Chapter 7
“Where are you taking me?” you ask as we drive out of town.
The desert spans out for miles and nothing else is in sight. The term “back road” off the interstate is used loosely. The only time us Mojavens see outsiders is when they take the interstate that cuts near our town because it’s the main drag to get to Vegas from California. Still, it’s pretty dead all the time. A few cars here and there, but overall, it looks like Death Valley on one side and Mojave Desert on the other. Endless nothing.
Until we hit the windmill farm. Big white towers slowly spinning. Hundreds of them take up the nothingness. I turn and weave around the big turbines along a dirt access road.
“I’ve seen the windmills, you know?” you say.
I smile. Yeah, we all have. Locals know the towers are out here. I used to come out here with my buddies in high school to drink beer. It’s what beyond the windmills that is special.
“Ever been twenty miles past them?”
You frown. “No, why? Just to see more of nothing?”
“Your generation doesn’t appreciate all the myths we set up for you.”
We get to the end of the towers and I hit the gas. We blaze past the windmills, leaving them until they’re little white specs in the dust behind us. You smile and hang on to the handle above your passenger door. You like going fast. Your skin brightens and your lips curl into a grin that is one I recognize. Pure satisfaction.
We get into sight of what I was looking for.
“Holy crap!” you say.
I smile and pull up to the first of over a hundred airplanes sitting in the middle of the desert like a parking lot without lines.
“What is this?”
“Airplane graveyard,” I say.
Your mouth is open and eyes wide and you stare at all the abandoned planes. I drive between two columns of Boeing 747s and park. You get out and I meet you at the front of the truck.
You look up in wonderment, then walk slowly toward a plane and reach out to touch it.
“I’ve never seen a plane up close in real life before,” you say.
I frown.
“Seriously?”
You nod and look over your shoulder at me. The sun glints off the Boeing.
“I’ve never been out of Mojave. Going to Vegas for school will be the first time. I have orientation and there’s a lot of resources for tours and campus connections, but I’m…”
You look back at the plane and run your fingers along the wheel.
“You’re what?”
Your slight shoulders lift, then fall.
“I’m scared,” you say softly.
Your hair flows down your back, your hand moving along the plane. I wasn’t prepared for that word—or that feeling. You’re scared?
All I want to do is make that better. But more than that, I want to understand. It’s not like I’m some jet-setting man of travel, but I’ve had experiences. Gotten out of Mojave here and there. I’m also older and have an income now that allows for that. I never thought of things truly from your perspective before. I’ve gotten so hung up on you being “young” that I forgot what that really means. It means you have so much left to explore. So much life to live. So many opportunities.
I come up behind you and touch your hair. Follow the fountain of it down your back. Your shoulders relax.
“You’re going to do amazing things,” I say. “The unknown is scary, but you’re going to step into that unknown and you’re going to handle whatever comes at you.”
“How do you know?” you ask. You turn and face me, your eyes wide and pleading. As if I hold the answers. I wish I did, baby. All I can tell you is the truth, though.
“Because you’re a fighter. You have more strength and ambition and work ethic than anyone I’ve ever known. And you have the brain to back it up. You’re going places, baby. Vegas is just the starting line.”
You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You lean in and kiss me. Soft, slight, like the breeze that rolls through the desert on a sunny afternoon. I breathe you in.
“You’re the strong one, Coe Anders,” you say against my lips.
Before I can refute, you pull away and spin, hustling along the planes and checking them out.
“This is just incredible!” you call out from another row down. I slowly follow you. Letting you explore. “I wish we could get in them.”
Ask and you shall receive, sweet girl.
I make a couple turns until I find the old push steps near the blue Boeing from the seventies. I push it up to the plane and call out for you. You’re running toward me, the sound of awe and glee in your voice.
You see the steps and jump up and down. “Oh, my God! How did you do this?” you ask.
“I didn’t do anything; I just found this place,” I admit. I step up the first step and reach my hand out. “Wanna see what it was like to fly in 1977?”
You smile and nod wildly. Taking my hand, we go up the steps and I open the aircraft door. The plane is well preserved. The windows are obviously closed tight to keep dust out. It’s clean, even fresh smelling. Like stepping back in time. Or into our own private world.
“Oh, my God,” you say with amazement as you walk in and look over the rows and rows of seats. Then you turn and head toward the cockpit. Of course, you do. Smart girl like you is trying to figure out how to fly already, no doubt.
“They used to film movies out here, I think. Those scenes where you see people sitting on the planes and stuff. But no one has been out here in a long time,” I offer.
“This is incredible,” you say. You mess with the buttons. Nothing turns on, of course, but you look so happy. So excited. It’s a good look on you, baby.
I take a seat in first class and stretch out, letting you explore and take all the time you want. You are smiling as you come my way. You walk right up to me, all the confidence in the world, and straddle my lap. You wrap your arms around me and kiss me deep.
“Thank you,” you say.
“Anytime, baby.”
You kiss me again. My hands find your ass and I rock you against me. A little gasp hits my mouth and now it’s my turn to smile.
“Any interest in joining the mile-high club in first class?”
“Don’t we have to be in the air for that?” you ask.
