It hadn't been a full day since you and Manon threw your graduation caps in the air.

The two of you sat on the parking blocks, watching over your cars in front of the packed gas station. Manon gripped a hold of her cherry-flavored icee, swinging it as she told a story about someone in a shitty Honda trying to race her at a light. Your eyes wandered as strangers gawked at the cars as they walked past. One kid even posed for a picture after begging you and his mom.

Manon's Nissan Skyline glistened against the gas station's fluorescent lights. Shimmering silver and blue like a brand new mirror, with the sleek spoiler sticking out like a dare. Look, but no touching. But your car, the Ferrari F40, was the real head turner. It lingered next to the Skyline, doused in a dark forest green that soaked up the shadow Manon left you with. You laughed at the sight of people staring, pretending to continue pumping their gas.

Manon groaned, slurping the last bit from her double-gulp cup, "Shit was embarrassing, he even had a girl in the car hyping him up like it was a fucking Mazda." You smiled, placing a cigarette between your fingers, igniting it with matches you swiped from the store.

Smoke slithered past your mouth in a thin cloud, lingering in the summer air along with the smell of gasoline and burnt tires.

You leaned back, letting your palms rest on the hot, sharp asphalt beneath your weight. "Should've raced him for his car." You simply said, sipping on your Mountain Dew slushie.

"And do what with that rinky dink ass Civic?" The girl nearly yelled, throwing her crumbled straw at your chest. You couldn't even get your rebuttal out before someone came running out of the store's entrance.

He was obviously drunk, a forty-ounce tight in his grasp. He was a tall, lanky white kid with cornrows stitched too tight to his skull, eyes barely open with a Kobe Bryant jersey drooping off his frame. His feet dragged like it pained him to walk right, or it was due to his shorts sagging low enough to be wrapped around his mid-thigh, where his boxers ended.

"Holy shit!" His words fumbled out of his mouth, "Is this yours?"

You didn't say anything, just let the cigarette that Manon returned to you burn in your fingers. Your look was enough to say Duh.

He smiled widely, his crooked teeth displayed in the gas station's light. He staggered closer, a hand hovering over the vehicle, "This is sexy, man! You gotta let me take it for a drive!" He brought the drink back up to his lips, letting the beer run down his chin like he was a dehydrated mutt.

Manon nearly choked on air at the man's demands. You stood up quickly, creating space between him and your Ferrari. "Excuse me?" You flicked the cigarette on the ground, crunching it under your sneaker.

You weren't the type to be overly protective of anything, but this car was all your hard work. All-nighters at your dad's car shop, your mom's grocery store job, and every questionable side hustle you could find, all to scrape together enough cash for a Ferrari.

He slugged closer, his hand just lingering over the hood of your car. The smell of beer rolled off his tongue, mixing with whatever else he ate. "Come onnn," He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sweat running down his face pathetically. "You can sit in the passenger if you're so worried!"

Manon let out a cough, pausing to look up at the guy, then you. "You gonna let that slide?" She wheezed, doubling over as the Icee ran down her hands.

He let out an awkward laugh, joining in with your friend. You could handle the puddle of condensation from the bottle on your spoiler. But when his heavy hand slapped the hood of your car, it left a nice, deep scratch from the cheapass 'silver' ring that would probably turn his finger green by tomorrow morning, that was it for you.

Your body moved before your brain could really list the reasons why it was a bad idea. Your fist collided with his temple harshly. A stinging sensation ran through your arm, stopping at your shoulder as you watched the man tumble back onto his ass, the forty shattering with the fall.

"Shit!" Manon covered her mouth, watching the man roll around, holding the side of his head like he was just concussed by Ray Lewis rather than punched by a seventeen-year-old.

"He fucking scratched my car, Manz!" You defended yourself as you held onto your knuckles.

"You're an idiot, I really want you to know that." She mumbled, tossing her cup into the trash before hopping inside her Skyline. You followed behind her, shuffling into your F40. Your eyes lagged as you watched the man scramble to his feet.

"That's fucking battery! Assault! I'm calling the fucking cops on your sorry asses!" He rambled, fumbling to find his Nokia like it was a loaded gun.

"First one home gets two fifty in cash, and the loser takes the blame." Manon couldn't finish her sentence before her Skyline peeled out of the parking lot with a loud laugh.

Your foot slammed on the clutch before shifting into first gear, speeding out to catch Manon.

68 MPH

You didn't move off the gas, swerving through the sudden cars that slid into view. But when you caught sight of Manon's taillights, you knew you could beat her. So your foot found the clutch again, switching to second gear as you swerved lane to lane, avoiding the sedan that had the great idea to jump in front of you.

110 MPH

The number blinked at you before you tore your eyes away and locked onto the highway ahead. Cars and signs passed by like comets in the sky, and the hot air whipped at your face. Your Ferrari snarled, echoing through the four-lane stretch.

Ahead of you, Manon's taillights flickered like a taunt, daring you to go faster. She weaved between cars with that reckless grace you'd expect from her. You smirked, refusing to let her leave you behind.

Manon glanced at you through the rearview mirror and threw her arm out of the window, her middle finger glowing under the streetlights.

"Fuck that." You shifted again.

154 MPH

You laughed, coming side to side with the Skyline. The adrenaline shot through your body until you heard sirens wailing behind you.

That drunk dickhead actually called.

Your focus tunneled. Street signs, parking lots, storefronts, none of it mattered. The only thing that did was keeping your lead against the flashing red-blue that could bloom behind you any second.

Manon flew through a yellow light, tires screeching as her Skyline caught the turn at the last possible second. You slammed the clutch, kicked into fourth, and followed, your Ferrari fishtailing for half a breath before biting down on asphalt again.

197 MPH

The rush of it, engine screaming, tires burning, your pulse syncing with the tachometer, was like a high no pill could match.

But your luck ran out.

A minivan eased out of a side street ahead, headlights cutting across your lane like a death sentence. You slammed the brakes, the Ferrari’s nose dipping so hard your stomach sank. Rubber screeched against asphalt, smoke billowing up around you as you cranked the wheel, barely missing the van’s bumper.

By the time you corrected, it was too late. Red-and-blues bloomed in your mirrors like fireworks. The sirens weren’t distant anymore. They were here.

"Shit! No, no, no!" You tried to tug on the gear, praying the car would reverse fast enough to turn away.

The Ferrari screamed as you tried to jerk it back into gear, but the alleyway ahead was boxed in. Two squad cars slid across the road like they’d choreographed the move. Their doors swung open, shotguns braced over the hoods, voices ripping through the night.

"Exit the car! Hands where we can see them!"

They dragged you to the cruiser, reading you rights that went unheard. All you saw was your car dangling off the hook, wheels limp, body slouched like a corpse. Manon’s Skyline was long gone. She’d be home by now, laughing. And you?

You were cuffed, bruised, and shoved in the backseat of a cop car, your Ferrari shrinking in the distance.

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