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“Of course you did.”
I laugh. “It was such a fucking rush, I knew I had to keep doing it. And I did—kept winning, too. I bought the Chevelle, and fuck that baby did so damn well racing. There is nothing better than racing with a five-speed and that engine? V-8, baby.” I’m getting excited like I usually do when I talk about my precious orange baby.
“Sounds like you were having fun,” she says.
“It was fun. But it was dangerous too.” Real dangerous. But I didn’t care. It was like I had a death wish. Who did I need to live for? Speed, that was it. That’s all I sought. I threw my all into work during the day and racing at night. I had the Chevelle modified. I went on YouTube and studied the guys I was racing. I’d lose as much as I won and that frustrated me.
I wanted to win.
All the time.
“What made you stop?” Her voice is soft, and when I meet her gaze, I see the interest there. And the worry.
This woman gets it. I can just tell. Her worry doesn’t even bother me. It makes me feel as if she cares.
“It was a Saturday night. And I was going to be in a big race against a complete psycho.” And I mean that. Ernie Portello is a known street racer who flat-out does not give a fuck. He’s had so many near misses and actual accidents, it’s a miracle he’s still alive.
He’s still racing too, while I quit like a coward.
“Does he have legit mental problems? Or are you just saying that?” she asks.
“I’m pretty sure the guy is undiagnosed. He has to have something wrong with him. No one behaves like he does.” I shake my head, remembering past races I watched with Ernie always the winner.
I wanted to beat him. No one else could. I planned on being the first.
“What happened? Did you race him?”
I nod, tracing the rim of my glass. I need another drink. “Yeah. We were the final race of the night, and we switched locations at the last minute because the police were coming. Someone ratted us out.”
I found out later it was an inside job. One of Ernie’s men called it in so we’d have to move.
“Had you raced at the new location before?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “He already had the advantage.”
“Someone made that happen,” she states, her voice flat, her gaze fiery. “They did that on purpose to trip you up.”
“You’re a smart one, wifey.” I tap my temple, smiling faintly. “At the time, I didn’t give a shit. I was ready to get it on and pissed that the race was postponed in the first place. We always have a team when we do this, you know? Your guys that watch out for you, makes sure the car is good. That you’re good. Every dude on my team told me not to do it. I ignored them.”
Charlotte rests her elbow on the table and props her chin on her fist, seemingly enraptured. “What happened next?”
I blow out a low breath before I launch into retelling the scariest night of my life. “At first it was easy. I jumped ahead almost immediately and I remember thinking he was holding back, but I blew the thought off. I was such a cocky son of a bitch that I actually believed I had it in the bag.”
I’m quiet for a moment and I can feel the nerves radiating from Charlotte, even across the table. And the race already happened. Here I sit, alive to tell the tale.
Yet she’s still anxious for me.
“There was an unexpected hairpin turn. It was sharp. To the right. Came up on me so quickly, I took it too fast and spun the fuck out. He pulled past me and won. He was going slower because he knew that turn was there and I didn’t. He knew he couldn’t take me on a straightaway. I was fucking good, Charlotte. So good. Until that race. It messed with my confidence. I gave up after that.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Just—scared.” It was hard to admit that. How terrifying that moment was. How my life flashed before my eyes when I lost complete control of the car. Like an idiot, I worried first for the Chevelle.
Then I worried for me.
“How about the car?”
“It had some minor body damage.”
