The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Eleven Charlotte

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHARLOTTE

Better than orgasms and straight A’s

B LAKE ’ S DORM IS IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION OF WHERE I NEED TO GO , but she thinks I’m going home too, so I’m forced to make the drive to campus, then turn around and drive right back to Hastings and the interstate. I punch the directions into my GPS, even though I know the route by heart. Dante and I are old pros at this.

Since it’s October in New England, the one-lane highway is pitch-black, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I get into a car accident right now, nobody will know why I’m all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. At least until they comb through my phone messages and see I was going to meet Dante. I don’t even tell Faith about these midnight excursions. She supports me to a point, but I have a feeling Faith wouldn’t approve of this.

I load a pop playlist and blast the first song, an up-tempo Mollie May track that has me drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as I sing along. Normally I’d listen to one of my audio textbooks, but the last thing I want to do right now is think about school.

It’s been a stressful week. Midterms were more difficult than I anticipated, and I studied my ass off for them. I always do. But I’m worried I messed up my paper on the development of artificial organs. I don’t think I included enough detail.

I can’t afford to let my grade slip in that class, especially since I’m already finding my instrumentation lab a challenge. That one is even more terrifying, because my capstone project is directly tied to it; I’m designing a medical device not unlike the ones we test in the lab.

I was convinced my capstone would involve something in biotech. Hell, the syllabus for the bio lab had me at cloning and gene editing . I was solidly invested in that direction—until I developed a fascination for the signal-processing techniques used in designing medical devices. I thought I’d be bored with all the diagnostics, but somehow, instrumentation ended up being one of my favorite courses. Underperforming in that class is not an option.

When the next song comes on, I turn up the volume. I can’t let the stress get to me. I need to drown out my thoughts before—

Too late.

I feel the wave rising. It comes whenever I feel overwhelmed, but it’s not quite a panic attack. No racing heart, no damp palms. Rather, it’s a suffocating sense of pressure engulfing me from all directions. I call it the pressure wave.

And right now, it’s cresting and threatening to carry me away as I remember all the things I need to do.

Maintain my grade point average.

Nail my capstone.

Run the Delta Pi finances.

Plan the gala.

Apply to grad schools.

God, I haven’t even started on that last one yet, putting it off to the very last minute. I need to write three personal essays by next week. Three . Why is a personal essay even a requirement, damn it? I already did that for undergrad. I wrote about being an adoptee, the challenges of being disconnected from the culture I was born to but never got to experience. I suppose I could write something similar and then tailor it to fit the essay requirements for each program—

Contain it, Charlotte! an inner voice shouts as the pressure becomes more acute. Stifling.

I suck in a breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs. Usually when the pressure wave hits, I rely on a containment method. Just one of many different methods I utilize in my day-to-day life. It’s nerdy, but they help.

With another inhalation, I visualize the wave and begin to gather it up. I push every ounce of pressure and heaviness into the little gray box in my mind’s eye. I cram it in there, this enormous wave that I manage to squish and compress into the box until it’s all contained. Then I pick up the box and place it in the microwave.

Yes, there is a microwave in my vision.

The screen doesn’t feature any numbers, only a button that says BLOW IT UP. I press it, and as the screen counts down from five, I pick up the microwave and throw it into a swimming pool.

The heavy appliance sinks to the bottom and promptly explodes. All the pressure inside it dissipates into calming ripples that shoot through the pool in all directions, and I feel a pure rush of relief that I swear is better than an orgasm.

I’m not sure this is what my high school therapist had in mind when she encouraged visualization, but it works for me, and that’s all that matters. I feel considerably lighter as I near the end of my ninety-minute drive.

It’s so eerie coming here at night. Driving up in the dark, the first thing I always see is the towering floodlights that loom over the grandstand, their glow visible from a distance. They cast a ghostly light over the building, illuminating the edges of the track and the empty parking lots that stretch out like dark, open fields. My headlights cast long shadows across the asphalt as I pull in at the entrance, which is marked by a huge, weathered sign with fading paint from years of exposure to the elements.

AMATO RACING

The name is emblazoned in bold letters. Below the sign, a chain-link fence surrounds the perimeter, lined with a few security lights.

Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I park next to a familiar pickup truck. Dante’s.

For a moment, I experience the usual flicker of trepidation about being here alone so late at night. But I’m as careful as I can be. I text Dante to let him know I’m here, then stay in the car with the doors locked until I see him exit the building. He always comes outside to escort me in.

Hopefully, any murderers lurking nearby will take one look at Dante and be smart enough not to mess with him. He might not have the height, but he’s got the bulk, the tats, and the nasty scowl. If I didn’t know what a soft teddy bear he is on the inside, the sight of him would definitely make me cross to the other side of the street.

I get out of the car and step into the cool night air that carries the faint scent of gasoline and rubber.

“Hey, princess,” Dante says, slinging one bulky arm around me. “How was the drive?”

