“I can’t feel anything,” I told her. Which wasn’t true. I was feeling those drinks. I was feeling them hard. The world was actually kind of swimming around me.

I closed my eyes and Tiffany’s fingers worked through my hair. After it was all rinsed out, she towel-dried my hair and then ripped the towel away, yelling, “Ta-da!”

“God love a duck,” Bebe gasped. “You look fucking fantastic.”

“Not too shabby,” Tiffany said, finger-combing it. “Go check it out in the bathroom.”

I stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom, which was full of little-kid toothbrushes in the shape of whales and bath toys in a bucket by the sink, a little kid’s potty seat on top of the toilet.

God, I thought, touching a ribbon tied to a towel rack with a ton of little barrettes on it. How did she do this? How did she do all this with Phil like an evil shadow over her shoulder?

I glanced up in the mirror and then did a quick double take.

My hair was blond. Like white blond. My eyebrows looked darker, my tan, tanner. And my eyes. Wow. Were those mine? They were huge. And so blue.

What I looked like was totally not myself, and that was all that really mattered.

But I did have to admit it was better than the black. Way better.

I thought of Dylan and my body ached in response. A sharp lightning bolt of feeling—of lust—zapped me, and I wondered what he would think of my hair.

If he would like it.

I tried to shake off the thought, because I knew I wasn’t supposed to be thinking that way about him.

But the thought stayed.

Dylan.

Always Dylan.

“Like Miley fucking Cyrus,” Bebe said when I came back into the main room. Tiffany was passed out on the couch, her hands tucked under her face.

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Twenty-three,” Bebe answered, picking up everyone’s glasses and putting them in the sink. The buckets were stacked up in a pile by the door. There were a lot of buckets.

She was a year younger than me. With three kids.

“I gotta go,” I said. I needed Dylan. I needed his voice. I needed those things he asked me to do. I needed all of it—suddenly worse than ever before. “That was fun.”

“That,” Bebe said with a smile, “was epic. Good luck tomorrow.”

“Ha!” I said and stumbled home.

Inside the trailer it was cool and dark, and I locked the door behind me and slipped right into bed without brushing my teeth.

It took me a few tries to get the bedside table open, but soon I had the fully charged phone in my hand. I texted Dylan.

DYLAN

If Dylan was going to be a god, he was going to be a god among these men. NASCAR officials, team owners, sponsors, drivers, and crew chiefs. Wearing tuxes and drinking scotch, making million-dollar deals over cigars.

None of them looked him in the eye. Not one. Or looked at his face. When these people talked to him, they talked to his nose. Or the black tie around his neck.

The drivers couldn’t even look at him, as if he were bad luck.

There but for the grace of God and all that shit…

There is no grace of God, he wanted to tell those drivers. Put your faith in the machine and the crew and the feeling in your gut when you’re on that track.

Dylan knew he made them nervous and he could enjoy throwing around that kind of vibe.

But now this shit was just getting old. Which was why Blake usually did these things by himself. But Blake had insisted Dylan come this time, and that was a rare enough request that Dylan felt obligated to play along. They’re scars, people. Just scars.

“How is that transmission of yours coming?” Jimmy Morrow asked, his hair so white and thick it was like a cat had taken a nap on his head. Jimmy Morrow wanted Dylan’s transmission. Every man here wanted it. Jimmy was willing to pay him a lot of money but Dylan wasn’t sure he could work with a man who had hair like that. For a second, just a flash, he thought of what his brother would have said about that man’s hair and nearly smiled.

“It’s coming along,” he said.

“I heard you’re getting more horsepower than any other engine builder.”

“It’s a game-changer, gentlemen. I won’t lie.”

Dylan could feel their excitement; they were like circling sharks.

“My offer still stands,” Jimmy said. “I told that partner of yours and I’ll tell you the same thing. I’ll buy 989 Engines. I’ll give you enough money that you can buy yourself another couple of mountains. You can still run the whole operation, build the engines you want, how you want. Think about it, son. Offers like this don’t come around every day,” Jimmy Morrow said to Dylan’s chin, smiling at the other men as though he had Dylan eating out of the palm of his hand.

But Dylan wasn’t anyone’s pet.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Jimmy,” Dylan said. “I get an offer like that once a week. From men who can look me in the eye when they do it. My company is not for sale. Never will be. You can stand in line like the rest of the owners when the time comes. Gentlemen,” he said and took his leave from the silent, gape-faced assholes.

Dylan caught sight of Blake in the corner, surrounded by rich white guys. Blake caught his eye and Dylan tilted his head toward the exit. Blake nodded and Dylan left the stuffy, crowded room that stank of perfume and cigars and stepped out onto the big wraparound porch of the mansion nestled up into the northwest corner of Charlotte.

The humidity was thick away from his mountain and there were way too many people here, but duty demanded he come down occasionally and meet with the men who paid him so much goddamned money. And in the case of Jimmy Morrow, would pay him so much more.

“Hello, stranger.”

A woman stepped out of the shadows wearing a classic black dress over a body that made a man look twice. She flipped long brown hair over her shoulder and shot him a sly smile.

“Jennifer.” Something warm rolled over in his chest. They’d had some good times not too long ago. She was one of the few people from his life before who didn’t treat him any differently now. Though he was rich now, and Jennifer did enjoy money. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Just got here,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you here. Someone yank your chain? Force you down off that mountain?”

“Blake insisted I come down and make nice.”

“Hmmm,” she laughed.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Daddy’s looking for a new driver. He’s here to grease some palms.”

“This is the place for it,” he said. The NASCAR corporate gala brought everyone out of hiding. Including him.

“You know,” she said, stepping even closer. He could smell her in the darkness, something bright and sharp. “He was asking if I thought you’d be interested in scouting—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, Jennifer.”

Her slow prowl across the porch paused for a moment, but she got her stride back. That was the thing about Jennifer: she never got knocked off her stride for long. He actually admired that about her. She pouted at him, making the most of those lips she’d been born with. “You know, you used to be a lot nicer.”

“I used to be a kid,” he said. And a fool. So damn grateful and eager for what those men at the party could give him. So damn happy to be out of his cage he would have done anything for the people paying his way. He’d enjoyed being one of their golden boys for a few short years. An up-and-coming driver with a bright future. It had been a relief putting the darkest of his sins as far behind him as he could. Pretending his hands were clean.

But then karma, his old friend, came back around. She always did.