A race for love

Nick lacks self preservation

*Wyatt*

Viper pulls off his helmet.

He is younger than Rex, older than Nick, with shaved sides and a dark strip of hair pulled into a short knot at the top of his head. A green snake curls from his neck to his jaw. I have seen him around races before, but never close enough to notice the pale scar cutting through one eyebrow.

He looks at my car, not at me.

"You took the shoulder," he says.

"You left it open."

"It wasn't a lane."

"It was pavement."

His mouth twists. "You're proud of that?"

"No." I climb out and shut the door. "I'm proud I didn't put you in the trench when you tried to crowd me."

The crowd goes quieter.

Viper takes a step forward. Barbie appears at my side before I hear her approach. She still has her wrench tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. Nick is a few feet behind her, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, looking relaxed in the way a feral cat looks relaxed near a thunderstorm.

"You have a problem?" Barbie asks Viper.

"I was talking to him."

"And now you're talking to me. Congratulations. It's an upgrade."

Viper's gaze drifts over her, slow enough that my temper wakes up.

Barbie sees it too. Her expression does not change.

"Try that again," she says, "and I'll remove something you need to steer."

Nick clears his throat. "For legal clarity, she means your hands."

"I know what she means," Viper says.

"Good," Barbie replies. "I hate repeating myself."

Big Eddie claps both hands together. "We have cash business. Nobody starts a fight until I am done counting. There are rules."

"You let him push cars," Viper says.

"I saw two cars complete a race without touching." Eddie tips his head toward the road. "You got beat."

Viper's stare lands on me again. "Not for long."

"Put it in a greeting card," I tell him.

He turns away, jerking his helmet back on as he stalks toward the green car. The crowd starts moving again, pulled by money and the possibility of another race. Eddie's runner hands me a thick envelope. I count it automatically, then pass half to Barbie.

She looks down at the cash. "What's this?"

"Your suspension setup won the race."

"My suspension setup prevented you from dying stupidly. Different category."

"Still seems like it deserves a cut."

"You feeling generous?"

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation."

Nick snatches the envelope from her hand and fans himself with it. "That was beautiful. The tight line at the warehouse? Filthy. Emotionally confusing. I may need a cigarette."

"You don't smoke."

"I'll start for the drama."

Barbie takes the envelope back. "You need to check the right-side undercarriage. You hit something."

"I know."

"You say that like it is a defense."

"It is a description."

Chrome jogs toward us from the pickup, welding visor hanging around his neck. "Gray car sounded good from the east gate. Little scrape, nothing tragic."

"You heard that over the crowd?" I ask.

Chrome grins. "I listen."

"That is why he never hears when women reject him," Nick says.

"I have heard several rejections. I just respectfully disagree."

Barbie gives Chrome the cash. "Put this in the lockbox. Then bring the jack and stands. If the control arm is bent, I want to know before he decides another race will fix it."

"It might," I say.

Three sets of eyes turn toward me.

"Fine," I add. "It will not."

Nick points toward the starting area. "My run is up. I am going to demonstrate that winning is actually easy when you have style."

"You are racing Manny's Integra," Barbie says. "He is quick."

"Manny's quick if the course is straight and nobody scares him."

"You are planning to scare him?"

"I'm planning to exist near him. Similar effect."

Nick heads toward his blue Civic, his racing jacket flaring behind him. He carries himself loose and careless, but I see the way he checks the front tire before he gets in. The way he taps the steering wheel twice. The way his eyes map the route even though he has driven it three times tonight already.

Nick has never done anything halfway. He just makes it look like a joke because earnestness embarrasses him.

I follow him to the line with Barbie and Chrome. The air around the starting gate is thick with exhaust and dust. Cars idle everywhere, their engines rumbling through the concrete. Somebody has a speaker balanced on a toolbox, bass rattling against the broken mill windows.

Manny pulls up beside Nick in a black Acura Integra with a silver hood and a clean roll cage visible through the glass. He is a solid driver, quiet, smart enough not to mistake aggression for talent. Which means Nick cannot bait him the usual way.

:Nick lowers his window.

Manny glances over.

"You look nervous," Nick says.

"I'm not."

"Right. You just always blink that much when you're relaxed?"

