[COMPLETED]
❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞
Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an...
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➳ ARIELLE'S POV
Street lights have become a blur as the sound of squealing tires and fast engines are the only sounds that my ears can pick up. My heart is wildly racing in my chest out of excitement and I watch in awe as Zayn drifts us around a tight corner with a single hand on the wheel and his other still resting firmly on my thigh.
It's been minutes of this. How many minutes, I'm really not sure. All I know is that Zayn is gripping the steering wheel, driving erratically and we're in the lead—we have been since the start flag was waved and he pressed down on the gas. He's rounding corners rapidly, jerking on the wheel every which way, taking his hand off my leg only momentarily to shift the gears up and down on the car. Zayn is so focused, so enraptured as he drives and it's incredibly sexy.
As I watch him drive, I can't help but think that maybe he was born to do this. I know that it's illegal, I know that it's wrong, but for some reason I can't imagine him doing anything else but sitting behind the leather wheel of a beautiful car, driving it to victory. He doesn't just drive this car, he owns this car—almost as if he's been doing this since the day he was old enough to touch the gas pedal. And he's good at it. He's great at it.
I take a glimpse in the mirror and see a familiar orange car behind us. Even though Zayn took the lead early on and has held it since he's taken it, but that same orange vehicle has been tenaciously behind us the whole time. Nyjah's nowhere to be seen; in fact, I haven't seen him since the start line, but I'm not the least bit surprised.
Zayn takes us around another corner and we're back on the street where we began the race. The same woman who waved her shirt in the air at the start is standing on the side of the road—still waving her top to signal the finish line. Zayn's car continues its fast-paced speed until we fly past her and suddenly he's on the brakes. He jerks the wheel to the left and the entire back end of the car whips so that we pull a wild 180 degree turn as I scream out in excitement.
When we come to a complete stop and he puts it in park, my face is hidden in my hands and he squeezes my bare thigh. I uncover my face, unbuckling my seatbelt and leaning over the centre console to grab his face in my hands and kiss the life out of him. The smile plastered on my face is hard to hide and when we pull apart, Zayn asks, "So, I did good?"
Smirking, I wet my lips, "Very."
He smiles and descends his mouth upon mine again quickly, unbuckling himself from his seat and exiting the car. "C'mon," he urges, hurrying around the vehicle to hold a hand out for me to grab and I lift myself out of the racing seat. I hook my purse over my torso and lean into him as he leads me by a hand on the lower back towards his competitors.
By this time, a massive crowd has gathered in the streets. Suddenly, it's like there's twenty or thirty cars all gathered together and I'm in shock as I look around at just how many people Zayn beat out. Hoards of men are standing around their vehicles, lighting up cigarettes, pulling out bottles of liquor, and hitting on every woman—single or not, I'm sure.
