Chapter Eleven
The Street King Showdown was rapidly approaching. That meant the shop was far busier than usual. So busy, that by the time we got home most of us were dead on our feet. Even Breanna wasn’t disappearing at night like she usually did. Dad and Aiden were working well into the night, trying to grab as much cash as they could, while they could. I kept telling my exhausted self that it would all be over soon.
Jordan was reigning King of the Streets from SKS. Anyone who owned a street raced car within several hundred miles wanted a piece of the chance to dethrone him. Call-outs for grudge races were finding their way to our bulletin board at work as well as social media. The name and car thrown out the most? Jordan and his Malibu.
“Today alone I fielded at least three dozen questions about Jordan, Devin, and even Vic and Isaac.” I collapsed into a chair at our kitchen table.
We’d been so busy that even Mom had worked the past few days, which meant pizza for dinner two nights in a row. Breanna grabbed a slice and tore into it with vigor while she slid me a beer. I pulled at a breadstick, too tired to eat.
“Me too. I don’t know why people think we would tell them anything, anyway.” She spoke between bites. “Someone even asked me if Aiden is going to run this year.”
“Really?” I snorted. My brother’s car had too much power for an unprepped surface. He’d tear up the car or worse if he even tried. That’s what made street racing as popular as it was. It was less about how much power you could throw into a car and more about managing the amount of power you put down on a slippery surface. Jordan had once told me the street was the “Great Equalizer.”
“I guess everyone’s hoping he’ll go back to the street and give Jordan a run for his money.”
“He didn’t really race on the streets long before Dad retired,” I mused, then barked a laugh as old memories resurfaced. “Remember hanging out at The Wash Out and trying to hustle races off the rich kids?”
“Remember? We still do it.” The Wash Out was an old washed out bridge, where kids had been going to park and hang out for decades.
“Really?” I was surprised and reminded again that though only a handful of years separated us, my little sister was still a teenager with teenage friends who did silly things. Innocent things, fun things, things I missed.
“By we, I mean Isaac and the boys. Sometimes you’ll catch Hunter or someone down there. King Jordan, not so much.”
“Could you imagine if he pulled up and rolled that car off the trailer down there?” It left me with a mental image of a bunch of O shaped mouths and wide eyes.
“Nobody would race him. Hunter was driving his truck down there, but eventually everyone caught on to who he was and how fast it was.” She shoved the final bite of pizza in her mouth.
“Wow, we had some fun down there when I was in high school. I remember you begging to go with us.” I smiled around the tip of the beer bottle.
“Hey.” She wiped her hands on a napkin as a mischievous smile lit her face. “Let’s ride down there. It’s the week before SKS. I bet it’s packed.”
“Aren’t we too old for that?”
“You might be.” She jumped up and took off, calling over her shoulder as she raced out of the kitchen. “I call the shower first.”
Just like that, I’d been transported to being a teenager and all the innocence I missed. Even down to fighting with my sister for space in front of the mirror. There had been an underlying strain between the two of us since I’d been home. It was nice she had shelved whatever it was that bothered her. I wanted to be close to her again, like we were before I left. I wanted everything good between us.
Back in the day, the bridge had been part of the highway that ran across the river. It kept getting washed out whenever there was a heavy rain and eventually the state rerouted the highway. What was left was a stretch of crumbling road leading to a piece of land that jutted out into the river. The manmade peninsula was the only part of the old bridge remaining.
While the angst-ridden youth with driver’s licenses found their way out here to hang out, the pavement was long forgotten by the department of transportation. The crumbling asphalt wasn’t an ideal place for racing, but the access road to the rerouted highway was. And it was a stone’s throw from where Breanna pulled her truck in at The Wash Out.
Isaac’s little import was there plus several others I’d seen at the shop. I didn’t feel as out of place as I figured I would.
“See, still the same even after all these years,” Breanna teased.
She was right, it was much the same as it had been the last time I’d been here. Laughter and music intermingled, all the classic sounds of teenagers having fun. It was a smaller version of the after-race parties at Jordan’s. The biggest difference, this was about being seen and being noticed. From the flashy cars of the North Side rich kids to the booming stereo systems of the kids from our side of town.
I was handed a cheap beer and I tried to drink it, one sip and cringed. “Apparently, some things do change.” I made a face as I handed the beer to a chuckling Isaac.
“Kid over there in that new Mustang needs his ass drug.” He nodded across the broken pavement before chugging the beer.
The set of wheels he indicated was a sleek new Cobra edition. It was the sort of car a guy like Caleb would have been super proud of and cocky about. One that came stock running faster than most cars kids like Isaac could afford.
“You should run him,” I suggested and jabbed an elbow to his ribs.
“He won’t run from a dig.” Isaac tossed the empty can. “He wants to go from a roll, knows he’ll get smoked if he doesn’t.”
Running from a dig meant a drag race from a dead stop. It was the way our street races were conducted. From a roll, meant that both vehicles were already running about sixty before the race even started. For an import, Isaac’s car would be fast, but the upgrades he’d put in made it faster from the dig and not the top end.
