Several months later…
Drew
Some people say I was born with motor oil in my veins.
That the call of an open road and a car with a full tank of gas was the reason I lived and breathed.
I fucking loved cars. I loved the way the engine revved when I first turned the key, the scent of newly polished leather, and the feel of the steering wheel beneath my hands.
Most of all, I loved speed.
I loved flying across the asphalt at a pace that could put me in jail… or worse. I loved the thrill of straddling a fine line between life and death—that one slight error could quite literally land me in a coffin.
Morbid?
Might be if I had a death wish. I didn’t plan on dying, not anytime soon. But that wouldn’t stop me from living like I might. There was something so incredibly freeing about breaking all the rules when I was out on the road.
Something about letting loose that held me together.
Even though the rush of adrenaline was my drug, I was still a man.
I was still human.
When cut, it wasn’t thick, black oil that leaked from my veins. It was blood. The same red everyone else had.
Still, I let everyone think I was a little less human than they were. I fed into the perception that perhaps there was something else inside me that gave me an edge.
I’d do what I could to get to the finish line.
It was this attitude precisely that was earning me a name in the car world here in Maryland. It was my no-holds-barred, drive until my tires were bald and I was white knuckled on the steering wheel that got tongues wagging.
And in cars, talk was half the battle.
The other half?
The way a man drove.
Hell, the kind of driver you were was more important than the actual thing you drove. Because when it came right down to it…
It wasn’t the size of the engine in the car.
It was the size of the engine in the man.
My engine?
It was so big it was limited edition.
I kept that quiet, too. If someone wanted to know who I was, they could get in the passenger seat and I’d show them. I didn’t need to talk smack; I just needed to drive.
The Chesapeake Speedway was the biggest raceway on this side of Maryland. Over on the other side of the state, toward the bigger cities where the Knights (our state football team) was based was a larger racetrack where some big events had gone down over the years. But that track was on a more professional level. At least in terms of competition.
I couldn’t just drive in there off the street and race. To get there, I would need sponsors. I would need a better car and a bigger name.
Basically, in the world of racing, money talks and so does who you know.
Even though I’d been driving since I was five, I was basically starting at the bottom. Growing up in North Carolina, driving was just a hobby. It was just something my parents let me do because if they didn’t, they would find me in the garage, trying to sweeten up the lawn mower to make it faster. Or strapping on a helmet and riding a homemade go-cart down the hill in the backyard.
Go-cart = an old Big Wheel I took the handles off and glued an old spare steering wheel to the top.
My mom about had a heart attack that day.
I still don’t know what all the fuss was about. I’d worn a helmet.
Anyway, it was indulge in my need for speed in a controlled manner or keep allowing me to make homemade “death machines” (Mom’s words, not mine). Even though everything in my life revolved around the track, it was still always expected I would grow out of it.
Driving would never be some kind of career choice.
My career path had been decided long before I even picked up a set of keys. My father wanted a son to follow in his footsteps, a son he could groom into whatever he wanted him to be. When I came out first, my fate was sealed.
At least until not quite six months ago.
Up until then, I’d done everything expected of me. I graduated high school, went to a top-notch college, and excelled in IT (information technology) and computer science. Not surprisingly, I also excelled in graphic design, likely because designing stuff was far more entertaining to me than the software science stuff. But still, I excelled at both.
What can I say? I have a big brain to go with the big engine inside me.
My father was stuffed like a turkey at Thanksgiving with pride. After college, I got some fancy internship at a software and technology company and made coffee all day, spending as much time as possible in the elevators, trying not to die inside.
When I called or went home, I acted like it was all great, like life in the computer world was exactly what I wanted.
But it wasn’t.
In fact, the more time I spent in that office building, the more caged up I felt.
The only thing that kept me from flying off the handle completely was the long, fast car rides I would go on after work. It was the time I spent at the local track (which was little more than a circular dirt path).
When the internship ended, I drove home knowing my father was already lining up interviews and job opportunities so I could start my career in earnest.
I had to get away from it.
I needed to breathe.
When I learned my sister Ivy moved in with some guy none of us had met, I took off. It was the perfect excuse to get the hell away. After all, I’d always been Ivy’s biggest protector. Dad couldn’t say shit about me heading her way. He wanted his daughter looked after as well.
