There's never a time where anyone actually expects their life to get turned upside down. Shit just happens and then there goes your world.

Santana Lopez is lounging on the couch in the apartment that she shares with her brother in a quaint downtown area of Miami when her front door suddenly bursts open and two men stride into the room.

"Santana, we have to get out of here now." One of the men exclaims. He's taller, bulky build, his skin is bronzed like Santana's but his eyes are sunken and hollow from lack of sleep.

"Why the fuck is that Puckerman?" She retorts, the obvious defiance of the whole matter shining through her steeled brown eyes in a pointed glare.

Her friend, she supposes you could call him one of her best if you had too, returns her glare before running his hand over the top of his very shortly cropped Mohawk and replying to her with a careful shrug of his shoulders.

"No time for explanations Lil' Lopez, sorry."

Before Santana can even protest, the other man in the room, Noah Puckerman's 'friend' (the term is used loosely) Finn hoists her up and drapes her over his extra large shoulder. Without a second glance or further words, Finn follows Puck out of the apartment with Santana flailing on his shoulder.

They reach the street and travel a good few blocks away before Finn sets Santana on her feet and receives a well-aimed and very effective punch to his shoulder. In a whirlwind, she swivels around to face Puck and then distinctively recognizes that someone is missing from their little group. Her raised fist, the one she had intended on punching Puck with, slowly lowers as panic begins to clutch at her chest.

"Wait, where's Hec?"

Puck's face winces slightly at the name, but otherwise he remains his stoic self. He shakes his head.

"That's why we gotta go Santana, they got Hec."

"And it won't be long before they're after us too." Finn adds to the tail end of Puck's words, but it does nothing to soothe the fear and dread that is rapidly spreading through Santana's body. All she hears is 'They got Hec'.

She opens her mouth to demand an explanation is rendered unable to when a loud explosion rumbles from the apartment building behind them. Santana turns around to witness fire, glass and other debris projecting itself from a fourth floor window in the apartment building she just came from-the very same window that she has watched the Miami sunsets through before.

"Time's up Lopez. Let's go."

All Santana knows how to do at that point is follow her friend and his words. What else does she have left in her life now anyway?

"You understand what tonight entitles right?"

Brittany Pierce rolls her tropical blue eyes in boredom. She's not an idiot.

"I'm not an idiot Hunter, I know what this race means." She replies, tight lipped to the figure that looms just outside her driver's side window. She revs the engine again, feeling the RPM's shake the frame as a buzz travels through her body.

She loves that feeling. The raw, true power of a properly functioning car, in this case a 67' Shelby GT-500 Mustang, Canary Yellow with a black racing stripe down the center, rumbling beneath her fingers and body.

The feeling is almost as good as having the skin of a soft, beautiful woman under her fingers. Almost.

"Just making sure sis." Hunter's demeaning sneer reverberates through the car's cabin. Brittany fights off rolling her eyes again, instead focusing on the road ahead of her.

The quarter-mile stretch. 1320 feet. It's a common two car secret street race. The goal, besides not launching yourself into a fiery death, is to go from 0 to 60 MPH, or faster, in ten seconds or less. May the fastest racer win.

And Brittany's always the fastest, especially on the stretch of highway that's lined up and deserted before her. She's raced on this track before. She knows every dip, bump and crack that lines the asphalt.

It's what Brittany has to focus on now. Keep her mind clear and her senses sharp. She's chanting that race mantra silently in her head when she hears it, the distinctive high-pitched rev whine of the car. Not just any car, but Brittany's dream car.

A Nissan G-TR R35. The sexiest car she has ever laid eyes on.

Brittany has to swallow and blink away her awe as she takes in how the Agent Orange with matte black fender, trim and spoiler car of her dreams pulls up into the position alongside the Stang.

Brittany would do a damn lot to have that car as her own.