I shrug. “Semantics.”
Your response is another kiss and pulling at my shirt. As I start tugging your clothes off and feel your skin against mine, a feeling I can’t quite understand comes over me.
I’m happy.
So damn happy I feel something else creep in…
Hope.
#
“I feel like you never leave this place,” I say to you as I pull into view of Mic’s bar. I know we’re being discrete, but after a long day of airplane sex, I’m not going to drop you off at your house, only for you to walk to work at Mic’s, when I could easily give you a ride. We decided that if I just pull into the big gravel lot around back, no one would really see us, and it would be fine.
“That’s because the only time I’m not here, I’m with you,” you say with a smile.
I like that idea. I know it’s not a hundred percent true, but I like it. I wish you spent all your free time with me. God knows I’m going to have the taste of you on my tongue for the rest of the day and it’ll be a chore to think of anything else.
We approach Mic’s bar and I turn to go in the back way, but not before I see the front parking lot packed with cars. Some of which are Humvees from the base. That Air Force base is an hour away and, every once in a while, some of the military guys come in to the bar or to town on a weekend. Whatever was going on tonight must be a group thing because it was clear they travel in packs.
You notice this too.
“Looks like I’ll be waiting on military tonight,” you say.
I nod, wondering if you have a thing for guys in uniform. One of the women I used to date said that to me once. She ended up fucking a few of the Air Force guys. That was back when I was younger and thought monogamy was a real thing. Part of me still hangs onto hope that it is. Heat rises up my neck, thinking of you fucking a military guy. Do you like a guy in uniform?
I hate these newfound questions and worries I have. I shouldn’t care. Hell, I shouldn’t be in as deep with you as I am. But I am. And I do care.
I pull around back.
You kiss me quickly on the cheek. “Thanks for today. It was fun.”
I nod and you hustle out of the truck and into the back door to the bar. No one is around. No one can see our little exchange. I kind of wish someone had, though. Maybe it’d make this feel more real.
Maybe it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.
Maybe it would ruin us both.
I pull around to the front of the bar. I could use a chat with my sister. She is going through something lately and, if I’m being honest, so am I. I haven’t thought about racing much. Or the future. Other than when I get to see you again. My head isn’t right. It’s all wrapped around visions of you. Everything else has fallen secondary. Which probably isn’t good. Because this race coming up matters. It would not only qualify me for the Vegas Invitational, but put me on the map as a racer, make me more money, get me out of Mojave and to Vegas more.
Maybe…
All the fucking maybes in my life are starting to drive me crazy.
Whatever the reason I park and walk into Mic’s bar doesn’t matter right now. Because if I have to ask myself one more time if it’s because of you, my addiction to you, or the fact that I hate and love whatever the hell we’re doing…I may go fucking nuts.
So, for now, I tell myself that I want to stay to talk to my sister and am interested in what the hell all the base boys are doing here.
I walk in; Mic is behind the bar. A cluster of guys in casual clothes surround her area. It’s clear they’re all military. From the tight T-shirts to the short haircuts, they look like a boy band on steroids.
I raise my chin at her and walk her way. She gives a look of surprise, then an exhausted smile. Mic is uneasy. She’s never uneasy. She can handle base boys, a packed bar, even drunken idiots. So, why does she look like she’s seen a ghost? I glance around quickly. I don’t see you yet. You’re probably still in the back getting ready for your shift.
I move my way to the bar, right next to the group of guys.
They all look at me for a moment.
“How’s it going?” I say, slowly making eye contact with my sister.
“Good, boys are in for the weekend,” she offers quickly, as if it’s her responsibility to give them a reason for being at her bar. Yeah, my sister is nervous about something. The guys aren’t threatening. I’m not getting that vibe. No one is in danger from anything beyond possible douchery. But Mic is clearly hiding something.
Her eyes dart to the dark-haired guy with tattoos peeking down his arms.
“You know each other?” Tattoos says to Mic, then looks at me.
“My brother,” she offers.
I glare at the guy. Who the hell is he to ask who I am? Mic deals with base boys once a month whenever they stray from the base to grab a drink and look for a lay. But her demeanor with this one guy is different. Like something is written all over her face, but the ink has been smeared and I have no clue what it says.
My sister has a secret, and I’d bet my left nut and all four tires on my race car that it has to do with tattoo guy.
I see you walk up from the back to the bar and your eyes land on me. I smile. I can’t help it. Your face is cute when you’re surprised.
I look away to find Mic also staring at me. Her brow raised.
Looks like Mic thinks I have a secret too.
She’s right.
Just like I’m right.
Mic and I may have more to discuss than I’d realized.
“Brother?” Tattoo says. He faces me and grins. “The racer brother or the mechanic?”
So, this guy knows about me and Trade. Which means he’s chatted enough with Mic for her to tell the details about her life. Which she never does with customers.
“Racer,” I say.
“We’ve heard about you,” Tattoo says. “Got some bets going on the race coming up.”
“You have skin in the game?” I ask.
“One of our boys is an amateur racer.”
“I can fucking hear you,” a military guy with an extra short buzz cut says.
