A crowd of people, all milling about excitedly as you pull close to the otherwise-abandoned lot, the stretch of road that looks like it hasn’t been maintained in years. The noise muffled by Sero’s windows still bleeds through– the roar of music, heavy bass thumping through speakers. There are dozens of cars, all of the same species as Sero’s: souped up, intimidating. You’re at a car show…you think?
“What is this?” Hanta’s decrease in speed has left some room for your voice to lay low as you lean forward, speaking directly into Carmen’s ear. She only laughs, windchimes that offer no explanation.
“Trust me, you’re going to fucking love it.”
a/n: welcome to charged!!! i'm absolutely obsessed with this fic and i am already three chapters in with more to come, i've been dying to share this forever so hopefully one or two of you like it :) it's been on ao3 for a bit but i finally got around to posting it here. hope u enjoy<3 love always! ao3 link if you'd prefer<3
warnings: swearing, alcohol
this work is intended for those who are 18+. minors dni.
It’s the kind of place that you have to know what you’re looking for to find.
You tend to be attracted to this specific brand of neon light: aged bartop with initials carved in, nothing but domestics on draft, anything “top-shelf” collecting dust above your head. It isn’t the first bar you’ve tended, and it likely won’t be your last, but it is, so far, one of the more interesting ones.
The quiet whir of the dishwasher is the only thing keeping you company as you wipe down the rail, even though the night has yet to grow late. It’s only 10:15, but The Office is closed.
These odd, early nights are, strangely, when you make the most money. Occasionally a Friday, usually a Saturday, always when you have a bar that’s just busy enough to matter. Tee, your boss, steps out from the back room in a cloud of cigarette smoke, flashy chain glinting in the blue neon as he looks around, assessing the flow of business. He’ll eventually turn to you, turning the slow-burning Rothman between his teeth over.
“Shut it down at 10. Everyone out.” He eyes the regulars cozied up to the oak, gives you a brief, unsettling smile. “If they give you shit, send them to me.”
You’ve learned to nod, slide him a two-finger pour of reposado, and follow his instructions without question. Tee isn’t the first sketchy character you’ve worked for, but he is the first that’s seemed to take a quiet interest in you. He takes care of you on these nights that he shuts you down before the money-making hours, usually pressing a thick stack of bills into your hand on his way out. You aren’t stupid enough to ask questions, but you’re starting to grow stupid enough to wonder what he’s up to that’s worth the quickly-accumulating cash pile in your kitchen pantry.
You’re just about to open the register to finish your cash for the night when you hear the side door fly open behind you, hitting the wall with a bang.
“Sorry, closed early–” you cut yourself off when you look over your shoulder, a small grin pulling at your mouth.
“Well, I know the owner.” Carmen, Tee’s daughter. Twenty-three and hell on heels.
“Tequila?” You’re already reaching for the bottle. She yanks one of your barstools off the bartop, sliding in with an eager nod. It’s hard not to be fond of her.
“Duh.” She tosses her purse onto the bar with a clatter, popping her gum as she looks you up and down. “Tee shut you down early?”
“I’m not complaining,” you say honestly, sliding her a glass with a generous pour of Sauza. She downs it, wincing. You wait a beat and– there it is. Carmen fakes a gag, gesturing to you frantically until you cave, handing her a lime wedge. “Still need your training wheels, I see.”
“Whatever,” she coughs, sucking on the lime. “Another.”
You raise your eyebrows at her, almost hesitating when you reach for the bottle again. “Big plans?”
Carmen watches you pour her shot in silence, sizing you up. Tee claims she’s a spitting image of the mother that left when she was eight, but like this, she reminds you of her father. Calculating.
“Sort of.” A vague answer, unlike her, but you don’t push. You’ve struck up a tentative friendship over a handful of shifts, but it rarely extends past a few post-work beers at the even shittier bar down the street. She’s certainly not dressed for Pinky’s tonight– four-inch heels, heavily-lined lips. Carmen’s out for trouble, which usually doesn’t require your presence.
She chokes down the second shot, and you don’t hesitate to toss a couple limes in the empty glass for her this time. She bites into both greedily, chasing the burn of the tequila. Carmen wipes her chin with a manicured thumb, and the smile she gives you when she recovers is inviting, pretty brown eyes looking you up and down like there’s a plan forming behind them. Oh boy.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“What?” You scoff, pulling your twenties out of the register. “You and Shorty hooking up again?”
Carmen’s smile fizzles into a scowl at the mention of the fry cook in the back— the fry cook Tee had expressly forbidden her from seeing.
“No.” She narrows her eyes at you, watching your thumb fly efficiently through the bills in your hand. “Do you have plans?”
“Tonight?” You move on to your tens, still not fully taking the bait. “Guess not. I was expecting to be here.”
“Do you have your makeup bag?” Carmen’s grin is growing a little wild now. You freeze, flick your eyes up to look her over carefully. She’s pinching her little clutch between her fingers, eagerly awaiting your response.
“...Why?”
It only takes you twenty minutes in the bathroom to touch up your makeup, pull the neckline of your tank top down a little. You hold your car keys up in question, but Carmen just shakes her head.
“We’ve got a ride.”