Suddenly, the whole situation becomes a whole lot more serious and Brittany thoroughly understands exactly what Hunter was talking about when he said this race was important. It's a rival crew race, because Brittany's never seen that car on these streets before, and it means they're racing for territory and pink slips.

She loses and Hunter's precious Mustang goes bye bye, along with their crew's street creed they've worked so hard to build up. But if Brittany wins? She can't even fathom what will happen then.

Brittany becomes aware of the black tinted window of the driver's side door disappearing into the doorframe of the car next to her and she quirks an eyebrow as she takes in the sight of the other driver. He's wearing a black tinted helmet, and when he turns his head to glance at Brittany she notices his visor is down and impossible to see through.

She scoffs at that sight. What a pansy ass. Showing up in a car like that but not showing his face? What kind of racer does that? Brittany only knows of backstabbing, egotistical, pretentious ones. And now she wants to win this race more than ever, if only to wipe away that mysterious allure this other driver is giving off. Brittany can already see some of the racing bunnies attempting to get the driver's attention.

With a shake of her head, Brittany returns her attention back to the road. It's time to focus once again. She's never let a man beat her before and she's sure as hell not going to start now. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the other drive subtly tilt his head in her direction before the black tinted window rises back into it's place and the Nissan's engine makes that high-pitched sweet sounding rev again.

Brittany gulps. She may have more 'balls' than any guy she's ever met, but she can sure as hell still be a little nervous. She presses her own foot down on the gas pedal just enough to make her own engine hum with that deep muscled powered.

The small crowd's measured uproar of approval draws Brittany's attention to where they line the sides of the sectioned 'track'. Other racers, with their streetcars decked out and parked on display, groupies who come to watch because they can't race, street racing bunnies there hoping one of the racers will take her home.

This is what Brittany lives for.

Her adrenaline starts pumping as one of the start girls, she notices it's Olivia-one of her favorites, steps up in front of both cars and after giving Brittany a pointed wink she raises her bright pink handkerchief above her head and glances separately at both drivers.

After receiving the signal that both racers are ready, Olivia drops her handkerchief in one swift downward swooping motion to indicate the start of the race. Brittany tears her foot back from the clutch and presses down on the gas pedal to spring the Mustang into action in such fluidity you'd claim she was a part of the car if you didn't know any better.

A satisfied smirk covers her face as the Canary yellow car launches ahead of the other vehicle. Brittany's heart is racing as she speeds down the track, shifting gears and keeping the car steady and straight. All the while, the Agent Orange car can be seen just to her right, in her blind spot.

People on the side of the track are flying by in a blur as Brittany's speedometer flicks to 45 mph, then 50 mph before it hits 58mph and she drops it into fifth pressing the pedal to the metal. She can see the 'finish line' in the distance, a single strip of neon green paint across a section of the highway she currently flying down. It's within her grasp and all she has to do is hold on.

The seconds tick by and it feels like hours to Brittany as both cars speed closer and closer to the end of that quarter mile. Suddenly she hears it, the swift squeal of tires gripping asphalt as the car next to her takes a jerk forward from its position, placing it right in line with Brittany's. She frowns at the sight, fully aware of what it means.

The son-of-a-bitch has a NOS in his car.

Brittany grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white, keeping the car torqued as it breaks the 60 mph mark. She has to grin a little at that. The car just hit 60 mph at a 9.8 second mark. She'll have to mention that to Hunter later, seeing as how it was Brittany's idea to overhaul the engine and replace the fuel lines that no doubt made the car as fast as its currently traveling.

All too suddenly Brittany realizes that she's upon the finish line and one of her comrades is waving a red and black checkered flag with the swirly three pronged symbol of fate on it, a racing symbol her crew has always used and that dates back to Brittany's father's driving days.

The crossing happens in a blur and Brittany whips her head to the side noticing, as dread pools in the pit of her stomach, that the orange car seemed to cross the line with her.

