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Buckle Up for C.S. Quill’s ‘Fast Lane’: Read the First Chapter of Campus Drivers Book 1

Get ready for your heart to start racing. Swooon can exclusively reveal the first chapter of C.S. Quinn’s Fast Lane, the first in the international bestselling French book series Campus Drivers. The series is going to finally be available to English readers when Fast Lane hits bookshelves on April 28, so it’s time to buckle up.

Each novel in the Campus Drivers series centers on a driver for a student-run ride-share app. Their rides have these drivers meeting the women who will change their lives forever. In Fast Lane, the emotionally walled-off campus bad boy Lane O’Neill ends up living with his neighbor’s freshly dumped ex, Lois Hogan. The forced proximity gives way to delicious tension in this spicy college romance novel. Once you get your hands on Fast Lane, you can look forward to a Prime Video adaptation of the Campus Drivers series, which is currently in the works. To get a little taste of Fast Lane, check out the first chapter below. (And stay tuned for Crash Course and Test Drive.)

Chapter 1

Lane

It’s past midnight when Carter pulls up outside my apartment building in his crappy old Ford. I honestly have no fucking clue how he can stand getting around in such a wreck. The parking brake screeches like it’s being murdered as he yanks it up.

“So?” He turns down the radio and flings an arm over the back of his seat. “What’s it like being the passenger princess for once?”

“Doing my best to suffer in silence,” I deadpan. “I really shouldn’t be friends with a guy whose car is ninety percent rust.”

“Hey, now, don’t be insulting my ride. She’s vintage, man. They literally don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

“A true blessing to mankind. I thought I was gonna die at least three times tonight. And that was just this one trip. There’s absolutely no way you got your license legally.”

“How dare you,” he says, clutching his chest like I’ve wounded him. “I’m a great driver!”

“Right. So what was it—bribery? Blackmail? You fucked the driving instructor?”

“I’m a professional, my man.”

“Yeah—professional hazard, maybe,” I snort.

“Unbelievable! I’m basically like a father to you, Lane, and this is how you treat me?”

“When it comes to father figures, let’s just say karma really did me dirty.” I shoot him a look, then add, “But seriously—thanks for the rides this week, Cart. Even if my life did flash before my eyes every time we hit a red light.”

“Anytime, babe.”

He puckers his lips like he’s waiting for a thank-you kiss. I duck under his arm, shooting him a look that screams, Don’t push it. He laughs and leans back dramatically. “Ruthless! No gratitude, no love—nothing?”

“Thank fuck I’m getting my baby back from the garage in a few hours. An actual decent car. Shiny, reliable, not held together by duct tape.”

“Just in time for the fall semester—wouldn’t want those campus girls dying of thirst for their favorite driver.”

I scoff as I unlock my phone and open the app my best friends and I set up a year ago. Campus Drivers: your ride around Sycamore Heights University—one of America’s largest campuses—in three simple swipes. Pretty fucking genius idea, if you ask me—easy money, driving always helps clear my head, and, well . . . let’s just say the late-night shifts came with nice perks, too. Now that summer’s wrapping up, I’m itching to get back in action in more ways than one.

I’m already booked solid for the next few days,” I tease, waving the screen in front of his face.

“School hasn’t even started back and they’re already all over you. Makes me sick!”

“You could have signed up for college,” I remind him with a shrug. “All you had to do was fire up those brain cells and get your act together.”

The dean had agreed to our idea but with a few caveats: we could operate on campus and the surrounding area, but we had to pee in a cup every now and then, avoid screwing clients on campus grounds, and be enrolled. Carter can’t even stick to one of those rules, let alone three. No pain, no gain, and all that.

“It’s not my jam, anyway.” He grumbles around a yawn, stretching. “Sitting there listening to some cranky old lecturer drone on about the Spanish Revolution.”

He pretends to retch. “I’m better off working on my little indie scripts—that’s all the thrill I need.”

“Speaking of: You coming over tomorrow evening so we can iron out the last scenes?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Night, Carter,” I say, getting out of the car.

“Back atcha, buddy.”

I slam his door shut, marveling at the fact it stayed attached, and stroll toward my apartment building. Most of my friends live together on campus, but I like having my own place. It’s close enough to college, but just far enough out to get some actual peace and quiet. Plus, it gives me dibs on all the clients who live farther from the dorms.

I punch in the code, shove the door open with my shoulder, and head for the stairs. I usually take the elevator, mostly because I live on the top floor and I’m lazy—but also because I try to avoid bumping into the cougar in 3B. She never leaves her apartment, but her door is right next to the stairwell, and as soon as she hears me pass by her place, she jumps out, ready to pounce. I swear it’s like she has this wild sixth sense or something. Problem is, the elevator’s been out of order for two days now, which means I’m about to risk it all walking past 3B.

The stairs creak with every footstep, and I wince, picking up the pace past the second floor. The stairwell light’s off, and I’m not about to turn it on. Let’s just say, I’ll need all the darkness I can get to walk by 3B.