You feel underdressed next to her, well-worn denim hugging your hips and a black tank on top, but at least you had the foresight to shave your legs. You step out into the oppressive July heat, the heavy night air clinging to your skin like a blanket. Carmen’s uncharacteristically silent as you lock up, clicking her gum and rocking on her heels like she’s . Your stomach roils with an odd sense of anticipation, only broken when Carmen squeals.
“That’s us!”
Nothing could have prepared you for what greets you when you turn around. You notice him first: tall and tan, accepting the hug Carmen practically throws at him with an easy chuckle. He’s a looker, you’ll grant her that; pitch black hair that hangs at his chin and curls around his ears, a hat backwards on his head that pushes just enough of it back to showcase handsome features. The next thing that catches your eye is his car.
It just looks fast. That’s all you can think. It’s a Nissan, but not like one you’ve ever seen. Black, sleek, low to the ground, and humming like it’s just dying for someone to press the gas pedal. Haunting, icy-blue light bleeds from the undercarriage, making the pavement glow. You blink disbelievingly at Carmen.
“This is us?”
The man seems to notice you now, extricating himself from Carmen’s arms as he unashamedly drags his eyes from your boots to the point of your hip, up your torso to land on your face. An easy smile stretches over his mouth, all teeth.
“Oh, they’re going to love your friend.”
“Behave.” Carmen smacks him, giving you an apologetic look. “But yeah! This is Sero.”
He offers his hand, smiling. “Hanta, actually. Half-Japanese, Sero’s my family name. Either’s fine.”
You force your feet to carry you close enough to shake his hand, offering your name slowly in return. Something feels very off about the whole thing, like maybe you’ve stepped outside your normal wheelhouse by a mile more than a hair, but Hanta gives you another smile, one that seems genuine. It puts you at ease, if only partially.
“Love newbies.” He chews on the toothpick between his teeth, jerking his head toward the car. “Climb on in.”
You do question the sanity of both Carmen and yourself as you clamber inside as soon as he opens the door. Even the way the car idles is rougher than anything you’ve ever felt; it feels more akin to sitting on something…living once you settle in the backseat, something that might have an opinion on anything it’s guided to do. Carmen’s indifferent to the power radiating from the car, collapsing in the passenger seat and tossing her bag into the floor. She grabs the Monster in the cupholder, taking a long swig until Hanta swings into the car, snatching the can from her.
“Hey, hey! I need that,” Sero complains, taking a sip from it himself. He doesn’t sound particularly affected; you get the impression that not much riles him.
“For what?” Carmen scoffs, moving the rearview to check her lip gloss. “I thought you weren’t running tonight.”
“I’m not.” Hanta readjusts his mirror with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Not until I get this fucking clutch to grab right.”
“Still?”
Hanta eyes you in the mirror before replying, studying you quizzically. He leans in to Carmen like you’re not in the backseat. “She ever been in one of these things before?”
That makes your irritation spike. “I can speak, actually.”
“My bad,” Hanta chuckles easily under his breath. “You buckled up?”
You nod, snapping the seatbelt against your chest for emphasis. “What kind of car is this, anyway?”
“Almost forgot I had a seatbelt back there.” Hanta laughs again, fingers drumming on the gear shift idly. He catches your eye in the rearview again, shoots you a wink. “Just enjoy the ride, babe.”
You roll your eyes this time, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back into the seat behind you, clearly designed for function as opposed to comfort. There’s something acrid in the air, some combination of the fruity bite of energy drinks tossed into the floorboard and the winter ice air freshener dangling from the mirror upfront. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers beyond that, a scent that’s almost grounding, almost homey due to all your time spent behind a bar. It’s grounding that you’ll need, you discover, when Hanta shifts into drive, letting the engine rumble fully to life.
You feel the growl deep inside of you. The purr of the eager engine works its way down through your muscle, through your nerves, down to your very bone marrow. You try—impressively—to remain unaffected, but when Sero shoots forward, you gasp, fingers coming up to grab at his seat instinctively. It isn’t fear that rockets down your spine as the car starts moving—like, really moving—but something else. Something that threatens to stick with you.
“Tsk,” Sero clicks his tongue under his breath, irritated. “See? Even the new girl can feel it.”
“You definitely can’t run with your clutch like that,” Carmen agrees, sneaking another sip of his energy drink when his eyes dart over his shoulder, merging onto the freeway that passes over The Office. You have no idea what they’re talking about: clutch, grab, run, whatever. You can barely hear them over the roar of the engine as Sero masterfully moves the gear shift. The car’s keen to match him: second, third, fourth gear all whiz by smoothly as you fly down the highway.
“Your dad already there?”
“Should be.” Carmen’s rolling down the window, letting her fingers twist in the wind for a moment. She turns back to him, eyes wicked. “Why? You scared?”
Sero coughs a laugh into his fist. “We’re not doing this.”
“Why?” Carmen whines, leaning on the console. Your attention’s torn: you’re unintentionally being fed bits and pieces of what you’re heading into, but the machine carrying you there steals at least half of the show. You watch lights flare to life on the dashboard, the needles of the gauges oscillating between RPM, speed, a couple others that you don’t understand.