So yeah, maybe I’d used my sister as an excuse for a little vacation.
But then I pulled in the driveway.
I knocked on the front door of a house in a swanky-ass neighborhood.
The sight of my sister made me forget the reason I’d sped up the interstate to get there. Sure, her choice of mate hadn’t been my favorite, but the guy had since grown on me. But not just Braeden… Ivy had a whole family here.
A family I felt a part of almost immediately.
In a lot of ways, more so than I ever had with the family I was born into.
It was almost unsettling. Looking around at people I hadn’t known very long, feeling like the person I was meant to be—the one I’d suppressed most my life to please my father—was known by them and they accepted him.
Suddenly, it didn’t seem like I was escaping from something, but to something.
To the life I really wanted. The life I never considered I could have. My hobby, my passion could be more than that.
It was like I was a car discovering I’d been driving with my emergency brake engaged.
Maybe that’s why I was such an adrenaline junkie now. I had lost time to make up for.
Telling Dad I wasn’t coming home, I wasn’t going to be following up on those high-profile jobs with starting salaries of a hundred grand a year, hadn’t been easy. Telling my father, a man I loved, that I was rejecting everything he wanted for me was probably the hardest thing I’d ever done.
But Ivy gave me courage and so did the taste of the life I could have here.
He hadn’t been happy about it, but it wasn’t the fight I’d imagined it would be. He was a lot quieter about my choice, a lot more accepting. Even Ivy seemed mildly surprised.
I didn’t question it.
Why would I?
What kind of man looks for trouble when it’s the last thing he wants?
A dumb one.
It’s already been noted I’m not dumb.
The sound of cars putting the pedal to the metal and squealing off the starting line brought me back to the present.
It was rare for me to lose focus here at the speedway.
Clearly, I was bored.
I guess drag racing wasn’t the rush I needed tonight.
Or maybe it was the fact I’d already won both times I’d raced tonight.
I watched the two cars—an older model Camaro and a Monte Carlo SS—battle it out on the quarter mile straightaway.
The Monte Carlo backed off the gas just a smidge toward the finish line.
It cost him the win.
The Camaro went full throttle all the way through. Fully committed every time. It was exactly why it had yet to lose a race tonight.
Until now.
I slid my Mustang up to the starting line before being motioned to do so. The man regulating the line gave me a glare and was about to tell me to move back, but I threw it in park and flung open the driver’s door.
“What the—” he called out, stepping toward me.
I lifted a hand and waved him off. The Camaro had turned and was looping around to likely get back in line for another run.
I planted the boots I was wearing on the pavement and met the driver’s eyes even across the way. It was a challenge, direct and clear.
I already decided I was done tonight, but since I was already in line, since it was already my turn, I’d have one last run.
It was going to be a good one.
I felt the eyes of the crowd watching, and I knew they were confused. So I lifted my arm, held out my hand, and pointed at the sleek black car, undefeated tonight.
I hadn’t seen that Camaro here before; this driver wasn’t a regular.
That meant he was new to the scene or just passing through. Either way, I was going to make use of the chance to race someone new.
The people watching nearby all started cheering and yelling, clearly entertained by my challenge. Drag races at this track on a night like tonight weren’t like this. It was get in line, wait your turn, and race the guy beside you.
The driver didn’t pick his opponent. He raced who was there. Our times got written on the window in white, and we all tried to beat each other’s times.
Well, mainly, I just tried to beat my time.
I was very competitive with myself.
Then later, on more planned-out nights, the drivers with the best times would come back and race, sort of like the best racing the best.
I glanced at the man regulating the line to see if he would object, but he seemed rather amused I called out someone the way I had.
I dropped my arm and stared at the Camaro. It slowed, and I could feel the eyes of the driver. I watched him; he hesitated. I was surprised.
Wasn’t he here to race?
The outline of his head and shoulders twisted around like he was looking over his shoulder for something or someone.
I looked beyond his car, beyond the crowd. There were a ton of cars parked around. There was no way for me to know what he was looking for.
Just as quickly as he turned around, he came back. The Camaro changed direction and cut across the median between the road and the drag strip.
Everyone cheered.
I grinned and turned back to the Mustang.
As the Camaro rumbled past, I waved to the car I was supposed to race, still back at the holding line. I gave them a mock salute to thank them for letting this guy cut the line.