“Uneventful.” I lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

“Missed you,” he tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “But you chose a good night to stop in. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Anticipation tickles my stomach. Dante’s surprises are the best kind of surprises.

I take his hand and practically drag him toward the entrance, eliciting a rumble of laughter from him. Every time Dante laughs, it sounds like it’s coming from deep in his chest.

We make our way through the main building and emerge out the back. The grandstand is partially lit by the floodlights, with most areas plunged into deep shadow, and the empty seats look so creepy in the darkness. To the left of the main track is the smaller go-kart track, its winding curves barely visible in the night.

Dante and I bypass both tracks and head to a well-lit area on the right.

AKA my personal heaven.

Dante’s family doesn’t just own a racetrack—they also run a side business that provides a luxury experience for customers who dream of driving high-end sports cars. I’m talking Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porsches. Dante told me this service makes up nearly half of the track’s income.

And he lets me take advantage of it for free.

If he weren’t the owner’s son, he would totally get fired for this.

“How’s your week been?” he asks.

“Busy.”

I complain about midterms for a few minutes, and he indulges me, because he’s that kind of friend, the one who will show enthusiasm in your interests even if they bore him to death, just because he knows they mean something to you.

We met at a pool party in Boston when I was a sophomore. I went with a few girls from class, but they wanted to leave early, so I stuck around, activated Charlie mode, and flirted with a cute guy on the front porch. Cute Guy was midsentence when Dante pulled up in an Alfa Romeo like a fucking boss. I ditched the boy and went to admire the car. Dante asked if I wanted to go for a ride, and the rest is history. I left Boston that night with an adrenaline high and a gay best friend whose family owns an honest-to-God racetrack.

The first time Dante invited me here after hours, he was so paranoid it was almost comical. He sat in the passenger side of the white McLaren convertible, fists of anxiety clenched against his thighs. He refused to let me drive faster than thirty miles an hour until he decided whether I was worthy of second gear. With each visit, he increased my speed limit, and these days, he has no qualms about letting me zoom—solo—around the track.

My parents would kill me if they knew I was racing cars in an empty racetrack at midnight, but I’m a safe driver. I never go faster than I can handle, and Dante insists we wear helmets even though we technically don’t have to.

“I’m so stressed,” I sigh, my griping session finally coming to an end.

“Well, I’m about to make you forget all that nonsense for a while.” Dante grins. “Come on. You’re gonna love this.”

He leads me down the row of luxury cars in the lot, their sleek, polished bodies gleaming under the lights.

Excitement bubbles up inside me when we stop in front of a car I’ve never seen here before. A cherry-red Corvette Stingray that looks like it was designed to break every speed limit in existence.

I moan out loud.

Dante shudders. “Jesus Christ, princess. I’m gay , and that sex moan just made my dick twitch.”

“I want to marry this car.” My voice barely contains my thrill. “She’s the one I want to drive tonight.”

“Figured you’d say that. Just don’t go too crazy, all right?”

I grin at him. “No promises.”

“Gear up,” he says, tossing me my usual helmet.

The moment I slide into the driver’s seat, the interior cocoons me in pure luxury. The leather seats are buttery soft. The dashboard looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. My heart starts pounding as I run my hands over the steering wheel, anticipation coursing through me.

Dante reaches over and presses the start button. The engine roars to life, a deep, powerful sound that sends a shiver down my spine and a tingle between my legs.

Cars make me hot.

Lab work makes me hot.

My onion has layers upon layers.

I glance at Dante, and he nods, giving me the go-ahead. I ease the Stingray onto the track, my foot hovering over the accelerator. The floodlights cast an almost surreal glow on the asphalt ahead, making it look like a ribbon of black silk unfurling into the night.

“Give it to her,” he urges.

I take a deep breath and press down on the gas pedal.

The Stingray surges forward, the force of acceleration pushing me back into my seat. Oh, hell yes. The world outside the windows becomes a blur as the speedometer climbs, and I feel an exhilarating rush of adrenaline. The tires grip the track with precision as I guide the sports car around the first curve. I’m in full control, completely in sync with the machine.

Dante whoops beside me, the sound barely audible over the roar of the engine. “Yes, baby, fucking yes !”

I laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep inside me. “I know, right?”

I push the car harder, faster, letting the speed take over. This is better than sex. This is better than orgasms and straight A’s.

This is heaven.

The track is a winding, twisting path, but I navigate it with ease, my hands steady on the wheel, my foot heavy on the gas. Every turn is like a dance between control and chaos. I’m giddy. The Stingray responds to my every move like it’s an extension of me, and for a few moments, it feels like nothing else in the world matters.

As I tear down the final straightaway, the car screaming at full throttle, the tension of the past few days melts away, replaced by a wild, carefree exhilaration.

Finally, I ease off the gas and bring the Stingray to a stop. The engine idles with a low, satisfied purr, like I just gave it a good, hard fuck.

I turn to Dante, breathless and grinning from ear to ear. “That was incredible.”

“Told you it’d be worth it.”

“Go again?”

“Hell yeah.”