CHINA
I’m sick of caring. I’m sick of wanting to be done with the pain in my chest. The unending pressure of my father’s death, and the lasting impression of having to give a fuck about anything. When I start to care, I feel it sucking me in, the memories of everything. All that’s happened in the last little while, and all I’ve done my best to avoid. These mental gymnastics are torture.
The love I endured from my father, and the career that’s pretty much swallowing me whole is too much. Add in the pressure of our team and those who depend on us, and I’m drowning. It reminds me that never again will my father be at the finish line, and I’m adrift. His funeral was only weeks ago and I’m in tatters. Even alcohol can’t mask my pain, or dull it.
I’m a shattered soul feeling broken and distended.
What I need right now is a release, one that only two wheels can fix. It will help me fight the demons pulling at the final puppet strings on my heart. Adrenaline coursing through my veins always helps. It’s not that late at night, and I’m positive I can still find a few guys cutting loose. The bets tonight should at least be worth my drive.
With a ‘I’ll see you in a few hours’ comment to Cassidy, and a quick avoidance of my mother as she stomps around the house since Dad’s death, I’m gone. Wearing jeans and a tee, strapping into my jacket, I head to the Valley.
Starting up my bike, it hums its satisfaction. Tightening up my leathers, strapping on my favorite helmet, I hit the door opener, signaling the garage.
My bike and I are one as the pavement looms ahead, urging us forward. Stretching out the kinks, I revel in the release as I crack the throttle. Setting out down the Malibu Hills, crossing into the center of La Brea, the familiar sights and sounds of illegal street racing revives my tired heart.
Pulling up to the side street, there’s row after row of fast bikes and cars. There are scantily dressed girls wearing low slung jeans, heavy chains, massive necklaces, and the odd semi-rich kid looking to lose his ride to a professional con artist’s slicked out junker.
Parking my ride near a row of sparkling clean Hayabusa’s, CBR’s, and XXR’s, I dismount and hang my helmet. Mine stands out. Dad would shit kittens knowing I was anywhere near illegal races.
“No shit!” I hear close by as I unzip my jacket. Slinging it over the seat, I pocket the key and step back.
“Hey, Charlie.” The ten-year-old scrawny street urchin that I see at these venues more than I should, smiles back at me. I quit asking if he should be home sleeping, or if there was family looking for him a few months ago. The poor kid is just looking for attention and a sense of belonging, of which he gets here with us. I’d met Charlie at one of the Crown and Anchor Progress Team meetings. He’s who told me about these illegal street races.
“You racing tonight, D?”
“Might. You staying in the program?” I ask, ruffling his nappy hair.
Shrugging, he kicks the nonexistent dirt in front of his ratty Sketchers. “Nah. I don’t have a ride down to the meetings.” Giving him a fake scowl, Charlie rolls his eyes. “They kicked me out. It’s a great thing y’all are doin’, but they only make it for the rich inner city kind. I can’t afford it and lunch. Somethin’ had to give.” Poor kid. I wish I could do more for those like him. Maybe when I take over my trust fund, I’ll figure out something that could help. That’s if my strict, hard-lined, still dealing with grief mother would allow it. Honestly, I think she’s worried I’d give all my money away.
As we walk along the rows, I acknowledge the riders I know. Receiving a few fist bumps and head nods, Charlie and I make it to the finish line where the illegal conveners stand.
“Who’s in the lead tonight?”
“Chance.” Squishing up his features, the little kid looks almost annoyed. Chance is an asshole any time after winning.
“I thought you had a man crush for his style?”
“No way. He’s got nothin’ on y’all’s riding style. He’s a pussy. Just showin’ up when you’re not here.” Gotta love this kid.
Pulling out twenty bucks, I hand it to Charlie, trying to send him away. “Go hang out. I’ll catch up with you before the end of the night, kiddo.” Smiling wide, swinging off, his nappy hair can be seen heading into the crowd. In a bit, I’ll find him mooching food, trying to keep the twenty for food and bus rides to school. It’s better than what some of these kids do to forget their shit lifestyle. Yeah, I could give him more, but I know what happens when they have too much too.
After he heads away, I search out Max and Manuel. They’re the main gearheads that arrange this illegal racing on weeknights. They recognized me right away, and they don’t look at me any different than the rest of the participants.
“We runnin’ tonight, Doll?”
“Yeah, I might. What’s the line?”
Max pulls the folded sheets of paper out of his back pocket, mulls over the numbers, then turns. I know he’s contemplating his words. He’s hoping to talk me into the race that has the most bets in his favor. Thing is, I’m okay with that. I don’t mind others trying to get rich quick, as long as no one gets hurt in the process.
“Fixer is runnin’ Jacob’s tonight. You in for it?” I think about it for a second, then agree. I need the adrenaline rush more than he needs the winnings. We have an unwritten understanding.
“I’ll put four on Fixer then,” I tell them. Max and Manny run these back-ender bets where I bet on the other guy to win. The only clause I have is that my ride is never on the line, and I’ll never take theirs. Most of the racers don’t know that, though, so they still push it to the limits.
I’ve been coming out here for a few weeks now. Ever since…well, ever since Dad’s death. I need a bit of rule breaking to feel alive. How does a few weeks feel like a lifetime ago?
Handing Manny my bills, forgetting my reasons for being here, I kit back up.
Bringing my bike to the line, Fixer pops up beside me on the Jacob's new ride. Revving the engine once really hard, then settling back to wait, I sit calm and relaxed as he stews in his chinos. With a wide smirk, Fixer readies to take me on. He might win, but I might just kick his ass for being a punk. He’s not one of my favorites. He’s boisterous, cocky, a prick to those that lose against him, and he’s an asshole to the girls after a fast, lazy fuck.
Kalyn, Jacob’s girl, is the starter tonight. She stands to the center, wearing nothing more than a table doily and a thong. It's barely covering her ample ass that even I’m envious of. We prep, set, and wait for the go. Just before Kalyn can give us the go, in the distance, sirens ring out, getting closer and closer. Races are over for the evening, it seems. As the crowd disperses like cockroaches in the light, peeling off the street as fast as lightning, I kick the gear, pin the throttle, and spin off to the side street I came down. Hoping it’s not jammed up or blocked by fleeing racers or spectators, I stop. At the end, a patrol car squeezes into the space, giving me no room to flee. I’m penned in. I’m in shit if I’m caught. This is my fifth charge since his death. Not a record I’ve tried for before, but I seem to be pretty good at it. And I definitely won’t be going anywhere near home if this cop has his way.
Aiming for the sidewalk, I squeak around the back of the cruiser, narrowly missing another visit to the family lawyers. Dad would have been pissed about this, but he’s not here, and I don’t want my grieving mother to know. I’ll call Ben, Dad’s team leader and best friend, to save my ass, again.