With straight stock parts, I was betting the Mustang could smoke almost every car here. The kid who owned the ’Stang was propped against his car, arrogant as hell. I was reminded of the line that separated guys like that from guys like Jordan. Jordan was confident to the point of cocky, but held the knowledge that he could be beat. He respected the guy that could beat them.
This kid didn’t believe anyone could beat him, that was obvious from where I stood.
I pulled out my phone and sent a quick message.
“Yo, Bree.” I grinned when my phone buzzed with a response. “Wanna hustle?”
She followed my eyes to where the kid was propped against the sleek sports car and mirrored my eager smile. “Oh yeah. Who you got in mind?”
Isaac was watching us with interest as I told my sister who I’d called. As realization dawned on Isaac’s face, my smile only grew.
“The sixty-five?” He was damned hopeful.
“I’m assuming so, if he pulls up here with a trailered car they’d chicken out. And definitely not go from a dig.”
“Hell yes!” Isaac punched the air.
“Let’s go.” Breanna inclined her head. “Time to make some money.”
I followed her lead, keeping pace with her long strides as we crossed the ghost of a road that lie between us and an easy payday.
“Hey, I know you.” One of the guys by the car pointed at Breanna. “Your brother races big time and sponsored at the track, right?”
Then another one, “Yeah, You’re the Casey’s delivery girl.”
“Hot ass delivery girl.” A kid barely old enough to drive, smirked.
Breanna’s head spun slowly in the direction of the smirk. “Careful, boy, I burn.” The scorn in her voice earned a few low whistles, but mostly shut everyone up.
“Nice car.” I walked around the front fender, the orange streetlights gleamed against the polished carbon fiber hood. “What’s she running? The Voodoo V8?” I examined the car, we sold parts to modify every make and model. All I needed to see was what it was running stock.
“Yeah.” His arrogance was even more obvious when he spoke. Not a Cobra in that case, newer…the new Mach 1. My knowledge of the super powered factory motor got Mr. Popped Collar’s attention, he swung up from where he was leaning against the car and rounded on me. “Super charged, pushing like seven hundred horsepower on the five-point-two.”
I smiled, as if I thought that was a lot of power. Admittedly, for a factory built muscle car it was. Especially for a daily driver. Where Breanna and I came from, nothing stayed like that for long and nothing ever pulled only seven hundred horses. With the gear ratio and the manual transmission of the Mustang and Isaac’s ricer sitting on a glide system transmission with a trans-brake, I knew exactly why the kid wouldn’t race him from a dead stop. Anything Jordan or Aiden put together would smoke Isaac, but for six hundred sixty feet from a dig this Mustang wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Not with the transmission in the ricer’s obnoxious orange monstrosity.
“Let me take you for a ride.” I could read the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes. He was maybe four years younger than me, but he was still so much like Caleb everything in me told me to run.
“Let her drive, she could take you for a ride.” This from my sister, who now leaned against the car in much the same fashion as the driver had been. She grabbed his attention for a moment. I needed that moment to collect myself, to remember where I was and who I was.
“Nobody drives but me.” I mock pouted at the arrogance in his voice and continued my appreciative dance around the car. He gave a lazy chase.
“Looks like she needs to breathe.” I gestured at the car. “Nobody will race you?”
He gave an emphatic roll of his eyes. “Nobody has the balls to run me from a go down the interstate. Too many wannabe Street Kings around here.”
“What if I could find you a race?” I inspected my cuticles by moonlight.
“Not her brother, man, that ’Vette is sick.” From the same kid who’d almost been burned by my sister’s hotness.
“Nah, he keeps his rubber at the track,” Breanna shot back.
“What would I be running?”
“A restored sixty-five Chevy truck.” I shrugged sleepily. The truck was far heavier. He was thinking he had it by several thousand pounds.
“Original steel and chassis?”
“Yup,” Breanna interjected, with more knowledge of the truck than I had. Hell, she’d probably helped him turn wrenches on it. “A rebuilt 405 with a manual four speed transmission.”
“If I win, you’ll let me take you for a ride?” His gaze slid up and down the length of my body. I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat.
“If we win, you fork over five hundred?” My voice was stronger than it should have been.
“Easy.” His grin was too close to a leer for my taste.
I shouldn’t compare him to Caleb, he was just a kid. A kid in need of a good dose of humble pie, but a kid nonetheless. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t still in high school.
I was saved by the popping rumble of a familiar old truck. Jordan didn’t pull all the way into the broken pavement, instead stopped at the end of the road and revved the engine. It was adrenaline and speed all wrapped up in an antique and chrome package.
“He street races that?” The kid laughed incredulously.
I bit off the sarcastic reply that almost slipped from my lips. I had my role in this hustle. So did Breanna, she didn’t hold back. “He’ll drag your ass.”
“Sure.” He continued to chuckle. “I’m already picking out the spot I’m going to park with your girl, here.”
