8. Dane
8
DANE
It’s hot as balls in my garage. Perspiration beads down my forehead while I look over the carburetor of my latest project. Grease coats my fingers down to every last crevice that I know better than to swipe the trickle of sweat away from my eyes.
I dab my face with the short sleeve of my shirt and then inspect the accelerator pump diaphragm, trying to determine why it’s still leaking on me.
The only thing I love more than driving cars? Tearing them apart and fixing what needs to be fixed. It’s nirvana to me. Heaven. Pure ecstasy.
I only stop working when the rock song playing on the shitty stereo system cuts out with an incoming call.
“Are you going to send your goons after me again?” I answer, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear.
Giancarlo chuckles. “No idea what you’re talking about, Kingsley.”
Grinding my molars, I want to call bullshit, but he’s not one to lie. Something a lot like frustration works through me. As twisted as it sounds, some part of me wishes it had been him. Then the case would be closed, and I could move on without wondering if I pissed the wrong person off to be ambushed like that.
Now I’ve got no idea who could’ve been behind my attack. I don’t have any enemies. And I haven’t gotten myself in any trouble since the Walker incident. Besides going over the speed limit, I’ve been a law-abiding citizen.
“I have a business proposition for you.”
My gaze goes to the middle ground. “Pass.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice light. “You might want to hear me out.”
I white-knuckle my fucked-up phone. I know me. I live off of thrills and chases, and racing is one of my vices. A vice I’m trying to break because I need to lie low this year and the next if I want Daniel fucking Kingsley to leave me the fuck alone. “I’m sure.”
“What if I told you he’s in trouble?” he continues.
My body goes still. My eyes narrow at the ceiling. I don’t need specifics. I know who he's talking about. There’s only one person who introduced me to Giancarlo, one mutual link between us.
“All you have to do is win one race. Win one fucking race, and I’ll let him off the hook.” He hangs up on me before I can tell him to take his offer and shove it up his fucking ass.
I nearly chuck my phone against the wall. Instead, I stand there, clench it in a tight grip, and breathe until I’m no longer radiating with anger.
Putting a halt on my latest project, I make my way over to Ol’ Reliable, a sleek black sports car I’ve modified to hell and back over the last three years. Custom carbon fiber body kit and all—everything handpicked and carefully considered by yours truly.
Rock music resumes on the shitty stereo as I pop the engine and get to work on making sure everything is good to go by tonight, gritting my teeth the entire fucking time.
What the fuck did you do, Marco ?
The car meet happens at sundown, in a business district not too far from the waste treatment center. Numerous cars are already parked under the overpass when I arrive. There’s rarely any civilian activity in these parts once it hits six p.m., which makes it an optimal location for this kind of endeavor.
Around me, hoods are popped open and on display. License plates are practically nonexistent as far as the eye can see. Rap music blares from various tinny speakers; it’s all an overlapping, jangled mess of nonsensical lyrics. Raucous chatter fills the air as the evening wears on.
“ Dane, Dane, Dane . It’s been a while. Did Giancarlo do this to you?” Shyla slinks up to me, brushing her fried blonde hair over her ear. She’s wearing a checkered tube top that generously shows off her tits and the eagle tattoo sprawling over her chest. When I don’t respond, her mouth draws into a pouting sneer. “I heard your ass got beat.”
She touches my lip before I can pull away.
“Nah.” I paid Sergei’s nephew a visit to see if he was the one behind my ass getting kicked in the coffee shop alleyway. He wasn’t. He made that point very clear. “This isn’t from him.”
“Aww,” she coos, and I duck away before she can touch me any further. A phony pout forms on her lips as she assesses me from the healthy amount of space I’ve created. “I can make you feel better.”
“I’m good.” Already, I’m backing up some more. “I don’t want any part of your game with Eddie.”
Marco hooked up with Shyla once—on the night I beat all odds and won my first race—and Eddie was a fucking nightmare about it when he found out. At sixteen, we were a pair of egotistical dumbasses and thought we could get away with anything. At twenty, we should know better.
As it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if Eddie’s still pissed about it to this very day. I know no love will be lost if Giancarlo does anything to him.
I cast a glance over at Eddie, catching the look on his face that makes it as obvious as two plus two she’s trying to use me to piss him off. I’ve been around them long enough to know this is part of their twisted foreplay, and I don’t want to get dragged into it.
Crossing my arms, I observe the crowd once more. “Where’s Marco?”
Shyla chuckles, shaking her head. “If he’s smart, Mexico.”
My eyes narrow as I follow her line of sight. Just a few cars down, I see Wally making an ass of himself as he shows off his shiny green coupe with its tacky green rims and flames being shot out of the exhaust. After all this time, he’s still sporting the most boot-ass haircut I’ve ever seen. A high and tight crew cut, so you can see the W he tatted behind his ear himself.
“Are you gonna come back?” Shyla finally asks, popping her gum. “You should. It hasn’t been the same since you left.”
Clenching my jaw, I shake my head no. “Ain’t about this life anymore.”
She rolls her eyes and readjusts her tube top. “The offer still stands, Pretty Boy.” She caresses my cheek before I can react, skipping off to flirt with the next unsuspecting sap.
Releasing an irritable sigh, I stand there, stewing in annoyance and anticipation and waiting for the show to get on the road. I want to be anywhere but here. I want to be back in my garage, working on my latest project car. It’s the only thing on my mind. The only thing I’m looking forward to.
I’m already behind the wheel when it’s time. Usually, I go first. I don’t stick around for the entire event because I don’t like my time being wasted. Right now, I just want this over with, so Giancarlo can leave Marco and me the fuck alone.
“Pretty girl,” Wally shouts as his vehicle pulls up beside mine, a maniacal smirk stealing across his face. “A shame it’s gonna get destroyed.”