Before strapping into my ‘Stang, I turned to look over my shoulder, spotting Trent, who was standing nearby. There was a backward black baseball hat on his head, his arms crossed over his chest, and he was grinning.
I laughed and climbed in.
A few moments later, both our cars were checked to make sure they were at the same place at the starting line, and then some chick with a tiny spandex skirt, a crop top, and sky-high heels stepped up between us. In her hand was a checkered flag.
She pointed first at the driver behind the wheel of the Camaro.
In response, his engine gunned loudly, but it was a smooth and powerful sound. Then the flag girl pointed at me. The Mustang growled in response.
I gripped the steering wheel as a surge of excitement peppered my insides.
This was what it was all about.
The woman held up both her hands. The flag fluttered off to the right with the wind.
I slipped the pair of sunglasses propped on my head down over my eyes. Yeah, it was night and it wasn’t sunny. But the sunglasses gave me an edge.
It darkened everything around me just a little. To anyone else, that might have been an inconvenience.
The fact was wearing shades to race helped my reaction time. Yeah, I know. I sound like some superstitious old granny touting the benefits of sleeping with garlic in your sock drawer or some shit.
But this was for real.
It’s actually a proven fact that wearing sunglasses can help a driver with their reaction time. The human eye catches light better in the dark. Meaning the very second I was signaled to go, I could see it. There would be no precious seconds lost while I waited for my mind to catch up.
Knowing we were both ready to fly, the flag girl pointed to a stop light nearby, the one that would signal the second we could take off.
Once the track was clear, I took a breath and gripped the wheel, letting the familiar surge of adrenaline rush my limbs.
The light switched to green, and I tore off the starting line immediately. I held the wheel steady to keep the Mustang straight and drove right in the path of the tire marks from past races tonight.
Rubber sticks to rubber.
Meaning my tires would get better traction and grip the road better if I drove along them. It was sort of like following someone in a snowstorm. It was easier to walk in their footsteps rather than create your own.
The driver of the Camaro was quick to act, too. The smell of burning tires and the squeal of two cars taking off was heady.
I punched the gas, but not all the way to the floor.
I’d seen this car race several times tonight. I didn’t need to put the V8 in my Mustang to absolute power because I could beat this guy without it.
It was another one of my tricks. Never show them everything you had; keep a little in reserve until it was absolutely needed. He didn’t need to know my top speed. I just needed to be a second faster.
One second was all it took.
One second was the difference between winning and losing.
We tore down the straightaway, and everything else faded. All I felt was the muscle of the car beneath me, the way my legs vibrated with the speed I was traveling.
At the halfway point, the Mustang kicked into full speed, no longer trying to gain it. Now I was soaring.
My loud shout bounced around the interior of the car, and I glanced over briefly at the Camaro. He was right beside me. We were neck and neck.
Bring it! I silently shouted at him.
He noted how well matched we were about the same moment I did. I felt the sizzle in the air from our competition.
Calmly, I glanced back on the road, punched the gas, and ripped forward.
I gave her just enough to cross the line first.
I saw the other driver bang on the steering wheel as we flew over the line. He was still going full throttle just like before. I let off the gas and he kept going.
“Sucker,” I muttered and deep braked into an immediate turn. The back end of my Fastback fishtailed a little with the force of my turn, but the tires gripped hard, and I slid forward.
Over the dash, I sought out the person I wanted to share my win with. My best friend. Trent had two fingers in his mouth, whistling in victory. I watched as he pulled his hands down and started clapping.
A few moments later, I slid to a stop near where he was parked. He pushed off the side of his car and jogged the distance between us. My window slid down, and he rested his palms on the windowsill.
The dark hat he wore covered most of his forehead and brought attention toward his strong brow and eyes. Usually they were a lighter color, but in the dark tonight, they were like a deep shade of amber.
“That was some damn good driving!” He banged on the door.
“I’m bored,” I drawled, tilting my head back against the headrest and grinning at him.
A wicked smile curved his mouth. The slightly crooked tooth in the front made my own smile grow bigger. “Follow me,” Trent enticed and turned back to his Mustang.
Seconds later, the steel-colored car whipped out in front of me and tore off down the asphalt.
I hit the gas and rode his ass all the way out to the main road.
It was time to have some fun.