“It can’t last.”

“So you keep saying, but that hasn’t stopped either of you from—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

“Do I look like I know what I’m doing?”

Sissy’s aunts moved into the seats behind them, and both Mitch and Bren began to stand up.

“Y’all sit right back down.” Miss Francine motioned them down with a wave of her hands. “Don’t mind us.”

Mitch glanced back and frowned. “No Smith males?”

“Oh, darlin’, they’re all with Sissy and the others, getting those cars ready.”

Mitch chuckled. “Really? All of them?”

Miss Francine shook her head. “I know. Poor dears.”

If her uncle hadn’t stepped between her and Jackie, Sissy would have decked the big baby.

Her uncle motioned Jackie away with a move of his head. “You sure do have your daddy’s temper,” he said with a warm smile.

“He started it, Uncle Bud.”

“I know. I know. But you need to concentrate on your immediate situation. Lord knows, you can beat that idiot up anytime you want.”

“You’re right.”

“And guess who dragged himself out of the woods to see you?” Bud stepped aside, and Sissy’s eyes widened.

“Uncle Eggie!” She jumped into the older wolf’s arms. This meant a lot to her. Everyone knew there wasn’t a lot that could get Eggie to shift to human, put on clothes, and be around everyone else as human except his mate and daughter.

“Hey there, little gal.” His voice rumbled like ground up gravel. You felt his words more than actually heard them. “You take care of them cats for your Uncle Eggie.”

“I will.” She kissed his cheek, and Dee wrapped her arms around her father’s shoulders from behind.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Hey, sugar bug, I want y’all to be careful out there. Remember—cats don’t play nice.”

Sissy cracked her knuckles and glanced over at Paula Jo Barron and her sisters. “Not a problem,” she muttered.

All Mitch did was ask a simple question. “How many laps?” Which prompted Brendon to launch into his knowledge of NASCAR rules that Mitch could really give a shit about at the moment.

“And do you want to know the difference between speedways and—”

“No.” Mitch looked over his shoulder at the aunts. “How many laps?”

“Usually about twenty.”

Mitch and Brendon looked at each other and back at the aunts.

“Uh…that doesn’t sound very challenging.”

They all smiled, which didn’t make Mitch feel any better.

The National Anthem played over the speakers, and everyone stood up except Mitch and Brendon, who didn’t really think about it until Francinepopped them both in the back of the head.

After they did their duty as Americans, they sat back down, and Mitch watched the cars roll onto the track.

Six. There were only six cars.

Again, looking over his shoulder, “Are there only six racing?”

“Yup,” Francine said, offering him a cherry lifesaver, which he took since he was getting a little hungry.

Mitch and Brendon passed another glance. “Something’s not right.” Mitch now turned his upper body so he could look directly at the women behind him. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling us?”

“It doesn’t really matter what we’re not telling you, does it? Since neither of you can do a damn thing about it now, huh?”

“What kind of response is that?”

“Shit.”

Bren said it low, and to anyone else, they might not be alarmed, but Mitch was. He immediately turned around to look at the track and realized the cars were already tearing down the asphalt. At first, it looked like any other race, except there were only six cars on the track and three of them were different shades of gold. Then one of the lighter gold cars with the number 48 emblazoned on the side slammed into Ronnie Lee’s cherry red one. Not a tap, a full slam, nearly forcing her into the wall.

“Shit.”

Mitch leaned forward, and just as he figured, Sissy, in the black car, pulled up. First, she rammed 48 from behind, pulled around, and slammed into her from the side. The gold car rammed into the wall, and Mitch figured she’d stay out. But the lioness didn’t. She pulled back onto the track. Even more amazing, no penalty flag for either move, nor did the cars slow down. Mitch wasn’t a hard-core racing fan, but he knew some of the rules from when he’d catch NASCAR racing on his Sundays off.

Apparently, none of those rules applied here.

“It’s like Roller Derby in cars.”

“I’ll kill her,” Bren growled. “If she lives through this, I’m gonna fucking kill her.”

And Mitch understood exactly how his brother felt, and he didn’t like it one damn bit.

Sissy hit her brakes and barely missed getting battered by Paula Jo. Like Sissy, Paula Jo’s purpose wasn’t to make the last lap at the best time. That role was for her sister Lucy and Ronnie Lee. The role of Sissy, Dee, Paula Jo, and Paula Jo’s middle sister, Karen Jane, was to make sure either Ronnie Lee or Lucy didn’t make that last lap at all. They definitely shouldn’t cross the finish line, if at all possible.

They had exactly twenty laps to either stop the other team or protect their teammate. It was a brutal game born from a minor accident that abruptly turned into what normal, law-abiding people nowadays termed “road rage.” And only the females competed because the males, “just ain’t crazy enough,” Sissy’s granddaddy had explained one day.