green light. My brain registered one thing.

GO!

I released the clutch and smoothly buried the accelerator into the firewall. The world became a fast-forward blur, and I momentarily sensed a cloud of tyre smoke on my right.

Seven thousand revs. Red line. Second gear. Slam!

Red line. Third gear. Slam!

Red line. Fourth gear. Maximum torque.

Approaching red line. Maximum speed.

Finish line. Maximum rush.

“Better luck next time, Scottie.” I couldn’t resist flicking my long blonde hair over my shoulder and grinning as his mates consoled him with pathetic theories of electronic malfunction and inferior grip on his side of the track.

“That was hilarious.” My good friend, Jim, a gargantuan wall of a man was buckled over laughing. When he straightened up, he gave me an enthusiastic high five.

“You might as well have chopped his balls off, Jules,” Jim’s step brother, Shorty, added in his strangely high-pitched voice.

“Thanks, guys. The schmuck underestimated me and paid the price.”

I enjoyed the win, but I lived for the magic moments—calculated risks where I could dance precariously on the subjective line between skill and recklessness. I was an adrenaline junkie and would take risks normal people actively sought to avoid. I revelled in the inevitability of my own demise. Some might call that selfish, cowardly and inconsiderate, but I could live with that. It was my secret, and it helped me accept the fact that almost every other part of my life was out of my control.

“Hey, Jules,” Jim said when he’d recovered from another laughing fit. “Are you free this Friday night?”

“What have you got in mind?” I raised my eyebrows and cocked my head.

“Any interest in coming to fight night with Shorty and me?”

A while ago, they’d mentioned the illegal fight clubs they attended and I’d been more than a little intrigued. I just didn’t think they’d ever invite me, so I’d started dropping hints about my boxing classes. They were at least ten years my senior and treated me like their little sister.

I’d met Jim and Shorty at Winton raceway when I first got my Mini and wanted to take her on a track. Jim had approached me and offered to give me some pointers. A few pointers had turned into many driving lessons and, when I’d offered to pay, they flat out refused. “We just like seeing the look on their faces when you kick their arses,” they’d said.

“Are you serious? Of course I’m interested.”

“Thought you might be,” Jim replied, chuckling again. “It’s a pretty rough scene though, Jules.”

“I can handle that,” I said, gesturing around me. I was well-accustomed to male-dominated environments.

“Different league, Jules. We’ll look out for you though.”

“I can defend myself too, you know.”

They both nodded their heads and smiled. “We don’t doubt it,” Jim said. “I’ll get you on the list, then.”

Chapter Two

Juliette

When I finished high school seven years ago, I’d wanted to see the world. I’d never had a job as my spare time was spent in hell, otherwise known as deportment classes, modelling school and makeup lessons. I’d asked my parents to lend me the money for an airline ticket, and their reaction gave me my first real indication of how tightly I was bound to my life in Melbourne.

“You can’t leave me after all I’ve done for you.” My mother had sobbed. “Please don’t leave me.” She’d cried for a week and had to eventually be sedated when she threatened to kill herself.

“Please, Juliette,” my father had begged. “Not yet. Get a degree first.”