Most of the time I’m either at school, in my car, or holed away in my apartment working on screenplays with Carter. It’s usually either very early or very late by the time I leave my place. Basically, other than the nympho with the peephole, I don’t know any of my neighbors—and I like it that way. Lane O’Neill, your antisocial Campus Driver. Pleased to meet you.

I’m about to step foot on the third floor when something moves in the shadows. My heart skips a beat when I realize I’m not alone here. I jump back, a thin layer of pride stopping me from screaming, and I slap the light switch on. The glow is weak but enough to reassure me.

“Jesus—fuck, you scared the hell out of me!” I hiss, dragging a hand down my face.

There’s someone crumpled on the floor, back pressed to the wall. Their hood is pulled up tight, legs tucked underneath them, feet ending in scuffed black Vans. I can’t tell whether it’s a girl or a guy. I wait for them to say something, but they just sit there staring at the floor.

As my heartbeat settles, I catch faint music drifting out. No wonder they didn’t notice me. Probably some stoned teenager waiting to come down to earth before heading home to Mom and Dad.

They’re lucky the super didn’t find them first—cops would’ve been here in no time.

“Have a good evening, then,” I toss over my shoulder, heading for the stairs.

Still nothing. Figures.

I make it home in one piece, kick off my boots, and toss my jacket toward the couch. Fail! It lands just short, and on the floor is where it’ll stay. No girlfriend, no neat-freak roommate. I can mess this place up however I damn please. It’s one of the many perks of living alone.

I can’t bring myself to shower, so I collapse onto the couch, and knock out in seconds.

I’M WOKEN UP BY THE buzzing of my phone. Feels like I’ve been out for fifteen minutes, max. I clear my throat before swiping at the screen. It’s Carter. Of course.

“Yes?”

“Laney! Hope I didn’t wake you up.”

I hold the phone away from my ear, blink a few times, and check the time.

“Are you fucking for real? It’s six a.m. Of course you woke me up, you asshole!”

“Aww, baby boy is all cranky today, huh?” Carter laughs.

“You dropped me home at midnight, Cart. Couldn’t wait a couple hours before blowing up my phone? It’s Sunday!”

“What can I say? I missed my boo.” He laughs again. “Listen, I had this stroke of creative genius for the screenplay. I was getting undressed, and I . . .”

“Is there a short version to this story?”

“We’re gonna need actors who aren’t afraid to go all in—and a producer who’s maybe a little unhinged. Mind if I come by to talk it through?”

“You bet I fucking mind! It’s six in the morning, Carter. Ask me again at eleven!”

I hang up before he can respond.

I lie back and close my eyes for five or ten minutes, but the damage is done. There’s no way I’m getting back to sleep now. I peel myself off the couch, cursing Carter under my breath, and drag myself to the kitchen island.

Rummaging around in my cupboards, I slowly realize that today is setting up to be a really shitty day: I’ve searched every nook and cranny, and there’s not a single coffee pod, bean, or half-used bag in this entire place. One of my buddies most definitely cleared out my stash. Likely Donovan. He’ll pay for this.

I jam my feet into my sneakers without bothering to tie my laces, and I slam my front door shut.

As I stab at the button for the elevator, I curse. Out of order. Fuck me. How could I forget?

I trip my way down the stairs and practically sprint to dodge the horny ghost of 3B.

But I stop on the third floor.

“Seriously?” I mutter.

The person from last night is still sitting there. Same spot.

No clue why anyone would decide to crash here, but honestly, I’ve got bigger problems—like needing caffeine ASAP.

It’s 6:12 a.m., the streets are dead, and while anyone with any semblance of common sense is still snoozing, I swing by the corner store for coffee. Sami’s always open, no idea if the guy ever sleeps. I grab a bag, pay, and head back to the apartment, clutching it to my chest like it’s my firstborn.

Back on the third floor, I hesitate. The squatter still hasn’t moved. Curiosity wins, and I stand in front of them, but that goddamn hood means I still can’t see a thing.

“Hey! Hello?”

Nothing. I try all sorts of noises to get their attention, but still nothing works—no reaction at all.

“You really shouldn’t hang around here . . .”

I can’t help myself. I step closer, peering at the figure swaddled in all those baggy clothes. I crouch, careful to still keep my distance. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know how the story goes: weirdos making a sudden lunge for your throat, and all that. No way I’m letting my carotid get chomped.

“Is everything okay?” I poke their shoulder.

That does it. The person jerks up at least six inches off the ground, letting out a hoarse yell packed with a solid string of curse words.

Then a slender hand emerges from the front pocket of her hoodie, and I blink, puzzled, as polished nails disappear under the hood to yank out a pair of earbuds. A second later, the hood slips back, and I’m staring at a wild mess of dark brown hair falling across a tired face.

A girl’s face.

“What time is it?” she croaks. Her brown eyes are squinting.

“Six thirty.”

“Jesus.”