“A. Your dad would fucking hang me.” Sero pulls his hand off the gear shift to hold fingers up, counting. “And if I survived? Point B. Katsuki would fucking hang me for pissing Tee off.”
“Not if they don’t know.” Carmen settles in her seat with a huff, fussing around in her bag casually as if the speedometer isn’t rapidly approaching triple digits. “Think Marco’s gonna come?”
“I hope not,” Sero snorts, switching lanes. “That shitty Mazda is bound to spin out on him one of these days.”
“He’s kind of cute.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” Sero hisses, but it’s half-hearted. “He’ll lose if he shows. Ei’s got him by a mile.”
Carmen smirks to herself, pleased. “Right. If he gets the jump at the right time.”
Sero narrows his eyes, glaring at her. He chooses self-preservation it seems, eyes meeting yours again in the rearview. “What about you? What’s your deal?”
You think for a moment, weighing your words. What is your deal? You don’t know this guy, you hardly know Carmen, and yet you’re hurtling towards something that feels like it’s going to be relevant. More than a fun night out.
“I work for her dad.” You shrug, directing your gaze at the blur of lights outside the window. It’s soothing, somehow, going so fast under such a high modicum of control. Like an airplane with wheels.
“Don’t we all,” Sero says, and you itch to dig more into that cryptic statement. “You from here?”
“No.” The only familiar thing about this: the get-to-know-you conversation. You rehearse it regularly with customers, but it comes genuinely from you this time, something about the novelty of the situation disarming you. “I’m from all over.”
Sero smirks. “But now you’re here.”
“I’ve been here for a year, give or take.”
“You like it?”
You tilt your head side to side, considering. “It’ll do. For now.”
Sero laughs, bright and loud. “I like that.”
He’s pulling off the freeway now, Carmen roping him into yet another conversation consisting of vocabulary that doesn’t resonate with you. You keep your eyes trained on the mayhem below the interstate as the car pulls onto the exit ramp, seemingly reluctant to slowly shift back into its lower gears.
A crowd of people, all milling about excitedly as you pull close to the otherwise-abandoned lot, the stretch of road that looks like it hasn’t been maintained in years. The noise muffled by Sero’s windows still bleeds through– the roar of music, heavy bass thumping through speakers. There are dozens of cars, all of the same species as Sero’s: souped up, intimidating. You’re at a car show…you think?
“What is this?” Hanta’s decrease in speed has left some room for your voice to lay low as you lean forward, speaking directly into Carmen’s ear. She only laughs, windchimes that offer no explanation.
“Trust me, you’re going to fucking love it.”
Hanta directs you slowly into the crowd, seeming to instinctually predict how quickly they’ll part for his car. He keeps the windows rolled up, even amidst the random cheers, the shouted heys. He only flicks his fingers coolly at the greetings, keeping that lazy smile draped across his face.
“You hanging with us?” He finally breaks the lapse in conversation, eyes flicking to Carmen, to you. The uproar outside looms, the chaos feeling like it’s literally pressing in on the glass.
“No,” she answers quickly, swiping cherry-scented gloss over her lips. “Well, maybe later. Want to give her the full experience, you know?”
Sero chuckles quietly under his breath, so much so that you don’t really hear it, just watch his shoulders shake with the effort. “Fair point.”
It’s only then that you notice he’s rolled to a stop. Sero turns to Carmen, lets his eyes wander just enough to suggest interest, not enough to suggest intent to act. The smirk that flickers over his face is bitter in the kindest of ways.
“Your boy running tonight?” Carmen’s a little out of breath as she asks, taken by Hanta’s intent gaze. His mouth twitches, and he inclines his head toward the throng of people surrounding his car.
“Why do you think they’re all here?”
Carmen doesn’t respond, already unbuckling her seat belt. “Come on,” she calls over her shoulder to you, prompting you to scramble to unbuckle yourself, collect your keys and wallet off the floor.
It’s an immediate onslaught of sensation as soon as your boots hit the dirt. Voices and bodies alike surround you– it’s like being dropped off in the middle of the pit at a concert. Carmen hugs a few other girls with a squeal, jerks a thumb at you as she shouts your name over the clamour, but you’re too dazzled to offer much greeting. Streetlamps above bleach everything into sharp contrast: beer cans gripped tightly as the crowd moves on its own, the glint of custom wraps on foreign hoods, occasional puffs of exhaust rising into the air. That same steady rumble from Sero’s car courses through you, but now, it’s pressing in on you from the outside, the thrum of too many powerful engines competing for space. Your heart races in time with the fast-moving scene, but your nerves were left in the backseat.
A sudden commotion catches Carmen’s attention, and her fingers lock around your wrist.
“They’re starting!”
You have no room to ask who’s starting what when Carmen drags you forward into the thickest part of the crowd, seemingly able to see straight through the mass of bodies separating you from the increasingly loud hubbub ahead. When the crowd breaks, you pop out at the start of what you realize is a road, long, straight, and hardly-maintained. You blink in surprise: Tee is in the center of the chaos, organizing it into something that turns a profit.
