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Reed kicks out, shoving a chair my way. It screeches along the floor but I don’t react. My arms stay crossed. My feet stay still. But the growl in my throat won’t be stopped.
Luckily, Reed spins and stomps back out the door to the garage. I shake my head as I watch him go, sadly wishing that he would listen. But he can’t hear the truth yet. He’s not ready to give up and chase a new dream. I get that, having been forced into that situation myself, but it really is for his own good. He deserves to be happy . . . with someone other than Erica.
Alone, I clean up our lunch mess and throw the leftover tacos in the refrigerator for Manuel and Reed. He might be mad, but no one turns down free food. Especially not tacos this delicious.
Once I get it all picked up, the door opens again. “Seems that went well.” Erica’s sarcasm is sharp, her lack of surprise dry.
I shrug. “No bloodshed. Winning.”
She shakes her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Fuck, I’m gonna miss you.”
I sweep her up in my arms, our bodies pressed together with her on her steel-toed tippy toes. “I’m gonna miss you too. Two days, Lil Bit.”
Two. Whole. Fucking. Days. Without her.
I don’t know how it happened, but I don’t know if I can handle being apart from her. And yeah, I’m well aware that makes me as sensitive and fragile as . . . fucking balls. Whatever.
The goodbye kiss is almost worth it, though, with her trying to climb into my skin with me and our tongues tangling together. I swear I can taste her soul, sour and sweet and prickly and kind, all at the same time.
I hope that I’m wrong, that my fears are just ghosts. I’d be broken if Erica’s ever done with me. If that ever happens, I might make Dad’s decline after Mom seem like a positive coping mechanism because I would destroy the world for her. And like Reed, some fucker telling me to move on would be like pissing into the wind. Ill-advised and messy as fuck.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promise her. But really, I’m promising myself.
Chapter 24
Erica
“Let’s get to racing, boys!” Ed calls out. He dropped the ‘and Rix’ years ago because I’m simply one of the guys.
There’s a rousing round of hollering, which Ed allows for long enough to flip to the correct page on his clipboard. “Up first, we’ve got Jerry versus Wilson. Good matchup . . . Chevy versus Ford. You two knuckleheads ready?”
They’re already bowing up, good-naturedly mouthing about how good they are and how the other one is craptastic behind the wheel. I know which is going to win because I built both engines and know exactly what they can do. The driver makes the most difference, of course, but the guts under the hood matter, all things otherwise equal.
So though Ed officially forbids betting, my money’s on Wilson because his car’s got a little more horsepower and he’s willing to push the boundaries to coax every single bit of power out of that engine. He’s basically crazier than Jerry with the engine to back it up. I flash two fingers at Ryan, our secret bookie, and he nods. He manages to keep it all straight, who bids what and on whom. I don’t know how, but he’s never been wrong, not a single time.
They line up, and with a quick, light progression on the tree, the race is on. Tires squeal, engines growl, and they roar down the quarter-mile.
As expected, Wilson gets the win and a round of applause goes through the small crowd. Everyone’s watching closely, either for entertainment or because it’ll be their turn on the line soon enough, and it’s always an advantage to know what and who you’re up against.
The races continue on for the evening, pairing after pairing. I bet on a couple more, but mostly, I watch and wait.
Jerry wanders up while Mike and Clint chat up a possible rematch. They run pretty close, trading wins depending on the night. “Good run,” I tell Jerry, knowing that he’s probably a bit grumpy about losing to Wilson.
His lips twist wryly. “Next time. Where’s Just a Guy?”
“Who?” I ask, my brows knitting together.
“Brody,” Jerry says with a smile. “First time you brought him, I told him he must be special for you to bring him here considering the whole situation with Keith. He said he was ‘just a guy’.” Jerry does air quotes, but his fingers are straight, not curved like most folks do it, which makes me smile. As does his story. I didn’t know Brody told him that. “He ain’t just a guy, is he, Rix?”
My smile grows. “Nah, he ain’t ‘just a’ anything.”