How I managed to keep my blood pressure to a normal level was a miracle. It took everything I had not to make a break for it and run for Jordan’s truck. Not that I was scared, not anymore. I wanted to go to Jordan, a simple overwhelming desire to be near him. I wasn’t so sure what I should do with that feeling.
Breanna snorted and signaled Isaac. A ricer engine fired up, followed by a chorus of other engines, some more annoying and insect-like. None of them rivaled the sound of Jordan’s old truck.
We were suddenly the biggest show in town. Mostly, because on the other side of the Wash Out everyone knew who drove that old truck at the end of the road.
It wasn’t everyday a genuine Street King raced teenagers from The Wash Out.
“You want someone to hold the cash?” Mr. Popped Collar said before climbing into his Mach 1. I did, I’d already spotted who I wanted to when I walked up. A girl I recognized, somehow familiar to me. She’d been to her fair share of street races. I could tell from the scuffed-up Chuck Taylors and the way the corners of her lips turned up when Jordan pulled up at the end of the road. Oh, she knew.
“Her.” I pointed to that familiar girl. If we never saw the money again, I was okay with a kid like that walking away with it.
Nah, she wasn’t fooled, but the boys weren’t paying attention. In the moonlight, the reddish hue of curls hanging around her face shimmered. The corner of her mouth turned up as she walked forward. She knew exactly who I was, who Breanna was…who Jordan was.
She wrapped her hand around the roll of bills Mr. Popped Collar slapped into it. No doubt his monthly allowance.
With a nod, I jogged toward Jordan’s truck. Breanna headed the opposite direction toward Isaac. The passenger door popped open before I got there, so I climbed right in.
Jordan leaned back into the driver’s seat. “The ’Stang?”
“Yeah.” I shut the door behind me. “And you better smoke his ass, otherwise I gotta let him take me for a ride.”
Even in the dim light of his dash lights, I could see Jordan’s eyes narrow to dark slits. The air in the cab grew thick as the jealous anger rolled off him. My pulse sped up, his jealousy was hot. This wasn’t a race he was going to lose.
Isaac’s little Honda could barely be heard over the rumble of Jordan’s truck as he pulled up alongside. “From the flashing light on the highway?” Isaac shouted out his window. “Quarter mile?”
Jordan only angled his head at Vic’s little brother.
“We’ll go clear the way.” Isaac’s enthusiasm was written all over his face. Even my sister sat smugly in the passenger seat.
A row of townies pulled out before Isaac, followed by Isaac and a horde of familiar vehicles. The Mustang was last, he slowed at our driver’s side with his window down.
“Roll out east.” Jordan easily took over the situation. “We’ll start at the caution light where Jefferson highway crosses. I’ll take left and my girl will count it off. The next intersection is exactly a quarter mile. First one there…wins.”
From the passenger seat, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Jordan. Riding out with him, without my brother, without our crew, was never something we’d done before. He’d always kept me at a distance, I was his best friend’s little sister. Now, I was riding shotgun.
I adjusted the seatbelt, I had no interest in a ride in that Mustang. There was no one else I would want to ride with than the man behind the wheel of the truck where I sat.
“Your girl?” I snickered.
“As far as he knows, yes,” he growled.
I couldn’t keep the self-satisfied smile from my face. He’d never called me his girl before.
I relaxed as Jordan slipped through the small cluster of traffic, all the cars that had been at The Wash Out. They would block off traffic on this side of the highway, keep them behind the race. They were the thrill seekers, the guys with the mostly fast cars who wanted to see how close they could stay to the action once the race started in earnest.
Those who wanted to see the finish had sped off ahead already and would be lining the side of the freeway near the exit ramp. The caution light loomed in the distance, taunting the drivers with each orange flash.
The window in the Mustang was down, a girl rode shotgun with him as well. Unlike me, she looked nervous. A part of me always got a little anxious at the thought of a race. It was dangerous. But I trusted Jordan, I trusted his talent, and I was a Casey. The fear was part of the thrill.
I held a hand out the window with three fingers up as we approached the light, both vehicles side by side, both vehicles right at sixty-five mph.
“Three…two…” I shouted out my countdown over the cacophony of v-eights.
I cast a sidelong glance at Jordan as we swept under the light, then dropped my arm. “One!”
The force of acceleration, even from a roll, thrust me hard against the seat. Jordan, didn’t budge. He’d been ready for it, he was always ready. For several long seconds, Jordan’s laughter ringing out over the engines, we were side by side with this kid and his toy. Then, just like that, he was gone, disappearing in our rear view as the first stage of the nitrous kicked in on Jordan’s truck, instantaneous horsepower.
By the second kit, the off ramp was rapidly approaching.
It was traveling in tunnel vision. Everything sped by so fast that you couldn’t blink or you’d miss it. It didn’t matter to me, though, as the only scenery I was interested in was in the truck beside me. The red and orange lights of the dash lit his face. His eyes were bright, clear, and focused. The angles of his face were molded in concentration right up until the point when the corners of his mouth began to curve upward.
This was his happy place. This was where he was the best version of himself. I could understand that. It was one of the reasons I loved him.
I loved him.
I was in love with him, I always had been.