Tee takes cash from one noisy spectator, then another, leaning in to confirm something with them before handing the fistful of bills to a man behind him who nods, takes the pencil out of his teeth and marks something down on a dogeared piece of paper. Two intimidating men in black stand flanking Tee and the man with the money, hands hovering over their waistbands. You aren’t afraid, not yet, but you can feel the gravity settling in your throat at the realization of the stakes at hand, something heavy on your palate amidst the buzzy adrenaline.
Carmen tugs you close to her, shouting in your ear over the roar of engines and voices alike.
“That’s Cruz,” she says loudly, pointing to a man in backwards hat spitting into a crushed water bottle, “with the Lexus.”
Cruz is leaned up against a champagne-colored Lexus sedan, feet crossed at the ankles and arms crossed like he could be anywhere else right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference. You tilt your head, frowning; other than a few dings in the back fender, his car looks uniquely typical in the throng of modified, Transformers-type vehicles.
“His car looks normal?” You shout back, trying to feel your way through it without looking completely clueless. Carmen nods excitedly, eyes bright.
“That’s the point. It looks street-legal, but there’s a monster under the hood. He normally doesn’t race with it, but his Subaru stalled out bad on him a few weeks ago. He’s probably gonna smoke Marco.” Carmen’s pointed finger shifts over to another man, pointedly different from Cruz.
Marco’s hyping up the crowd, shouting trash talk in alternating English and Spanish with a wide grin on his face. He laughs recklessly when the spectators shout back, tossing bottle caps and spraying beer at him– Marco’s only response is to shake his flippy black hair out and place his hat back on his head, flipping a bird to the crowd.
“That’s the guy you and Sero were talking about?”
“He’s a trainwreck, worse than his car,” Carmen laughs, shaking her head. “But sort of cute, right?”
You tilt your head, watching Marco’s tiny hoop earrings glint in the blinding light, the gentle curve of his rounded cheeks. He’s too young for you, but Carmen blinks wistfully at him, and you indulge her.
“Super cute.” You flick your eyes to Marco’s car: banged up, silver Mazda, purple taillights, a license plate that reads HOLAMAMI. It makes you laugh; trainwreck though he may be, at least he puts on a show. “So, they’re just going to drive straight and see who wins?”
“Sort of.” Carmen bites into her lip, cocking her head and scrutinizing the matchup at hand as Marco and Cruz shake hands, clambering into their rigs. “Marco’s issue is that he pushes too hard, too fast. Cruz’s Lexus jumps quick. Not really a fair fight unless Marco did something to his Mazda. Again.”
You nod, trying to catalogue this and weigh it against the limited scope of information you’ve already received. Cruz is the likely winner…you think. The engines start revving, Cruz’ Lexus practically snarling in response to Marco’s jumpy, chirpy Mazda. The soundwave travels through you physically, putting all your nerve endings on edge, and before you quite know what you’re cheering for, you’re yelling alongside Carmen, hands cupped around the exhilarated smile on your face.
Tires screech, cars buck under their drivers like they’re as eager as the crowd to get this show on the road, literally. One of Tee’s boys steps out between the cars with a flashlight, so close to them it makes your heart jump up into your throat. There’s no dramatic countdown, just the endless clamor of the crowd growing louder and louder, actually managing to compete with the engines as he raises his flashlight, eyes darting to Tee. Tee inclines his head ever so slightly, and the flashlight drops. Go.
It feels like standing behind a shockwave when the cars lurch forward, tires screaming as they shoot several tons of metal forward at a speed that doesn’t feel possible. The noise drowns out around you, eyes wide as you watch Marco and Cruz rocket forward. Cruz gets the jump, as Carmen predicted, but Marco’s not far behind, and the racket of the crowd slowly changes to one of shock and surprise as Marco edges forward, bit by bit and– Carmen grabs your arm, hard.
“Did Marco just fucking–”
“Did you see that?” A girl on Carmen’s left shakes her excitedly. “Marco just beat him!”
The entire thing lasts less than fifteen seconds, but you feel like you’ve just come hurtling down the peak of a rollercoaster, your chest moving rapidly with how hard your breath is coming to you. Marco and Cruz waste no time pulling back around to rejoin the crowd. Marco pops out first, pounding on his chest as his boys pull him in, smacking his shoulders and hollering congratulations. Cruz steps out in the same nonchalant manner he’d stepped in, extending a good-natured hand that Marco accepts.
“Holy shit,” Carmen wheezes beside you, still holding the top of your arm hard enough to bruise. She turns to you, grinning manically. “Well?”
“That was…” you’re a bit at a loss, still dazed by the frantic rhythm of adrenaline coursing through your body. “Whoa.”
“Ha!” Carmen barks out a laugh, practically tackling you as she throws her arm around your shoulders. “That wasn’t even a good one, wait til Sero’s guys get out there–”
It’s like she’s manifested what unfolds next. Marco takes his money from Tee, counts it, and shoves the entire pile back into Tee’s chest. Tee’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but it quickly melts into a crooked smile at what Marco shouts to the crowd.
“I want Big Red!”
The crowd erupts into low oooohs, even a few boos, a shouted “No way!” in response, bodies shuffling around in excitement. You have the chance to ask– Carmen’s already putting her brow in her hands, groaning.
“Fucking– he always does this.”
“What?”