I take in her blotchy skin and puffy eyelids.

“Did something happen to you?”

She shoots me a look that seems to waver between dislike and despair, and I shudder despite myself.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

She parts her lips but doesn’t answer right away.

She frowns. “Yeah . . .”

I start to straighten up. “Want me to call the cops?”

“For what?” She sneers. “I just got dumped. I doubt they’ll give a shit. Dumped.” She repeats the word as if it’s the first time she’s ever said it.

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. “Oh my fucking God! I thought it was something way worse.”

“Worse?” She spits it out, like nothing in the world could be worse than being dumped.

“Did you spend the night here?”

I immediately regret asking. Obviously, she did.

“Looks that way.” She shrugs.

She shifts, wincing, and cracks her neck on both sides.

“You planning on hanging around for much longer?”

“How about you mind your own fucking business, for starters?”

“Whoa, easy!” I hold up my hands. “I couldn’t care less about what you do, as a matter of fact. But the super will definitely be calling the cops if she sees you here. She’s always roaming the building, looking for wild tenants to take down.”

“That bitch Ms. Curtis.” The girl wipes her nose on her sleeve. My mouth falls open. “You know her?”

“Of course I do. I live here. I mean . . . I used to live here . . .”

Out of nowhere, a sob escapes her, and tears start streaming down her face. Her cheeks are already stained black with dried makeup. Shit. Now what?

I stare at her. I have no fucking clue what to say. Normally, I’d already be in my apartment by now, but something’s holding me back. Maybe it’s that her crying is stirring up tough memories—although, to be honest, a heartbreak shouldn’t be enough to whip a person into such a state. There’s much fucking worse in life. Like losing somebody for good . . . I bite back on the words, feeling my chest tense. I immediately clench my jaw, taking a deep breath in and letting a deep breath out. Then I look back and forth, from the girl to my prized bag of coffee.

Against my better judgment, I hold it up. “Want coffee?”

She doesn’t say a thing, and her sobbing doesn’t seem to be slowing down. I’ve fucking had enough of playing Mr. Nice Guy, so I give up and climb two steps before I stop. I turn back and throw her one last look. I don’t know her, but I kind of feel guilty leaving her here like this. Me and my damn bleeding heart.

“Last chance,” I drawl.

Finally, she lifts her gaze to meet my eyes and glances back down the hallway a couple of times. She’s having a hard time making up her mind, I can tell. As if moving now would forever seal her fate.

“I’m not going to chop you up into chunks and stick you in the freezer, you know.”

“What if you suffocate me with a plastic bag and dump my body in a moldy basement, though?” She scowls in my direction.

“I don’t have a basement, and I only have cheap trash bags. You’d definitely get yourself free.”

She bites her lip, as if seriously considering I might assault her.

I’m losing patience.

“Fine, have it your way,” I sigh, climbing another four steps. I’ve already gone too far and broken my loner code, I reason. Time to leave her to it.

I head toward my front door. I’m honestly surprised I spent so long lingering over her. It’s not that I’m a selfish bastard, but I’m pretty much immune to heartache at this point.

Without looking back, I enter my apartment and kick my front door to close it, waiting to hear it slam shut. Except I have to turn around because no sound comes. There, in the doorway, one small hand against the worn wood, is the girl from the stairs, gazing at me warily. Her sweater hangs to her knees, almost competing with the length of her hair.

“Oh, so you changed your mind?”

“Yeah.” She breathes out, a sob catching in her throat.

“You managed to overcome your fear of being murdered by the resident psycho?”

She shrugs. “Maybe I just don’t care if I am . . .”

Right. I raise an eyebrow and watch as she shuts the door behind her, walks to my couch, and slowly sinks into it. I turn back to my coffee machine, glancing over at her from time to time. She stares out the window and, after a while, flings back her head, clamping her hands over her forehead and eyes.

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Why the hell did I even ask her up here? I could have spent another two solid hours chilling before Carter got back on my case, but no: Here I am dealing with a sobbing neighbor.

Once the coffee is ready, I fill up a mug and take it over. When I look down at her, she’s stretched out across the couch, sleeping like a baby. I reach out to touch her arm but stop a few inches short, changing my mind.

“You look pretty relaxed for such a scaredy-cat,” I whisper. I leave the steaming-hot coffee on the table and look at her for a few seconds. She has pulled her hood back down, and a pair of RayBans have materialized on her face out of thin air. Her breath is still ragged. What a sight.

“Well . . .”

I don’t know whether I should leave her here or call one of my friends to come get her.

I head to the kitchen, slouching against the counter and gulp down my coffee. In the end, I decide to leave her be. It’s not like I have anything worth stealing here. There’s no harm in letting her stay for a short stint, I tell myself.

I head to my room having no clue I’ve just hit the gas on a fullblown mess.

Excerpted from Fast Lane by C.S. Quill. English language translation copyright © 2026 by Simon & Schuster, LLC. Reprinted by permission of Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.