Manny looks forward.

Nick smiles to himself and raises his window.

"You're terrible," Barbie says.

"He's efficient," I answer.

"Same thing in this garage."

Big Eddie walks between the cars, talks to both drivers, then points toward the east course. This one has a longer straight but tighter turns near the old boiler house. It favors cars that can brake late without stepping out.

Nick can brake late.

Sometimes terrifyingly late.

The flag goes up.

Nick's Civic launches clean, front tires grabbing hard. Manny gets a better reaction and takes the lead by half a car. They disappear under the broken conveyor bridge, taillights bouncing over rough pavement.

The crowd surges toward the far side of the lot, shouting bets and insults.

Barbie does not move. Her arms fold across her chest.

"You worried?" I ask.

"I am always worried when Nick drives. He thinks every road is a personal criticism."

"That is affectionate."

"That is accurate."

The first part of the course vanishes behind the boiler house. We hear the engines before we see them again, Manny's lower and steadier, Nick's Civic screaming through the rev range.

Then the black Integra flashes through the gap between two loading bays.

Nick is tucked close behind it.

"He's too close," Chrome says.

"No," I say. "He's setting up."

Manny drifts toward the middle before the turn, protecting the inside. Nick stays behind him one more beat, then brakes later than any reasonable human being should. The Civic's rear end twitches as he snaps toward the outside.

Manny turns in.

Nick does not follow.

He cuts across the old service lane beside the boiler house, a strip of cracked concrete too narrow to count as road. His wheels hammer over potholes. The Civic bounces hard enough that I feel it in my teeth from fifty yards away.

Then he comes out ahead.

The crowd loses its mind.

Manny tries to close the gap on the straight, but Nick has momentum now. He keeps the Civic planted through the final left, takes the rail crossing with a precise little lift, and crosses the finish a full car length in front.

He hits the horn twice as he rolls through.

Barbie's mouth tightens like she is trying not to smile. She fails.

"i***t," she says.

"Fast i***t," I say.

"Still an idiot."

Nick pulls up near us and gets out with both arms raised. A few people boo. More cheer. He bows with exaggerated grace, then immediately winces and grabs his lower back.

,Barbie is beside him in two strides.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Seat belt caught weird."

"You hit the service lane at ninety."

"Eighty-seven. I have standards."

"You are going to have a spinal alignment appointment if you keep racing like a collapsing building."

Nick leans against the Civic, grinning at her. "You were worried."

"I was assessing the consequences of your poor judgment."

"That is practically foreplay from you."

Chrome coughs into his fist.

Barbie looks at Nick for a long second. "Keep talking. I need an excuse to make you sleep in the parts room."

"Worth it."

I clap Nick on the shoulder. "Good run."

He sobers enough to meet my eyes. "You too."

It is brief. It is enough.

We do not say the things people say in movies after races. We do not talk about brotherhood or loyalty or how none of us is sure what we would have become without the others. We hand each other tools. We pay for busted knuckles. We argue about alignment. That covers most of it.

Chrome reaches into the Civic and pulls out a small cooler. "Victory drinks."

Barbie takes one look at the cans. "Those are energy drinks."

"Victory hydration."

"You are all twenty-five or older. Please stop acting like the caffeine lobby sponsors you."

Nick cracks a can. "They should. I represent their values."

I take one anyway. The metal is cold against my palm. For a few minutes, with the mill loud around us and Nick still riding his win, it almost feels easy.

Then the crowd falls quiet.

It starts at the far end of the lot.

People turn one at a time, bodies shifting aside as a car rolls through the cut chain at the east gate. No music cuts out. No one tells them to move. They do it because the yellow car advances slowly down the center lane, headlights low and steady, its paint bright under the work lamps.

The color hits me first.

Yellow.

Not the same car. It cannot be. The one from that night was older, different body shape, wrecked beyond anything worth rebuilding.

But yellow is yellow, and my grip tightens on the energy drink until aluminum dents beneath my fingers.

The Charger stops twenty feet away.

It is immaculate. Low, wide, old-school muscle with a black stripe down the hood and darkened windows. The engine idles with a deep, patient rumble.

The driver's door opens.

Rex Roderick steps out.