*
“You sure about this, bucko?” Roger clapped a hand down on my back, then adjusted his black peak cap—the Monster logo in green on the front. “It’s been awhile since you last took her out on the track.”
“I don’t sponsor this bad boy for nothing,” I said, and patted the top of the actinic blue Camaro ZL1. It was the newest to grace the track at the Chicagoland Speedway. Sleek lines and lights that looked like the eyes of a demon.
The car was danger.
It was trouble.
It was death made of metal, and it suited me just goddamn fine, right now.
“All right,” Roger said, and huffed a sigh. “You want me to come along for the ride?”
“No, I’m good.” I opened the driver’s side door and looked up and down the long road that was the pit lane, empty on a Tuesday afternoon. I’d made the drive to the Speedway this morning and met with Roger Buck the minute I arrived.
They’d opened up the track for me. There were a couple other cars on the track, or had been a half hour ago, but it was quiet. Perfect for a little fun. Something to chase the adrenaline levels up and rid me of the morose attitude that had taken me this past month.
No word from Margot.
And why would I have heard from her? She wanted nothing to do with me.
Sunlight baked the top of my head, and I rolled my shoulders under the fire-retardant suit. I shifted the Simpson helmet in my left hand, soaking in the moment before the drive. This would be good. I itched to be free of the nothingness in my chest.
“Now, you know I’m not one to talk about girly shit, Foster, but something’s bugging you, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Nothing’s bugging me, man.”
“I’m just saying,” Roger said and sniffed. “I’m just saying it ain’t a good idea to hit the track when you’re not in the right state of mind. Mindset is everything.”
“Wow, Roger, when did you get a degree in psychology?”
He pulled a face and cocked his head back so the flesh under his chin formed rolls. “Bitch, please.”
I laughed. “Roger, fuck it, I know the rules. How many times have I come down here for some fun, eh? How many?”
“Shit, at least twenty, thirty?”
“Right, so I’m well aware of how it works, aight? I’m good, buddy. I’m all good.”
“You look like someone’s dragged you backward through a graveyard.”
“Aw, buddy, that’s so fucking nice of you. You look like you came outta your dad instead of your momma.”
Roger narrowed his eyes at me, a slight smile twisting his lips at the corners. “You calling me a piece of shit or a son of a bitch?”
“Take your pick,” I said and spread my arms, holding the helmet out at my side. “Now, you gonna let me go for a ride, or do I have to stand here all day reassuring you about my mental state?”
“Go,” Roger said and cuffed me on the shoulder. “Just be safe about it. Don’t push too hard, Foster.”
“When do I ever push too hard?”
“Every time.”
He was right about that. I’d grown a reputation around here as a risk-taker, and that didn’t exactly endear people to me.
“You crash that car you’re gonna buy another one. Not a scratch, Foster.”
“I hear you. And that won’t be a problem.” I placed the helmet on my head, then got into the car. Gasoline and burnt rubber, that was all I wanted right now. Maybe fucking amnesia. I clipped the restraints into place then inhaled through my nose and out through my mouth.
Fuck yes. This felt good.
I started the engine, and I was lost in the purr, in the heat, for a minute.
Finally, I put my foot down and took off down the track, shifting gears effortlessly, pushing hard, harder, harder, faster. The bleachers and whiteboards on the side of the track flashed by, the tires tore up the tar.
The smile faded from my lips.
The usual whoop of joy, the freedom, was absent.
“More speed, that’s all.” I put my pedal to the metal and fucking zipped around the corners, flying by the seat of my pants, kicking down only at the last second, the ass of the Camaro swaying out.
It wasn’t enough.
The adrenaline was there, but the hollow shit was too. It hadn’t changed anything.
Fuck, this was the most exciting activity I could conceive of, and it did nothing for me.
“Faster!” I growled.
I threw the car into corners, tires screeching, rubber burning. I flew past the pit lane, lapped, ignored Roger waving from where I’d left him.
“Fuck off,” I yelled.
The corner approached. I screamed toward it, the engine heating, sweat dripping down my face, past my eyes.
I geared down, fast, but it was too late. I’d misjudged it.
The realization sent horror straight through my gut. I hit the brakes hard, but it wasn’t enough to halt my path.
“Fuck! No!”
The railing sped toward me. The car’s engine roared. A crunch of metal, the horrid screech of it twisting beneath me. My head whipped forward and back, my entire body straining against the restraint harness.
Pain. So much fucking pain.
“Margot,” I grunted, and darkness sailed up from my consciousness. “Margot.”
Outside, sirens wailed, and someone screamed something.
None of it mattered.
My eyes were closed, and she was the only one there. Margot standing beside the reception desk in Get Ink’d wearing her uniform, tapping a pen against her bottom lip as she studied the appointments for the day.
“Margot.”
A man appeared behind her, walked toward her, smiling. Not anyone I recognized, just some faceless asshole who didn’t belong there. He spoke her name, and she turned toward him, smiling.
He put his arms around her. His lips on hers. And she kissed him back.
“No.”
Blackness.