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Violet’s eyes went as big as an animated character.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she breathed, looking hypnotized.
“Will I see you later?” he asked, smirking. His lion stirred, eager for her agreement.
“Of course,” she said, nearly purring.
The crowd above them was lively, but it seemed to fade away when he bent down to place a firm kiss on his mate’s lips. She was as fragrant as freshly pollinated honey.
“Mmm.”
She let out a subdued groan, likely without realizing it, her cheeks beginning to bloom with bashfulness when he pulled away. But the sound of the sharp roars of engines and cheering crowds had likely blocked it all out.
“I’ll catch you later, gorgeous,” Franco said, kissing the tip of her nose.
He turned away without absorbing her response, but he knew she was stiffening her lips, concealing the mounting fascination the two of them had shared since the moment of their first meeting.
It injected even more confidence than what was required as he settled the helmet over his head, giving his pit crew and mechanical team a thumbs-up. They returned the gesture as the door soared open, and he slid into the front seat like slipping into a warm bath.
The door shut, and the engine started. The crowd around him surged with excitement as the gate slid open, a patch of sunlight seeping through the veil of gray clouds. That filled him with even more hope and assurance that everything was going to be just fine.
Franco revved the engine, a form of acknowledgment toward his many supportive fans. He soared to the starting line, waiting next to several other accomplished drivers, their specified chariots all painted in rainbows of pulsating shades. He faced the front, fixating on the road ahead the way he had been trained all those years ago.
The race would begin with gunfire shot high into the air and echoing through the gray sky. At the starting line, Franco went into his pensive state, keenly aware of his body, testing movements instinctively.
The vibrations of the competitors’ cars, the white noise of the crowds’ bellows, and even the rhythm of his own heartbeat all disappeared behind the curtain of his studiously anchored thought process.
In fact, thoughts barely existed in the contemplative place of his universe when he drove. It was muscle memory and trust, signaled by the sharp firing of the starting gunshot.
It went off, and Franco began to flow.
Cornel was the only person in his ear who he communicated with and only when absolutely necessary. Franco trusted him the most with his zoned-in state.
Franco blasted on the gas, switching gears with the ease of a fighter pilot. His fast shifter reactions definitely helped. There were twelve laps in the qualifying sessions, so he had time to find his groove. He soared around the laps, recalling the various nuances of the turns he had made during practice runs.
“Slight blistering,” Cornel said into his ear. “Box next lap.”
Franco had gone around smoothly for five laps when he noticed the steady overheating of his back tires. Blistering was a term to refer to the occurrence, which struck Franco as odd once he drifted into the pit.
His team worked precisely and quickly. It was like a dance, needing to be both efficient and fast so Franco didn’t lose his spot in the rankings. He spoke to Cornel through the headpiece in his helmet.
“Looking good?”
“Affirmative. Back tires replaced, zero marbles.”
The red and yellow shades of his team members’ suits flashed like splashes of paint passed him as he returned to the track. He zipped past multiple opponents and knew he would finish the race with a good position for the big race a few days later. He loosened his hands on the steering wheel, feeling the sun peek out from the layer of clouds.
“Blister, blister.”
Franco was mounting the last of the lap on a sharp corner when Cornel returned in his ear. The tires shouldn’t be overheating so quickly. He gazed back into his rear-view mirror, his heart hammering in his throat from the shocking sight.
Both of his back tires were skidding over the concrete with thick billows of smoke hissing out of them. He was able to get through the turn, but the tires continued to shriek, a horrifying omen of combustion.
The finish line wasn’t far ahead, so he tried to push through, slamming down on the gas and narrowing his vision.
That malevolent crawling sensation returned in his gut, and before Franco had the chance to cast it aside, the car began to spin out.