“Wins once and then bites off more than he can chew.” Carmen’s eyes dart around in anticipation before landing on an approaching movement through the crowd. “There.”
It doesn’t take any intimate knowledge of anything going on around you to know that the crew that steps up next means business. It’s Sero again, still laid back but something in his frame is tenser, more conscious than he’d been in the car. He’s flanked by a massive man with dark roots and red-dyed hair, ridiculous physique on display as he steps up to answer Marco’s challenge, a frown etched deeply into what appears to be a generally kind face.
“That’s Ei– oh, shit–” Carmen cuts herself off when she joins the collective gasp as ‘Ei’ marches right up to Marco, finger in his chest, shouting something incoherent. Marco rises to the bait, baring his teeth in a manic grin as he plants his hands on Ei’s bare chest and pushes back hard against the larger man. It doesn’t escalate– two blonds emerge from the crowd, shoving Ei back, as Sero takes Marco by the shoulders, pinning him back to his still-humming Mazda.
You tilt your head, taking notice of one of the men in particular. A black muscle tee hangs loosely on his frame, showing off a tattooed, chiseled bicep as he plants a finger on Ei’s chest— firm, unyielding. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to get Ei’s attention. He redirects the tension from Marco to himself with ease. The crowd seems to ripple with his sudden entrance, hushed mutterings popping up around you; even Marco’s eyebrows raise slightly, but that begging-to-get-hit grin doesn’t drop. He’s hot, hot in that gritty, busted-knuckles way that makes a familiar kind of heat rip through you, fast and unforgiving. He finally manages to get his friend calmed down, hands on Ei’s shoulders as Ei still frowns, peeking around his shoulder at Marco and nodding resignedly.
Sero’s still got Marco pushed back by the collar of his t-shirt, but he turns his head, looking to the blond man pressing Ei back away from the altercation. The man turns his head, catches Sero’s eye for a brief second, inclines his head forward the slightest bit. Sero nods in return, releasing Marco’s t-shirt, not without knocking him back against his own driver’s side door one more time, just for good measure.
Tee steps forward to meet them as Sero returns to his crew, speaking lowly to them even as a few boos crop up from the onlookers, the excitement of a physical fight ripped away from them. The redhead turns on his heel and stalks away, already fishing in his pocket. Tee grins widely, stepping forward.
“Looks like Marco’s got an answer!”
The crowd erupts in applause, whoops of anticipation surround you, but all you can focus on is the blond talking closely with Tee.
“Those are Sero’s boys?” You ask Carmen, leaning forward to her ear. She stops her gossip with the girl to her left, returning her attention to you. She nods, using her index finger to identify them one by one.
“That one’s Eijirou, the guy about to race Marco.” You follow her direction to the redhead that’s now returning, pulling around in a vintage Challenger that easily drowns out the crowd, even dwarfing the growl of Marco’s engine. It sounds almost terrifying, like that much power shouldn’t be contained under the hood of one vehicle.
Eijirou, as you take him in, is clearly irritated, jaw set as he huddles with Marco and Tee to discuss the terms for their race, but something about him seems friendly, safe, even as you can see the muscles of his back flexing, the anticipation of the race affecting him physically. It’s a little odd to you that he’s shirtless, but maybe it shouldn’t be; this time of year, the air’s as hot under the cover at night as it is with the sun blazing down on the pavement. Swirls of red, black, and blue ink, traditional Japanese style tattoos, cover large swaths of his skin, even venturing—you note with a curious lift of your eyebrow—down below the waist of his jeans.
“He’s got to be beating girls off with a stick,” you remark wryly to Carmen, who barks a laugh in return.
“He’s a big softie,” she confides, lowering her voice as much as she can given the roar around you. She adjusts her finger, slides it over to a lanky man with frosted tips who’s massaging Eijirou’s shoulders, hyping him up playfully. “That’s Denki. He’s the biggest slut of all of them.”
“Really?” You squint your eyes, able to make out an eyebrow piercing. Denki’s popping around man to man like a firecracker, grinning obnoxiously and elbowing Eijirou when Marco shoots him an insult like he wants to rile him up all over again.
Carmen scoffs. “You haven’t heard him talk. He’s smooth–”
“Oh, and you have?”
“Please, Tee would kill me.”
“But not for Sero?” You make knowing eyes at her, inclining your head towards the dark-haired man leaning easily against his hood, watching the negotiations with an air of relaxed amusement.
“Sero would be worth it,” Carmen replies dreamily, likely only half-kidding. She shoots Sero a flirty little wave that he, after glancing at Tee to make sure he’s still occupied, returns slyly.
Something is agreed upon in the tight huddle of men between the two cars idling, and the group breaks, the still-unnamed blond man you’d taken notice of earlier coming to lean on Sero’s hood beside him, arms crossed, something angry in the line of his strong shoulders. The man follows Sero’s gaze up to Carmen, scowls, and elbows him, but– then his eyes catch on you.
His gaze is unapologetic, flickering over your face like maybe he’s seen you before and he’s trying to figure out where, but there’s something so aggressive in the sharp, handsome features of his face that makes your skin prickle. It’s visceral to be on the receiving end of his attention, the tangible drag of his eyes over your hips, the span of your neck, your lips. The way he observes you is immobilizing, and you swear your breath snags in your chest as he takes his time looking you over. You choke the momentary pause down, swallowing and forcing your eyes back to the race.
