Jacked Read online

  Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  The images in this book are used with the permisison of:

  Cover and interior photograph © Adrian Brannan/Fast Ford Magazine/Future/Getty Images.

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stevens, Eric, 1974–

  Jacked : Ford Focus ST / by Eric Stevens.

  pages cm. — (Turbocharged)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–1246–0 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–1668–0 (eBook)

  [1. Automobile racing—Fiction. 2. Muscle cars—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S84443Jac 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013000972

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 7/15/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-1668-0 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-7103-0 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3359-5 (mobi)

  I ripped my jeans. My mom’s going to kill me. Then she’s going to ask me how I ripped my jeans, and I’ll have to make something up. I can’t tell her my jeans got caught on the windowsill.

  When I was climbing out the window.

  After midnight.

  To drive across the city for a street race.

  I’m at a red light, and I can already hear the revving engines and excited shouting of the spectators from a few blocks away.

  “Come on, come on,” I say to myself, staring at the light, drumming on the steering wheel. It’s my first time sneaking out of my house in the middle of the night—or any time of night, really.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever gone downtown on my own. I’ve taken the light rail twice with a couple of friends to see a baseball game. But all by myself, and long after nightfall? Never.

  I’m not actually a bad kid. The thing is, I turned sixteen a couple of months ago. I’ve been saving my money for a long time because I knew that when I turned sixteen, I’d want a car.

  I’d want a good car. I wouldn’t be happy with some hunk of junk from 1983 that ran on diesel and went from zero to sixty in an hour and a half.

  So as soon as I was allowed, I got a job and started saving money. With a little help from my grandparents, I had enough cash for a slightly used and pristine-condition Ford Focus ST. A turbocharged 250-horsepower 2-liter engine. Zero to sixty miles an hour in a hair over six seconds. The hottest hatchback on the U.S. market.

  And that was before I hit the parts store: flash tuner, cold air intake, new cat back exhaust. I’ll have the horsepower up to 300 before I’m through.

  So why am I breaking out of my own house after midnight and tearing my jeans on the climb down the drainpipe? Because in the heart of the downtown financial district, where no normal person would dare to walk after closing time, all the hardcore tuners in this city are gathering.

  Gathering to race.

  “And if this light doesn’t turn green,” I say to myself, “I swear, I’m just going to go anyway.”

  I’m about to run—might as well, it’s not like there’s anyone around—when I hear footsteps running fast down the sidewalk. She’s coming up from my left, from the direction of the financial district. She’s older than me, but not by much—probably only a year or two out of high school. Her hair is jet black but streaked with red, and it’s so long that it flies behind her and bounces all over as she runs.

  And she’s head to toe in bright orange leather. This girl is a car girl, no doubt. And she’s heading right for me.

  The light’s green, but I can’t find the gas pedal. I’m not sure I want to. Next thing I know, she slides across the hood.

  “Hey!” I shout, because she might leave a dent. But she lands on the passenger side, no harm done, and pulls open the door.

  “Drive,” she snaps as she tosses her bag into the backseat. She slams the door and turns on me, her face twisted with fear and anger. She shoots a panicked glance over my shoulder at a man—too dark to see him clearly—running toward us a couple of blocks away. “Drive!”

  “Wha—” I start. She cuts me off, balling her hand into a fist: “Just floor it!”

  So what can I do? This girl is freaking out—not to mention insanely hot and into cars. Even though the light’s turned red again, I slam the gas and, tires screeching, I take off.

  I turn the wheel hard to the right—away from the guy running after this girl—and the little Ford squeals as we blast away from downtown.

  “So,” I say after a few moments of silence. “Who wa—”

  “Just drive,” she says. Then she coughs. “Please.”

  “Sorry,” I say. She unbuckles her seatbelt.

  “What are you doing?!” I shout, struggling to keep my eyes on the road.

  “Relax,” she says, but I can’t, because she’s turned around in her seat. She shoves her head past my shoulder, knocking my shifting arm as she does.

  “Stop!” I say, but she just smiles—I catch it out of the corner of my eye as we bang onto the highway, back toward my suburban home.

  For an instant, her leather-clad body is inches from my face, and then she’s in the back seat, opening her gym bag.

  I check her out in the rearview mirror. “That was pretty dangerous,” I say.

  “It just takes a little practice,” she says, “and I do this once or twice a weekend. Chill.” Then she unzips the front of her racing leathers.

  “Whoa!” I say.

  “Eyes on the road!” she snaps back, quickly reclosing her top. Then she gets a look out the front window. “Where are you going?”

  “Um, my house?” I say.

  “Uh-uh,” she says. I’m struggling to keep my eyes on the road here, but they keep going back to the rearview, all on their own. “Take the exit for the north side. You can drop me off.”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  There’s a lot of moving around going on back there—the sounds of clothes slipping off and on, zippers going down and up. I click on the radio and turn it up. I even try driving with one hand, using the other to block my vision just enough so I can’t glimpse the mirror.

