I can’t wait to open her up, feel the power she holds beneath us; we’re going to be glorious on the track. Pulling onto the main road of the neighborhood, middle-class cars sit on both sides of the road as kids play in the front yards we drive by. Some of them look up then return back to their innocent play while others watch as we roll by. Those kids? They will remember this day, they will grow up and build model toy cars that look like mine. Then the ones they have tucked away in their toy boxes will get to drive across every surface in their home–all while dreaming of having their own life changing race one day. I hope they get it.
Fifteen minutes later Wes crowds Zap on their side of the booth, nudging each other’s elbows trying to gain more table space. Fuckers already know what they want, but I keep coming back to the steak burger. It’s got extra cheese and two patties with added sausage, slathered with miracle whip, mustard, pickles, onions, and dripping with grease. On the side sits a huge mound of shoestring fries, cooked to perfection, crispy outside and soft inside, salted the way I like them, and a big bowl of ranch to dip them into.
Between bites, I tend to a few texts on my phone. One says I’m almost about to run out of text-minutes which I ignore, others are quick good luck messages, and one where I’m conducting business. Emmett has been blowing me up all day, asking for another distraction, but I’m too busy to worry. He slips a question about Nadia in there and I force myself to ignore it. I told him what I needed and if this partnership is ever going to unfold, then he will need to follow through—I’ve done my good faith, it’s his turn. One can only hope he doesn’t blow me off.
“Bro, move the fuck over with your bony-ass elbows!” Wes bites out, Zap nearly hooks him in the face with it instead of moving. “I’m trying to eat here.”
“I wouldn’t have to push you if you wouldn’t eat like a rabid dog. Slow down and chew, damn Hoover vacuum.”
We all chuckle at that, sometimes he has good comebacks, other times it’s as awkward as a baby giraffe trying to run. I smirk, both of my elbows braced comfortably on the table with all the free room in the world to move around, as I point a ranch coated fry at Wes.
“He has a point, should slow down before you choke on something. Unless you’ve managed to improve your gag reflexes when you were in jail.”
“You’re not fucking funny.” He swallows and glares at me. “What’s the plan today? We get there, watch you kick ass, come back to my parents and get drunk?”
“Nah, I’m going to go back to my mom’s. She’s making fideo tonight and I’m not leaving without having a bowl or five.”
“No idea what the hell that is but it sounds good, maybe we can come by and—“
I cut Wes off. “You two stay with your parents. I want to spend time with my mom without you being up my ass,” I lie.
I’m still reeling from the shit with Ivy, last thing I need to add to my plate is babysitting his ass too. Then there’s the issue behind allowing them to see me at my weakest because, let’s face it, my mom is the only place where I can crumble into nothing and still be seen as a man. I’m too embarrassed to be like that around Nadia, she needs me strong until she feels safe enough to always be vulnerable with me.
“Boo. Alright though, we need to get to the track.”
“That we do,” Zap chimes in, whipping his mouth and dropping the napkin on his empty plate. Wes follows suit, then I’m last, sucking down a gulp of my sweet tea. We pay, leavinga few extra ones on the table for a tip, and practically run to the car. As I drive, Zap discusses the other racers and which sponsors will be there. A few I’ve never heard of, some who are up-and-coming and hunting for the next big hit to line their pockets, then there’s the tried and true. Depending on the contracts, I can land a few of them and rake in cash—the ultimate goal.
At the participant gate, we are let in, given my racing number, and directed to a staging area. Some of the drivers came with full trailers loaded with equipment, others like me are here with what they can manage to carry and a few extra hands. We’re grouped together, the fame and fortune at the front, the rest of us low-life’s at the back. Time is moving at a slow pace to boot, nothing feels real when we begin to set up and do last minute checks.
There are girls everywhere, walking about in their bikini tops and shorts—at least they have sneakers on and not fucking flip flops that will be ruined by the end of the day. Wes makes an occasional side eye but manages to keep quiet and work; one day I’ll have the money to pay the both of them well enough where this is all they have to do. Right now, they work because they’re my friends and have enough love for me to help and never complain.
I wish Nadia was here. She would love this. Hell, with how responsive she was last night I might even go as far as gearing her up and strapping her into the passenger seat with me every time I have to perform. I can picture her there in a matching riding suit, helmet to keep that pretty head of hers safe, a computer in her lap watching the techy-shit Zap could teach her about. Living in the fast lane with me, one day at a time—the dream.
“Calling all drivers to the starting line. Please have your numbers displayed in the appropriate positions, safety gear on, and be ready to start in twenty minutes.”
That’s my cue. I step away from the Civic with my leather riding suit hanging low on my hips and a black t-shirt fitting snug but comfortably over my torso and chest. Not my typical getup, I usually prefer my clothes a little more loose and less form fitting—looking like I’m about to go crank out a pump session at the gym rather than drive my ass off in this race. There’s a purpose for it though, it makes getting in and out of this track suit easier because I know when I cross that finish line my balls are going to be swimming. If you don’t know how difficult it is to get out of one of these when you’re drenched, take my word for it, it’s pretty similar to peeling off the first layer of skin. Wes, Zap, and I make quick work of my helmet and load up.
Strapping me into the seat, and then some, like I’m about to rocket to the moon. Both of them grab a polyester tongue on both sides of my harness and pull simultaneously; cinching down the belt until it aches. The car may roll but I’m not coming out of this fucker no matter what.
“You ready for this, man?” Wes asks, grabbing my steering wheel and attaching it back onto the steering column with a metallic clink.
“Yeah!” I shout through my helmet, nodding at the same time. Tapping both hands on the wheel, checking that it's secure. Zap is at my other side tucking the fire-retardant lining of my suit into the bottom of my helmet.
“Remember, Grant likes to cut corners sharp so if you plan on catching him in the turns you'll want to swing wide but you'll need more speed. Trevor has a tendency to bully, whatever you do, don’t engage with his shit.”
I nod. Any other day I’d have an all-out brawl with them, throw fists, black eyes, and break bones. They won’t get a rise out of me today, not when my eyes are set on the prize—both of their sponsorships. Nothing says ‘fuck you’ quite like ‘I’ve taken your money’, and coming for it like some bat out of hell.
The door shuts hard next to me, Wes leans over and turns the car on where she rumbles, vibrating through the wheel to my gloves and up my arms. During staging he unhooked everything that may draw power—and though the weight still exists, I should be able to compensate with speed. Therefore, the AC is off and it’s hot as fuck in here. He’s out seconds later, both of them grabbing the netting installed at both windows to hook them into place, protecting me if either one breaks and caves in or I turn on my side.
I’m set as soon as Zap gives me the thumbs up. When he does, I shift into drive and crawl to the starting line, quickly finding my spot between number sixteen and eighteen. Other drivers and I sit in place, idling, up to the last possible second when another announcement comes from the strategically placed speakers across the property.
“Ladies and gentlemen, drivers and staff, start your engines. The race will commence in two minutes. Any stragglers will be left in the dust and laughed at.”
This is it. THE race that seals every deal or breaks every promise.
Both hands squeeze the metal of my replacement wheel, the leather of my gloves creaking from the force. Counting the seconds one by one, then the warning bell chimes at sixty. It’s almost showtime. There’s not another announcement, we just all prepare for the light to switch. It’s a portable traffic light, one sitting on both sides of the roadway, the red gleaming bright and fierce as engines rev, air intakes spew, and every driver sits on the edge of their fucking seats.
“Lose ‘em,” I hear Nadia’s voice in my head.