Eijirou swings into his Challenger, still glaring at Marco even as he revs the engine. Marco’s still not making things any easier for himself, raising his arms to hype the crowd up and get them good and loud.
“Do they…not like each other?” You lean to ask Carmen, shouting now as the engines snarl at each other, competing for space in the mayhem.
“Explain after!” is your only answer, because then– the flashlight drops.
Eijirou’s Challenger floors you more than anything else has, little silver flames bursting from the back pipes as it flies forward, right in time with Marco. There’s no way to describe it; this race is just different from the first, the pounding of American muscle on the hot asphalt elicits a physical reaction in you, hair standing on edge and pulse fluttering in your throat like it’s threatening to break out of your skin. It’s over quickly—Eijirou smokes Marco by a fair margin—and you’re almost glad for it, subconsciously concerned about your heart rate.
You give credit where credit’s due, even if you don’t fully understand your own reaction to the insanity before you.
“Holy…” you trail off, laughing breathlessly and making a half-hearted attempt to tuck your hair back behind your ears, petting down the mess kicked up by the wind. “Okay, you might be on to something here.”
“I told you,” Carmen says, vindicated, grabbing at your arm. “I knew you’d love it. That was a real race.”
You crane your neck to watch Eijirou pull his car around, stepping out to collect his winnings. To his credit, he doesn’t so much as smirk nastily at Marco, taking his cash from Tee in silence as Marco good-naturedly accepts the jeering of the crowd, bowing.
“So…those two?” You point between Marco and Eijirou, remembering the conflict earlier.
“Bad blood.” Carmen shrugs. “Marco told everyone that he slept with Ei’s ex-girlfriend, but…” she lowers her voice, leaning in, “Tee told me that Marco upped a wager on him, forced Eijirou’s hand, and lost. Turns out he wasn’t good for it, guess what he did?”
You can’t imagine. “What?”
“Called the cops on the meet before the guys could shake him down.” You’re new here, but even your eyes widen. You have no idea of the legality of all of this, but you can imagine the police are unwelcome.
“No.”
“Yeah,” Carmen says gravely, nodding. “Eiji almost got tagged running, and Marco didn’t even reach back out with the money, didn’t apologize, nothing. They haven’t been good since.”
You don’t respond, watching the ecosystem play out in front of you, letting the height of the stakes here settle in. You do have enough common sense to realize Carmen’s dragged you along to something you, after leaving your own years of debauchery behind in a different city, have no business getting involved in. The realization doesn’t land with as much gravity as it should.
You don’t mean to initiate the eye contact again, clueless as to what’s gotten into you that you just keep getting drawn back to this man, but when you look to the blond guy in Sero’s crew again, he’s staring right back at you this time. Pointed. You can tell he has an attitude from here, mouth twisted in an ugly, appraising expression as he looks you over. No one has ever looked at you like that, not really— estimating. Squinting like he’s sizing you up. It makes irritation kick in your chest, and you hold his gaze, narrowing your own eyes back. His eyes widen a fraction, like you he hadn’t been expecting you to respond.
You mouth the word at him, knowing he won’t hear you over the crowd. What?
That makes his face twist further, and he looks away, grumbling something to Sero, who looks up at you and chuckles. You’ve seen enough; two can play at that game.
“Who’s the guy with the attitude?”
“Hm?” Carmen follows your line of sight, snorts. “That’s Katsuki.”
“Katsuki.” You sound the name out for yourself, bitter at the way it sizzles on your tongue. Enticing. “What’s his problem?”
Surprisingly, Carmen hesitates, weighing her words. “I mean, he’s the best driver out here. Definitely.”
You scrunch your nose, disappointed at the certainty in her voice. Disappointed at how a small, vulnerable bit of you preens, impressed. “Really?”
“When he feels like it.” Carmen shrugs. “He doesn’t get pulled into bullshit easy, only comes out here when Tee calls, only runs if he thinks it’s going to be good.”
“I bet he’s an ass.”
Carmen coughs out a laugh, nodding. “Maybe, yeah. He’s cocky, for sure, but he can always back it up.”
Your eyebrows lift unwittingly, but you catch yourself, forcing your gaze back over the crowd. “Huh.”
Carmen sees right through your bullshit, instantly.
“Oh no,” she says, warning, “don’t even think about it.”
It’s almost alarming; when had she gotten to know you so well? “What? No, I–”
“He’s…” she thinks, but she’s smiling, “a handful. Kind of insane. No, wait, he’s probably fully insane. I wouldn’t go near that.”
“I’m not,” you say crossly, tucking your arms over your chest defensively. Carmen doesn’t have the time to respond before the next two cars are lining up, Eijirou looking much happier to be racing Denki’s little Nissan, glittering under the lights with a nondescript color like gasoline on water. Carmen’s already going on in your ear about why it’s sort of funny that they’re racing each other, why they’re probably just putting down ten dollars and a biggest-dick-of-the-week medal, but you’re not listening. Your eyes are still gravitating to him, Katsuki, stomach twisting strangely as the corner of his mouth quirks up in a chuckle. Hm.