  “All right,” she says over the blasting hip-hop. “I’m done.” She leans forward and I quickly risk a glance. Now she’s got on a black polo shirt and jeans—she still looks good, though not quite as race-car hot as she did. “Exit here.”

  I slip into the right lane—the highway is totally empty—and take the exit a little too fast. As I roll up to the light at the top of the ramp, she strains to check over her shoulder.

  “Are we being followed or something?” I say.

  “Huh?” she says, her eyes still on the exit ramp behind us.

  “You keep looking behind us,” I say. “Which way?”

  “Oh,” she says, with a little phony laugh in her voice. “It’s nothing. Take a left, and then a quick right onto Third.”

  The light turns green, so I lift off the clutch and squeal through the big left turn. I pop it into second just as I hit Third, and the tires screech a little.

  “So who was that guy?” I ask.

  “Who?” she says. Again she looks behin
d us.

  “The guy running after you,” I say. “You going to tell me when to turn?”

  “Pull over here,” she says. I slam the brake and the clutch and shriek to a stop in front of an all-night diner. “Look,” she says as she pops open the back door. “Don’t worry about me, all right? And definitely don’t worry about him.”

  She closes the door and starts for the diner’s entrance, her gym bag hanging from her shoulder. I quickly lower the passenger window.

  “Wait a minute,” I call after her. She actually stops and turns around. “Are you in some kind of trouble or something? Was he your boyfriend or what?”

  She sighs and rolls her eyes, but she walks back to my car and leans in through the window. “Look, I just didn’t wanna deal tonight,” she says. She talks through a smart little smile, like she’s been around the block a hundred more times than I have, and she probably has. “I’m sorry I made you miss the race.”

  I shrug. “It’s fine,” I say. “So was he your boyfriend?”

  She laughs. “He wishes.”

  I smile at her and say, “I’m James.”

  She leans in a little more. “Listen, James,” she says. “When my shift ends, I will be without a ride. Wanna pick me up in about eight hours?”

  My eyebrows pop up. “Sure.” School? What school?

  She winks and backs away from the car, then goes inside the diner.

  She never even told me her name.

  “Jamie!” Mom calls through my closed bedroom door. She’s been calling me Jamie instead of James since the day I was born. For as long as I could talk, I’ve been telling her to call me James, but she won’t change. That’s moms, I guess.

  I don’t bother answering. It’s just my typical school-day wake-up call. I’m not clear on why Mom distrusts my alarm clock, but a moment later it buzzes. I slap it, trusting my instincts to find the off button. It works on the third slap, and I sit up and scratch my head.

  Last night comes rushing back at me. The sneaking out, the girl in orange leathers, the wee-hours drop-off on the north side of the city. I remember I’m not hurrying off to school today. I’m hurrying off to an all-night diner in a bad part of town.

  By the time I get downstairs, Mom is halfway out the door. “You’ll have to make your own breakfast,” she says. She’s in her best suit, with her laptop bag hanging from her forearm and her purse from her shoulder. “I have an early meeting.” She makes a kissy sound at me and the next thing I hear is the rattling of her keys as she locks the door behind her.

  I smile and grab the orange juice from the fridge. “No parental pressure this morning,” I say to myself after a long drink from the bottle. I nearly drop it as I put it back.

  Dad clears his throat.

  “Dad!” I say, closing the refrigerator door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have the late shift tonight,” he says. “Got anything special planned for your low-pressure morning?”

  “Heh,” I say, turning away to hide my red face. “Just heading to school, of course.” I pretend to check my watch and whistle. “Better hurry, huh?” I say. I grab my book bag from next to the back door like I’m going to run out.

  “Just a second, James,” he says. Dad’s always better about not calling me Jamie. “Let’s talk about the jeans I just picked up off your floor.”

  “Did I forget to put them in the hamper?” I say, trying to laugh it off, but it’s obvious: I’m busted.

  “They’re torn,” he says. “A huge gash in the leg. Don’t tell me this is the new thing in fashion.”

  “Ha,” I say with a half shrug. “I guess they got caught on a nail.”

  “A nail?” Dad says, stepping right up to me and holding the jeans up between us. “Was the nail under the hood of your new car?”

  “Huh?” I say, and he sniffs the jeans.

  “Take a whiff of that,” he says, holding them up to my face, so I do. What choice do I have?

  “What am I supposed to be smelling?” I say, but I know. They smell like exhaust and gasoline and motor oil—racing stuff.

  “They reek,” he says. “And before you think it’s a good idea to keep up this act, I’ve already been outside. I found the torn shreds of your jeans on the downspout.”

  “Oh,” I say, and lean against the wall next to the back door.

  Dad lowers the jeans and turns around as he sighs. “Street racing is illegal.”