I glance at Buzz Cut and ask, “You’re racing next weekend?”
There are five guys total. Two guys I’ve raced before, but they come in from around the state and we host once a year. This particular race is a big one since sponsors are coming and Vegas is on the line. I’m not surprised a military guy is coming.
“Yeah, I am. Best in my unit,” Buzz Cut says.
I raise a brow. I’m the best in the state, but I hold my tongue. I see you out of the corner of my eye ushering around to tables and staying busy taking orders and filling soda drinks. You glance at me. Keeping me in your sights. I like it.
I don’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. My silence clearly annoys Buzz Cut and Mic glances between me and Tattoo.
“Wanna preliminary race?” Buzz Cut asks me, then drains the rest of his beer.
I frown at him. Did he just say that? He clearly picks up on my questioning look and continues.
“You know, little mini race right here, right now.”
“What, in a fucking potato sack?” I ask.
“With our cars, smartass. You’ve got a track here. Let’s do this.”
“The track isn’t open for assholes to fuck around on after a few beers,” I say.
“I’ve had one beer,” Buzz Cut defends. “And you have an entire desert right out back of this bar. Let’s do it there. Lay down markers. Unless you’re a chicken-shit?”
“How old are you?” Mic chimes in, glaring at Buzz Cut. Buzz Cut just laughs.
“I’ve two-hundred on my boy,” a military guy yells.
“Me too,” another one says.
“I’ve got that on my brother,” Mic says. “Two-hundred says he’ll beat your ass by over a second.”
Ooooh’s ring out in the bar. I catch your pretty blue eyes as they hit mine. You’re watching this all go down. I feel strong after being with you. I also want to impress you. Because I’m a fucking idiot and do care what you think of me.
Tattoo whispers something to Mic. I can’t catch it. But my sister says, “You’re on,” as if she just took a secondary bet.
“Two-hundred,” I say. Buzz Cut nods. “Right out back here.”
Buzz Cut nods again.
“Done,” I say.
Cheers ring out. The bar is packed. I haven’t even scanned half the people in here. But apparently, we’re hitting the road.
“Old school style, road cars. Not race cars,” Buzz Cut says. “Pure speed. Straight line. Winner takes all.”
I have faith in my truck. I have no clue what this guy drives. But I also know the desert.
“Done,” I say. I have more confidence in four wheels than I’ve had for myself over the years.
People head out. Mic yells at the other bartender and cook and she goes too. I hear your voice ring out, asking Mic if you can come too. I glance over my shoulder. Mic looks at me, then at you.
“Yeah, come on,” she says.
A flood of people pour out of the bar, yelling about bets and following us with cars out into the desert behind Mic’s bar. I grab my truck; Buzz Cut gets his Range Rover and pulls up to the make-shift starting point. Mic is several yards down waving her arms to show where the finish line is. Buzz Cut pulls up next to me.
“Word is you’ve lost your edge, Anders,” Buzz Cut says to me. “I hope you like Mojave because after I beat your ass right now, I’ll beat it again at the race and you can kiss Vegas goodbye.”
This guy pisses me off. Mostly because he’s clearly hopped up on Red Bull and too much testosterone. Racing takes calm and finesse. Two things I struggle with still, but I’d like to think I’m closer to it than this meathead.
I see you past Buzz Cut, on the other side of the Range Rover in the crowd. He follows my stare and sees you too. Then smiles back at me.
“Wonder what else I could take from you tonight,” he said with a douchey glint in his eyes.
Rage heats my blood.
I can handle shit talk, but never about you.
“That’s a cute car you have there,” I say to him. “Did it come with a complementary dick pump too? Gotta be rough to have a tiny cock.”
“Fuck you, Anders.”
I shake my head and we set up to race. Mic and Tattoo are down at the finish line. I see her hold up some kind of fabric. Scarf maybe? I rev my engine. Buzz Cut does the same. If only he knew the engine I have under the hood of my rusty truck. It’s not about the outside, it’s about what’s underneath that wins you races.
I smile and rev harder.
Mic’s hand shoots down and I hit the gas, spraying up dust and bolting toward the finish line. I kick it into second, then third. Hitting the gears hard until I get to ninety-nine miles an hour. A few yards and closing.
I glance in my rearview mirror and smile.
I literally left you in my dust.
I cross the line and the rush of adrenaline hits me like a slap in the chest. Fuck, winning feels good. Racing feels good. I spin a few circles in the desert and head back to the crowd. Buzz Cut and his Range Rover are already heading back that way, tiny dick and tail between his legs.
I park near the crowd, people cheering. I get out, feeling high and happy, and I want to go to you. Hug you. I scan and find you in the crowd. Your eyes aren’t even on me. You’re talking to college boy. The one you waited on the other week. The one you look right with. The one I can’t stand to see you around and it’s my own issue. My own jealousy. No, not jealousy. Envy. I’ll never look right with you like that.
You’re smart, Shay.
You’re not meant for this tiny town. You’re meant for bigger and better things. Bigger and better people. Including me.
Standing there, forcing a smile, surrounded by people slapping me on the back and a new wad of money handed to me for my winnings, I’ve never felt like a bigger loser in my life.