You spend an exhilarating couple of hours beside Carmen at the back of the racetrack, coming excruciatingly close to losing your voice as you gossip over the roar of engines, as you cheer for Sero’s crew, excepting Katsuki. He runs twice, once against a mysterious man with his face covered that goes by ‘Ghost’—corny, you think, but whatever—and once against a guy named Tyler that Carmen scoffs at– Lives in the suburbs. Daddy built him that car.
Katsuki is, infuriatingly, a force to watch, calm and controlled as he slides behind the wheel of a monstrous Nissan, presses the engine to what you’re sure is enough g-force to launch a rocket. You’re not close enough to see much of the finer details, but something about the way he settles behind the wheel of a machine that growls, but accepts his direction so readily, like they’re in conversation– it makes something hungry twist in your stomach. It adds to his intrigue, unfortunately, how each time Katsuki steps out of his car, after clearing several in a matter of seconds, he doesn’t even look surprised to see his opponent conceding with a rueful handshake. You try to distract yourself during his races, but his magnetism carries to his presence behind the wheel, and you find yourself reluctantly clapping when he wins. The crowd seems to expect victory from him, chattering excitedly when he steps up to bat, and he delivers. Seamlessly. Alright, fine. You’re on your third beer, and you’re a little curious.
You do your best to mask that when Tee waves Carmen and you down with two fingers, smiling warmly.
“Look who we have here.” Tee grins when you approach, letting his daughter smush into his side with a kiss to her temple. “Carmen, you know better than to get your friends in trouble.”
“She’s having fun!” Carmen protests, kicking at Tee’s shin. “Aren’t you?”
“It’s something,” you admit, shrugging bashfully as Tee laughs.
“You’ve been keeping her safe, right? Out of the way?”
“Of course.” Carmen rolls her eyes, pushing away from him. Sero and his guys aren’t lingering far, and Carmen locks her eyes on him, grinning wickedly. “Want to go make some friends?”
Tee’s expression turns exasperated, so much so that it makes you laugh before you answer with an affirmative. Tee stops you from following, though, just for a brief moment.
“You’re aware that this is…not something you should share with your other friends, aren’t you, jefa?”
You level with him, mouth twitching with a sarcastic smile. “I don’t have other friends. And don’t worry, I get the picture. Hush hush.”
Tee chuckles, looking you over with something flickering in his eyes. A renewed interest, maybe. “You don’t seem intimidated.”
You take a beat to look around, eyes flickering over the spectators, the lights, the chaos of it all, and he’s right– you’d assimilated quickly. You’ve always had a taste for the things that happen under the nose of finer society.
“I like it,” you say honestly. “Feels like something I could come back to.”
Tee hums, nodding at your answer. He thinks for a moment, then leans in to you. “If you’re as tight-lipped as you say, there could be some extra money around the bar for you. Let’s call it…overtime.”
From anyone else, it might have sent chills down your spine, but you know Tee at this point, somewhat well, you’d like to think. It isn’t like you couldn’t just pick up another legitimate job for a little cash, but…you sigh. Your taste for trouble is going to damn you one day.
“Can we talk tomorrow?”
“No problem, jefecita. Now, go.” Tee tilts his head toward the men you’ve learned the names of, crowding around Carmen and shoving her around like a little sister, something that seems to be driving her up a wall. “Make sure the boys play nice. They know my rules.”
His half-joking warning isn’t for no reason, it seems– Eijirou and Denki are liberal with the way they drag their eyes over you, from the dust gathered on your motorcycle boots up your bare legs, to the tank top barely covering your midriff. You’re not unused to male attention, but you feel like there’s some caution behind their appraisal, like they aren’t so quick to dismiss you as just hot. It flares your ego until you wonder if it’s just your association with Tee, with Carmen.
“I was wondering when you were gonna come bite,” Sero says, playful, even as Carmen thwacks at his chest, introducing you.
“Denki Kaminari,” Denki blurts, smoothly shooting out a hand while giving you a megawatt smile. “Aren’t you a little smokeshow?”
“Denki,” the man you know to be Eijirou mutters in warning, nudging him, even as you take Denki’s hand with a coy smile. “Sorry about him. We try not to let him around the public often.”
Denki shoots Eijirou a look, even as he’s shaking your hand. “I’m being friendly.”
“Right,” Hanta scoffs, shoving him by the shoulder. “She works for Tee, before you get any smart fuckin’ ideas.”
“Do you?” Eijirou turns his gaze to you with renewed interest. You’re pleased to see you had been right about him; the smile he gives you is warm, inviting. “I’m Eijirou, but Eiji, Ei, even Kiri– whatever works.”
“Hi, Eiji.” You shake the hand he extends, overly conscious of how small your fingers are in his palm. “I watched you race earlier.”
“Yeah?” Eijirou lights up, grinning wider. “What’d you think?”
“It’s her first time,” Carmen says, beaming. “She loved it.”
“I mean…it’s definitely loud,” you say simply, drawing laughter from the group.