  “I didn’t go to a race!” I protest, because I didn’t. But I stop short before telling him about the mystery girl.

  “Then where’d you go?” he asks, folding the jeans and leaving them on the counter. I guess Mom will patch them up. Great. Patched jeans. I’ll look like a hobo.

  I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Dad faces me and crosses his arms, a smirk on his face.

  “The race,” I finally say.

  “Thought so,” Dad says, nodding slowly. “Listen, you think I didn’t go in for that stuff when I was a new driver? Of course I did. How do you think I know that smell so well? I also know how well it sticks to your clothes.”

  Ah, I think. That girl brought the stench into my car. She’d probably been tuning up or racing all night already.

  “Believe me,” Dad says. “I got busted once or twice when I was your age.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” Dad says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s meant to be firm and reassuring, but instead it just hurts a little. “You know, nowadays they take your license if you’re busted racing.”

  “They do?” I say, half glad I never made it to the race. The truth is, I didn’t intend to drive—just to watch and check out other guys’ cars. But I doubt the police would care.

  Dad nods. “We’ll keep this from Mom,” he says, “this time. Next time, you’re on your own.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” I say. “I promise. Now I really have to go,” I add, checking the clock over his shoulder. It’s nearly eight already.

  “All right,” he says, “have a good day at school. Stay out of trouble.”

  “I will,” I say, fumbling with the door, my keys, and my bag. But I won’t, because I’m not going to school. I’m going to a weird little diner in the bad part of town.

  I pull up to the curb at 8:30 on the dot, but I’m not actually sure what time exactly I dropped the mystery girl off. Am I early? Right on time?

  Late?

  I turn off the ignition and lean back with my arm out the window, my eyes on the diner’s door.

  “Do I go in?” I ask myself, trying to get a look inside. The glare on the windows is pretty strong, but I think I can just make out a figure in a black top hurrying between tables.

  “I better not,” I say. “She’s working.” I pull my eyes off the diner and check out the street where I’m parked. A suped-up ride sits a few cars down on the other side of the street, in front of a little house with a beauty salon on the ground floor. Bright orange, with black detail, racing rims, ceramic brakes.

  I check the time, glance at the diner once more, and climb out of my car to get a closer look. I can see this is no off-the-shelf kit job. It’s a racing customized RX-8, with deep black tints, black rims, performance tires. I’m walking around to the passenger side, thinking I’ll try to get a look at the inside through the tinted glass, when the driver’s window hums and slides down.

  “You need something, kid?” says the man at the wheel. He’s rough looking—sunglasses, a scar across the bridge of his nose, and a shaved head. He’s got on a black tank top, so I can tell right away that he’s built. Probably got as much horsepower as his car.

  “Sorry,” I say, stepping back onto the sidewalk. “Didn’t mean to creep around. I was just checking out your car. Turbocharged?”

  “Yeah,” he says, smiling and pulling off the sunglasses. “You know cars?”

  “A little,” I say. “Isn’t that rough on the engine?”

  He shrug
s and smirks like it’s no big thing. “For 400 horsepower, she’ll make the necessary sacrifice. Power is everything.”

  He grunts a little as he reaches for the dash and pops the hood. Then he climbs out, opens the hood, and gives me the rundown.

  “There’s your turbo,” he says. He points out the intake and the performance spark plugs. “Tuning chip brings those horses north of 400.” He drops the hood and rests against the car, folding his arms across his chest. On his shoulder, there’s a tattoo of a girl in an orange racing suit.

  Huh.

  “What about you?” he says. “You old enough to drive?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a little chuckle. I nod up the block.

  “The ST?” he says, and he makes this impressed little grimace. I can tell he’s just humoring me. “All stock?”

  “I’ve made some upgrades,” I say. “Wanna see?”

  He glances at his watch—it’s a nice one—and says, “Sure. I got a few minutes to kill.” I lead him across the street, and as we walk he says, “I gotta ask you. You’re a suburban kid—no offense. What are you doing hanging around here checking out cars on a school day?”

  I laugh and explain. “Weirdest thing,” I say. “I’m here to pick up a girl.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says, smiling like a weird uncle.

  “I met her last night,” I say. “Actually, I was heading to the race downtown—the drag race. You know it?”

  He stops walking and grabs my arm—hard.

  “Hey, what’s—” I start to say. He cuts me off.

  “A girl,” he says. “Last night?”

  I nod.

  “She work here?” he says, glancing at the diner.

  “I guess so,” I say, and I pull my arm away.

  He smiles—gentle—and puts up his hands like it’s all good. “Look,” he says. “You’re a decent kid. You like cars, and that’s good, and your little Focus probably can really move.”

  I shuffle a little. We’re still in the street, and though no cars are coming, it puts me on edge.

  “Here’s an idea for you,” he says, taking a step toward me and speaking real quietly. “Why don’t you get into your little hatchback and see how fast it can move?”