A race for love

The Viper

Wyatt

The flag drops, and Viper tries to kill me before we reach the first turn.

Not literally. Probably.

His neon-green coupe jumps half a car length ahead, rear tires spitting grit across my windshield. The old mill road narrows between a loading dock and a row of concrete barriers, which means he has chosen the exact place where a bad pass becomes a very expensive obituary.

I keep the gray car straight and let him take the dirty line.

"Cute," I mutter.

The engine answers with a hard, familiar growl.

The course runs through the east yard, where the paper mill's dead machinery has been left to rot under broken roofs. Big Eddie's people put work lights at the turns and skull-shaped arrows on the pavement, Chrome's contribution to civic infrastructure. The rest is shadows, potholes, loose gravel, and old rails embedded in the concrete like traps.

Viper knows the course. So do I.

He wants me angry. Angry drivers chase gaps that do not exist.

I downshift before the first corner, feel the rear end settle, and take the inside line tight enough that the passenger mirror nearly kisses a concrete bollard. Viper swings wide ahead of me, using the open space to carry speed through the bend.

He comes out ahead.

Barely.

"Not bad, Shadow Streak," his voice crackles over the radio. "For a guy driving his girlfriend's grocery getter."

I flick the radio button with my thumb. "You talk this much because you get lonely in there?"

"I talk because you listen."

"I listen because you're a useful warning system. Every time you start bragging, I know you're about to do something stupid."

His laugh fills the cabin, sharp and ugly. "Keep telling yourself that."

He cuts toward the middle of the road before the next bend, taking away the cleanest line. He is fast, no question. The green car is lighter than mine, tuned high and twitchy, built for quick directional changes. Viper drives it like he enjoys arguing with physics.

I do not.

I like knowing exactly what a car will do when I ask. I like an engine that talks cleanly through the pedals, tires that hold until they tell you they are finished, brakes that do not surprise you halfway through a turn because some i***t bought them from a guy named Skeeter behind a tire shop.

The gray car has never lied to me.

Ahead, Viper's brake lights flash once.

Too early.

I let off the throttle but do not touch the brake. He is trying to make me react. Trying to force me wide before the switchback near the ruined conveyor building.

The road bends left around a collapsed warehouse wall. Beyond it, the pavement falls away toward a loading trench filled with weeds, busted pallets, and enough rusted metal to make a tetanus shot feel optimistic.

Viper brakes again, harder this time.

I stay on him.

The gray car closes until I can see the bright green paint reflected in my hood. Viper jerks left, blocking the inside. I expected it. He is watching his mirrors instead of the course.

That is where I get him.

I shift right and hit the narrow strip of cracked pavement beside the warehouse wall. The car bucks over a pothole. My shoulder slams against the seat. A shower of sparks jumps from the undercarriage, bright in the dark.

Viper cuts across too late.

His rear bumper swings toward me.

I tap the brake, just enough.

He misses my front quarter by inches and overcorrects. The green coupe slides wide, tires shrieking as he fights for grip. He gets it back before the trench, but he loses speed.

I shoot past.

The crowd's noise reaches me in pieces through the sealed windows, a roar bouncing off brick and steel. I keep my eyes on the road. There are two more turns, the broken rail crossing, then the long straight toward the far gate.

Viper is behind me now.

That does not mean he is done.

He comes up fast on the passenger side, green headlights filling my mirror. I hear his engine climbing, high and mean. He has more power than he showed at the start. Nitrous, maybe. Or a tune reckless enough to make Barbie start throwing tools.

He draws even.

For three seconds we run door to door through the old mill yard, our headlights cutting over graffiti, smashed windows, and the skeletal frames of industrial tanks. Viper turns his head.

His helmet hides most of his face, but I see the flash of teeth.

Then he nudges toward me.

Not enough for a hit. Enough to make the point.

My jaw locks.

A sane person would back off.

I am not always a sane person behind a wheel. I am working on it.

The rail crossing is coming up. The pavement breaks around the tracks, and the right side dips before it rises again. Viper has the outside. He has room to accelerate. He also has less control if his suspension unloads.

I hold steady until the last possible second.

Then I ease left.

The gray car catches the smoother part of the crossing. Viper hits the dip at speed. His front end hops. His tires chirp against the pavement.

That is all I need.

I pull ahead by a hood length, then a full car. The finish lights appear at the far gate, two work lamps mounted on abandoned forklifts. Big Eddie stands between them with both arms raised, a flag in one hand and a beer in the other.

Professional standards remain flexible.

Viper makes one last run for the inside, too late and too desperate. I keep the line. He has to lift or hit the barrier.

For once, he lifts.

The gray car tears across the finish.

I ease off the throttle and let the engine settle as I coast into the far lot. My hands are tight around the steering wheel. I force them open one finger at a time.

The first breath after a race always feels stolen.

Then Viper blasts past me, brakes hard, and swings his car around in a spray of gravel. He stops crooked near the lot's chain-link fence. His driver's door opens.

Big Eddie steps into the space between us before either of us can do anything more creative than yell. Eddie is built like a refrigerator that has learned to gamble. He wears a Hawaiian shirt under a leather vest, and his gray ponytail hangs down his back.

"Winner," he shouts, pointing his beer at me, "Shadow Streak."

A few people cheer. More people groan because they bet on Viper. The sound has a pleasing quality.