“No shit.” Katsuki’s scoff comes floating over Eijirou’s shoulder, drawing your attention to where he’s leaned against Eijirou’s hood just behind the group, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s some kind of security guard. The flutter in the pit of your stomach is traitorous; it blessedly doesn’t show on your face, but he’s twice as intimidating up close, mean eyes cutting across the sea of faces and shoulders tense. Eijirou rolls his eyes, saving you the embarrassment of your words being caught in your throat.
“Ignore him, too. He’s not socialized.”
You laugh along with the group, letting it come as a reflex more than a genuine reaction. When Katsuki averts his eyes, turning to talk to Tee, you take advantage of his distraction, unashamedly letting your eyes run over him, top to bottom. It’s a shame he’s so standoffish; he’s so good-looking it’s almost unfair, almost unnatural. Your specific brand of trouble, wrapped up with a spiky bow.
A few minutes of easy banter go by as the crowd around you thins, innocent questions about you and your background that you stealthily talk your way around. You don’t have to ask much in return: this crew has very clearly been rolling together for years, so at ease with each other you wouldn’t be surprised to find a few familial relations between the four of them. Even Carmen fits in her own way, tucked under Eijirou’s arm and stealing cigarettes from between everyone’s fingers.
It’s Katsuki that ends the fun, turning back to the group and butting in with an abrupt: “You done flirting?”
He’s nudging Eijirou, whose eyes widen scandalously, cutting off his conversation with you. “I’m not– fuckin’, what? You ready?”
Katsuki nods tersely, already pulling his keys from his pocket, but before he can respond, you, aided by the Keystone Lights buzzing through your veins, are biting at him like you’ve been dying to do for the last fifteen minutes.
“What, you feelin’ left out?”
Sero and Denki ooh like a couple of schoolchildren, and Katsuki freezes, eyes flashing angrily at you. You’re very satisfied at the half-second it takes him to recover before his features shutter closed again, that innate standoffishness sliding back over him. He pushes off the hood of the Challenger, crossing his arms.
“Careful.” Your stomach flips– not from fear. “No bar to hide behind out here.”
You scowl at him immaturely, not able to get a second shot at him as he’s already turned to shake Tee’s hand in a quick dap goodbye. You’re surprised when the guys begrudgingly shove themselves up to full standing, cars rocking as they’re relieved of weight. Katsuki’s word is law, it seems.
There’s a shameful note of disappointment sinking in your chest, one that you aren’t delusional enough to pretend has nothing to do with Katsuki’s departure. You don’t think you’d be able to hold more than a five minute conversation with him, even at gunpoint, but the wire’s been tripped. At the very least, you can admit he’s easy on the eyes, and you’re slightly skeptical of this mythic status that seems to follow him around, wanting to poke holes in it until the man beneath is revealed. It seems tonight won’t be your night to do it, though.
“Take us back?” Carmen looks up at Sero pleadingly, who hesitates, nervous eyes darting over to Tee. Carmen’s not having it, tugging him down by his shirt sleeve. “Her car’s at The Office!”
Katsuki tsks disapprovingly as he stalks off, shooting you one last parting glance that feels…almost indulgent. Too slow to be accidental. You force yourself not to dwell on it, chuckling as Sero winces, but relents, digging around in his pocket for his keys.
The ride back is much easier than the ride here had been; Sero’s passion bleeds out of his nonchalance almost by accident as you needle him with questions. Why do these cars go so fast? Can his? Does he race? Who’s the best one in his group? It seems to be fun for him, enduring your interrogation and rising to meet your curiosity, still halfway through explaining what a carburetor is when he rolls to a disinclined stop back at the Office.
“Me first?” You aren’t subtle when you look between Sero and Carmen, the obvious implication before you.
“I’m just taking her home,” Hanta clarifies quickly, words strained with the threat of Tee’s unspoken rules. It makes you almost laugh, especially when Carmen clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, settling irritably in the front seat.
“Riiiight,” you say playfully, gathering your things and leaning forward to pinch Carmen’s cheek.
“Stop it.” She swats at you, but laughs, turning as you start stepping out of the car. “Did you have fun?”
“Definitely,” you say, certainty grounding your voice. “Do these happen, like, often?”
“If you know who to call.” Sero winks at you over his shoulder, and you do understand Carmen’s yearning. You like him, the easy way he carries the weight of a 600-horsepower machine under him, the calm rhythm with which he detonates Carmen’s reluctance to let him be free of her.
“And now you do,” Carmen follows him up, an equally devious grin splitting her face. “You should come around more.”
“If I’m invited, I guess I can’t say no.” You step onto the pavement, waving over your shoulder as you make your way to your Mitsubishi.
When the engine turns over, you chuckle under your breath at how wimpy it sounds, just a car, meant to take you from point A to point B. You bite your lip as you drive, letting the space left by swollen adrenaline be filled with your thoughts. He’s still there, in your mind, and you almost revel in the satisfaction that he can’t be safe from your curiosity here, in your head. Katsuki. You don’t kid yourself that you’ll be seeing him soon, but the scaffolding of a plan to press Carmen for details is already forming in your head. You can feel the pinch of claws in you, the tempting feeling of hanging around for a bit, seeing where this goes. It’s unusual, grates at untouched parts of you, but you chew on it, just for a bit, taking inventory inside of yourself to see where it could live. Potentially.
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