She begins to slow the car down and watches, slightly impressed with the manner in which the other racer drops his car into a quick dime turn, spinning the tires and swinging it around to head back to the main section of the track where the rest of Brittany's crew, and the crowd will gather and determine who the winner was.

An anxious apprehension overcomes Brittany as she swings the Mustang around and follows the other car back to the small crowd that has already formed in the middle of the street. She pulls her car to a stop at an angle towards the far edge of the crowd, with the open road on her left, and is immediately bombarded by groupies and fellows racers to the right of her car.

"Damn Pierce, that was a close one!" Someone yells.

"Yeah, Mike's saying it was a tie!" Another voice carries through the crowd and Brittany finds herself scoffing at that deduction.

Tie? Hell no that's not happening, not on her watch.

Brittany glances off to the left, noticing her brother standing off at the edge of the crowd talking to some guy in a grungy leather jacket and ripped jeans. She's never seen the guy before, and she would remember someone who wore their hair in such a crooked looking ugly Mohawk upon their head. She narrows her eyes attempting to determine just what Hunter might be discussing before she witnesses her brother shaking Mohawk mans hand and the orange car pulling up next to the guy.

She almost can't believe it when she watches the guy get into the passenger side of the car, which quickly speeds off in the opposite direction only to pull another dime turn and come speeding back towards the crowd. The group gives a little whoop at the brush of excitement but essentially ignores the otherwise stranger as the car slows to a crawl just as it starts to pass where Brittany remains sitting in the Mustang.

Brittany's not expecting the window to be rolled down, and she's further not expecting to be met with the most exotically mesmerizing sight she's ever laid eyes on.

As her dream car creeps by at a leisurely pace, Brittany is met with intensely smoldering deep brown eyes that regard her with a mysterious glint. Brittany gathers raven black locks that cascade around petite shoulders and plump lips the color of what Brittany can only describe as seduction, if such a thing had a color. The corners of said lips lift at the corners in the slightest upward angle, offering a hint of a smile to Brittany.

All these magnificent features upon this insanely attractive girl are accented by the smoothest looking caramel skin Brittany has ever seen and suddenly she realizes that her heart has stopped beating and she's neglected to breathe for the last few seconds.

Brittany is given what she will later describe as a slow motion wink, the downright sexiest one she's ever received, and then just as swiftly as the girl driving that damn Agent Orange car popped into Brittany's vision, she's gone and leaving a very confused and mildly aroused Brittany sitting jaw dropped in her car seat behind.

The last thing Brittany sees is the faint glow of red taillights.

"Well, I must say little sis that this probably wasn't your best race. Then again, I was told that the driver you raced is the best in Miami." Hunter's voice suddenly interrupts Brittany's thoughts and she glances to the right of where she had watched the other car disappear only to see her brother standing there with a placidly disappointed look upon his face.

Brittany steps from her car with a roll of her eyes.

"What are the official results? And who the hell were those people?" She gets straight to business.

"Well you certainly didn't lose, but there's not much else I can say." Hunter responds and gives a cursory glance to his car, "Bring her in for inspection," he then continues with a head motion towards the Mustang, "We have to tweak a few things and have a little discussion."

Brittany sighs at her brother's (half) lack of explanation. He's always been a go around kind of guy. She also sighs at the way he demands that she bring his car in for reevaluation, as if it was her fault that she tied the race and didn't win it. Brittany's pretty damn sure she's never seen another racer like the one she just witnessed drive her dream car.

Hunter disappears back into the crowd and Brittany simply shakes her head. With one final glance towards the exceedingly vacant track of highway the sultry mystery driver and her stunning car took off down, a small smile forms on Brittany's face.

If the fact that Hunter was obviously discussing something with the Mohawk man means anything, she might just have her chance at seeing that Latina goddess again.

And in Brittany's book, that's definitely anything but a loss.

Who wants a little street racing Brittana? Anyone? Eh?

For the record (though it should go without saying) I don't own anything. And this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are in fact my own.