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He wasn’t in good placement by any means, but that didn’t bother Franco anymore. He had started off at the back of the pack when he was a young driver, and that gave him the tenacity to work even harder than the other drivers.
Engines buzzed with anticipation like a beehive. It blocked out the sound of the crowd, who tried their damnedest to scream and shout over the top of it. Entertainment like racing, or really any kind of sport, was the means through which the common person escaped their everyday disappointment and stress. Franco had been that everyday man, and, more than anything, he wanted to please them for their support.
“AND ARRIVING AT TENTH ROW AT 20TH PLACE, THE ONE AND ONLY EDEN RACEWAY CROWD FAVORITE, FRANCO ZELLAR!”
Franco revved the engine in response to his name, egging on the crowd for even louder ear-shattering hollering. Their responses sent shivers over his skin, making him smile beneath the tight fit of his helmet.
The rest of the racers were announced, each one pumping their engines to shrieking howls of applause. Franco curled his gloved hands around the steering wheel, barely recognizing the names of the handful of up-and-comers.
He couldn’t let his position get to him. It wouldn’t matter after all because he possessed far more skill and determination than the majority of the drivers.
He just needed to let go. Let go and be as present as possible.
Once the names were all announced, the man who would fire off the shot that signaled the beginning of the race entered the arena. He approached the high tower that overlooked the track, slowly bringing the metallic weapon high in the air.
“ALL RIGHT, DRIVERS!” the announcer blared. “START YOUR ENGINES!”
The engines roared in a swarm of sound. Beginning the race was as vital as finishing it, no matter where you started. Franco’s vision narrowed, the venue and the bright blue sky vanishing around him. All he could see was the track he had studied closely and intimately.
Nearly as closely as he had studied the inside of Violet’s thighs.
His body tensed for a moment, then relaxed. The thought massaged his nerves a little.
“READY. SET. GO!”
The gun went off, exploding into the sky above with a blast that seemed to ricochet across the universe. Franco slammed down on the gas, as did all of the other drivers. It was time to direct that adrenaline into a tangible act.
The race started in the way nearly all races tend to. It was a three-hour long haul, which meant that nothing exciting was going to happen for the majority of the race. It all came down to pacing, knowing when to overtake, knowing when to slow down, and knowing when to make a pit stop. Franco flew past various opponents who had placed well the day before, cool, calm, and capable.
His mind was absorbed in the moment. He made pit stops when Cornel signaled to him through the earpiece, catching glances of Violet, who stood with his trusted mechanic on the sidelines.
Her hands were wrung together with worry. He took a chance during the last pit stop of the race, crushing her mouth with his in reassurance. His lion needed it just as much as he did.
“I am going to be fine!” he yelled over the cars.
Her surprised expression meant everything to him. He leapt back into the car, blasting off onto the track for a handful of final laps.
The last five had finally come around, bringing the crowd to a deafening roar. Franco felt like he had it in the bag, that familiar sensation settling into his stomach. He clutched at the wheel, the sun washing over his car with a reassuring heat.
He rounded one of the sharper, more dangerous curves, sitting comfortably in fourth place. His plan was to merge and overtake the drivers in the final lap through that very turn, something only expert drivers were able to navigate. Some of the other veteran drivers had come to call the cornerWidow’s Peak. The turn having the potential not only to steal the race from the drivers, but their lives as well.
But Franco wasn’t worried. He had moved through other, far more harrowing tracks in places like Hong Kong and Denmark. Once, even through the stifling cold winter of a Nordic country where it had poured rain, freezing the track overnight. He had overcome that and narrowly avoided a crash that would have shattered his bones and likely ended his career.
The memories in his mind floated by like clouds as he entered Widow’s Peak, gliding easily, when an opponent, one of the veterans, slammed into his vehicle just as they were both making the difficult turn.
It wasn’t an accident. There was a big difference between accidental collisions and ones that were conniving.
The opponent had pushed into him in the rear, just as Franco had turned the car at its most critical angle. The sound was ear-splitting. Metal hitting metal with a force that sent Franco’s head launching forward.
Because of the construction of the car, and his accompanying helmet, the movement was only a slight jostling. But Franco was suitably enraged, his burning eyes flickering to the rearview mirror to spot the perpetrator.
It wasn’t the color of the car that set off alarm bells in Franco’s head, but the strip of sponsorship in bold, thick lettering. It was the shade of a dark forest blended with light sage, a strange mixture of green that didn’t quite go together. Franco read the side of the car in a split second, an epiphany hitting him like a bolt of lightning.
KOSS SUPPLIES,it read.
The driver who was attempting to shove him off the track and out of contention was Terror Chambers. Terror was one of those bloodthirsty drivers who thought any form of good sportsmanship was unnecessary. Franco had had a few run-ins with him over the years, none of them pleasant.
Terror was in it for the money, fame, attention, and the women. Franco detested people like that. He, too, enjoyed the lavish lifestyle it provided him, but that was not why he got into racing. It was for the art of it that he started, and it was for the art of it that would keep him going.
