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I give him a look, but he says nothing. He just stares back at me for a second before Rory comes down behind him, loud and enthusiastic and excited about a night of racing.
Sloan seems like his usual surly self as we all pile into the car. His wound is still fresh, but it’s obviously not enough to put him out of commission. It’s probably not even the first time something like this has happened, either.
How many times has he been shot in confrontations with rival gang members?
He opts to drive, sliding into the front seat and starting the car while Levi climbs into the passenger seat beside him and Rory and I take our places in the back.
It’s the usual configuration, and for a second, there’s a pang in my chest—a weird feeling of missing the times when things were simpler. That’s kind of absurd, considering those “simpler” days were still from a time when I was basically being held hostage and used as collateral and still trying to keep my connection to these guys from getting any stronger. But at least then, I didn’t feel like I was lying every second of every day. And there wasn’t the heavy weight of loss bearing down on my chest, either.
The city’s street racing scene isn’t exactly broadcasted,
but people who know people or who participate themselves know where to go when they want to see a good race.
Sloan doesn’t even need directions as he takes us to the spot where today’s race will take place, parking and getting out of the car. We all follow, and even though I’m not here to have fun, the atmosphere of it kicks my adrenaline up.
Scarlett and I have been to races like this plenty of times, and it’s always a thrill to watch the cars and drivers doing their best to outpace each other. There’s that tension of danger in the air, and when it comes down to it, Rory wasn’t wrong. I do like fast things.
The drivers for the night are milling around, talking shit about each other’s cars and girlfriends and whatever else. It’s usually all in the spirit of the race, but it’s not unheard of for brawls to break out over some trash talk going too far. And that’s before the racers even take to the street.
I keep going back and forth between being excited to see the race, then remembering I’m not really here for the race, then getting too tense, then having to talk myself into calming down. It’s a stupid cycle, and I half wish I’d invited Scar to come with us, just to have someone else to focus on.
But no. It’s better that she’s not here, and I have a job to do. I need to get the guys to relax and trust me, to open up more, which means I have to relax first.
“I brought the good shit,” Rory announces, pulling his bag out from the back seat of the car. He waves a flask around, big enough to have several drinks worth of alcohol in it. “Any takers?”
Booze will definitely help take the edge off, so I take the flask from him and unscrew the cap, wrinkling my nose when the strong smell of whiskey burns in my nostrils.
Rory watches me as I take a swig, swallow, and then take another, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it blazes down my throat. He smirks at me, and I roll my eyes and then take one more gulp before passing it back.
“Someone’s looking to have fun tonight,” he teases, sloshing the liquid around in the flask before having a swig himself.
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” I ask, giving him what I hope passes for a flirtatious smile.
He winks at me, so it probably worked, and then passes the flask to Levi.
There are a few heats in the race for the night, and I pull myself to sit on the closed trunk of the car, listening to the banter and trash talk before the drivers get into the cars before the first heat.
That moment when they start revving their engines is always so good, and I sit up straighter, feeling the whiskey starting to go to my head as those engines snarl.
The cars are flashy, and the two up for the first heat are a dark green with a snake detailed on one side and a bright red one that’s almost blinding.
Both drivers have a tight grip on their steering wheels as a woman in short shorts and a tank top walks out into the street to stand between them. She holds up a flag teasingly, wiggling it over her chest while they rev their engines higher and higher. And then she drops it, and they’re off, tires squealing as they peel out of their spots and launch into the race.
The people standing around us are loud as they cheer on their favorites.
“Let’s go, Jase!”
“Fuck yeah, Dante. Hell of a start, man!”
There’s clapping and hooting, and we all watch from the hill we’re on as they tear down the incline and then drift around the corner, heading as fast as they can to the finish where more people wait.
The heats are pretty short, less than a minute to get from point A to point B, but the excitement makes it stretch on longer. Eventually, the green car edges out the red, crossing the end point with just seconds to spare before the red car comes flying across. They cut their engines and Jase and Dante get out, still talking shit as they accept who won.
Jase was the victor, by just a hair, and he’ll be moving into the next heat against whoever else makes it through.
It feels almost normal to be sitting there, watching this the way I used to back in the day. Usually I’d have Scarlett with me, chanting the name of whichever driver we decided to cheer for that night, but even without her here, this scene feels comfortable and familiar.
Sloan’s mostly keeping to himself, watching us and the race with his usual detached expression, but Rory and Levi have their attention on me.
