“Any new work? You know you can’t gap me but you’re fun to run side to side with. Those last two races put the fear of God in me.” The asshole teases me.
“That’s because you can’t fucking drive. You have all that power and still death grip the wheel instead of letting your machine drive for you. You’ve got to let go, man. Too muchcontrol will have you jerking the wheel and sliding off the pavement.”
“Fightin’ words, Rey. Fightin’ words. Come on, show me what you got. I just put a new system in mine, only a bit of added weight and sound, does nothing for the performance.”
“Invest in headphones. Easier on the wallet, still get your music in.”
“You got a solution for everything?”
“Sometimes.”
We laugh it off then saunter in the direction of the Civic, occasionally stopping to check out another car or truck but not as impressed with what we find. It’s not easy for high school kids to get their mitts on the same equipment we install in our cars. Maybe one day they will be in the same races and we can give them some friendly pointers, before the bad ones come in and ruin all the fun—preferring danger and death over the thrill of a ride.
Yeah, I didn’t mention that. It’s funny—likeGreaseall over again with the Scorpions showing up and turf wars. There’s a bad bunch anywhere you go and trust me when I say I’ve met my own set of rivals. Clayton Summers, Dillon Smith, and Patrick Tomlin are the shits that run rampant through Hazelwood and the surrounding towns.
Most of the time they’re sitting at the local diner hazing the patrons but occasionally my uncle runs them off. The only perk of being related to a cop—he helped clean the place up and wards against the riff raff. That was before he left the department and moved to one a few towns over. When I was sixteen he got into a fight with a suspect and was accused of excessive force. Shocker, a hot head strapped with a gun—what could go wrong.
From what my mom has told me, he’s calmed down a lot and is doing better but that’s not important. What is, is he’s on my side when it comes to dealing with Clayton and his goons. Which, I’msure they will show up at the race this weekend. Thankfully I’ll be busy, hopefully too consumed with my alternate plans to play into their foolish games.
On our way in, I squeezed some numbers and crunched the time. If I get Nadia home early enough, I can manage the race tomorrow then have another day or two for my mom and head home Monday. Perhaps I’ll finally convince her she needs to run away with me. That’s the goal, get the both of us out of here where we can build a life we are proud of rather than one she hides from. I want this with her, to be stupidly wrapped around each other’s fingers and so in love it makes you gag.
As soon as Fuentes and I reach the car, I pop the hood and yank it up. The hood struts keep the fiberglass lifted while he looks over the shiny new intake I installed and the cable management courtesy of Zap. There’s a whole lot more done to her: ECU tuning, the mounts for the new NOS system, you know…the good stuff.
“Damn bro, she looks good. You’ve dropped some major cash into her since the last time we chilled. How’s she running?”
“Like a fuckin’ dream, man. Crisp handling, glides through drifts. Increased the steering sensitivity so she doesn’t take a firm hand anymore. Lightened her up a bit when I swapped out the aluminum for fiberglass. Even more when I installed the spoiler. She’s so damn light I catch air on a few of the practice tracks.”
“Sheeeeeeeeeeh. What are her times on an eighth mile?”
“Six point eight.”
“Hell yeah, you sure you don’t want to put her on a drag? She’d smoke most of the other imports. It would be a hell of a time seeing her put a few of the rice burners to shame.”
“Nah man, I don’t like those straight shots. It’s all about the curves.”
He laughs and nods, hands resting near the still-cooling radiator as he leans over and starts doing a visual comparison to Bitch Maker. Truth be told, the only thing that gives him an advantage is his booster. He has too much weight in his car, it could be faster but he likes all of the bells and whistles—anything to get the girl.
Sucked into the conversation, I tune out the rest circling around us. Even Wes and his inevitable hunt for pussy and Zap doing…well, Zap things. Before I know it, the sun has dropped and now hides behind the treetops. Finally realizing Nadia isn’t at my side, I look over my shoulder to clock her and my heart sinks.
Where the fuck is she?
I hoped she wouldn’t give up this last night out before real adult responsibilities kicked her in the ass, but now I’m not so sure. Knowing her dad he will have chores lined up from here to Memphis by sunrise.
Damn it, I hope I didn’t waste an entire weekend coming out here, I mean, there’s still the race and my mom but I came for Nadia. Maybe I should have told her I would be here. I missed her birthday and wanted to surprise her by just showing up; now I’m not sure I played those cards right. This was the only way I figured I could make it up to her. Fuck, don’t get me started on missing her graduation too—I had a good excuse, I was taking final exams but still I failed her and that does some terrible shit to my head.
Slipping my hand into the front pocket of my jacket, I grip the plastic device in my fist before dragging it out and looking at the screen. It lights up, but there’s nothing except the time and cellular coverage staring back at me. No texts, no calls, not even a damn voicemail. What good are these fucking things if the one person you want to hear from doesn’t use it?
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Hey,” I call out to Fuentes before stopping myself.
“Yeah? What’s up?”
Abandoning my phone, I snag the hood and bring it down in a firm thud, latching it closed with the hood pins piercing both sides.
“Have you seen Nadia tonight?”