“What kind of shitty trash talk is that?” I ask with a shit-eating grin. “Your mom has a better mouth than you.”
He glowers. “Shut up about my mom.”
I know better than to resort to a bunch of your mama insults. “Don’t shove your head so far up your ass. Wouldn’t want you to look like a rolled-up pair of socks before we even start.”
His face contorts with sheer confusion at the English accent I heavily lean into. I roll up my window before he can get another word in.
Giancarlo moves to the front of the crowd, his two bodyguards idling nearby. My focus goes to Marco, who stands beside him, and anger spikes in my bloodstream at what I’m able to discern. Busted lip, black eye—his face looks half as bad as mine did a few weeks back.
You better win , Giancarlo mouths, his gaze directly aimed at me.
No fucking shit. What other alternative is there ? Clenching my steering wheel, I wait for Shyla to drop the flags after securing my helmet.
Up ahead, Shyla swings her hips slowly and seductively as she sashays to the starting line, dragging this out for no other reason than to drag this out.
When the checkered flags finally swing through the air, I hit the clutch, shift to first gear, and accelerate forward.
I’m in the lead. Ol’ Reliable is roaring loudly as the car thunders down the endless winding streets surrounding the business district, her wheels screeching as I turn around the first bend I reach with ease.
I’ve got an easy advantage. I’ve driven this course multiple times; I know every curve, every bend, and every intersection of the street like it’s the back of my hand.
Headlights flash into my rearview mirror, a lime-green abomination keeping pace with only a few yards separating us.
Wally’s a fucking tool and a menace on the road, but he’s got some talent. Not that I’ll admit it to his face. His inflated head will pop if his ego expands any further.
My car moves along the charted course that’ll circle back to the starting point. Take a left, watch out for the hairpin turn, go straight down the stretch of road alongside the waste treatment center, and take another left. It’s a three-mile route with only two intersections to keep an eye out for. Luckily, the lights are always green at this time of night.
Anticipation builds as I gun past the first intersection, eyes focused on the green lights of the next one ahead.
That’s when I see it.
Pale headlights on a barely visible vehicle running its red lights and barreling straight into the intersection.
“ Fuck !” Ol’ Reliable jerks into the opposing lane, narrowly avoiding a T-bone collision. A blur of lime green flashes by me on the right.
My high beams illuminate the sedan in front of me, and my grip on the wheel tightens when I see some punk sticking his tongue out and flipping me off.
I’ve been played.
Pissed, I veer around the sedan, rubber burning against asphalt, until I’m right on Wally’s bumpers. He shows me his middle finger. His car swerves in the process.
Suddenly, the idea of pulling the pit maneuver on him flickers in my head. The temptation is high, barely edged out by my desire to win. For Marco’s sake, I need to focus on winning.
On his tail, I cut into the passing lane, and the car skids as I make the last turn. His coupe swerves toward me, inching closer and closer until our vehicles are dangerously a centimeter apart—until he comes close to clipping me—but I’m not rattled.
I stare ahead in sheer determination as Ol’ Reliable skirts into the opposing lane—just in the nick of time, barely crossing the crudely spray-painted line across the black asphalt.
As he skids to a stop beside me, I climb out of my vehicle and chuck my helmet to the ground. Yanking his car door open, I grab him by the shoulders and toss him onto the concrete.
“You fucking moron.” My fist barrels into his face. Blood spurts out of his nose as he grins maniacally up at me. Someone grabs onto me from behind before I can land another punch, giving the fucker a chance to sneak a stinging right hook at my eye. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, you fucking dumbass!”
“Try me, bitch!” Wally spits out.
Well, if the fucker insists. I lunge forward, only to be yanked back. My limbs swing at him in vain; my body is still restrained.
“Easy!” Eddie sputters into my ear, the crook of his arm tightening around my neck. “ Easy , Kingsley .”
“Enough!” Giancarlo’s voice, gravely low and resolute, silences the crowd. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Old News,” Wally gripes with a smarmy grin, “can’t handle an obstacle course.”
Eddie pulls me back before his face receives a reunion with my fist.
“We don’t play dirty,” I growl. “And I don’t need to cheat to win.”
“It’s not cheating.” The blood from his nose streams down the lower half of his face, staining his teeth red. “A car could always drive by at this time.”
He’s lucky Eddie has tightened his grip on me once more, or else I would have pummeled his ugly mug in. Not only was it dirty, but it was a fucking dangerous move. Nobody in their right mind would ever pull a stunt like that.
“He's right.” Giancarlo’s mouth pulls into a taunting smirk. “A car could happen along these streets at any time.”
Brutal fury spears through me, bringing a tightness to my shoulders. Apparently, there’s no such thing as honor. Fucking whatever. I will not stand here to pitch a fit like a whiny baby. Not when it’s obvious I’d have an easier time winning a debate with a statue.
“Is he good?” I growl.
He regards me coolly for a never-ending minute. “Consider his debt paid for.”
Eddie has the smarts to let me go before I wrestle myself out of his headlock. I look at Marco, who refuses to meet my eyes. My attention drifts to Giancarlo, who’s studying me with sharp, hawklike interest.
“I fucking won,” I declare, staring him down, “and I’m done.”
“For now.”
He doesn't have to say the next line that already auto-fills in my head. You’ll be back .
I stalk off to my car, steaming in silence. My jaw locks tight when I can sense everybody in the close vicinity watching me as I go. I need to get out of here before my smart mouth gets me into more trouble. I’m barely behind the wheel when Marco limps over to my door.
“Thanks,” he mumbles weakly, holding my discarded helmet up.
My line of sight slides up to his features as I snatch it and chuck it into the passenger seat. It takes all of my energy to unclench my jaw. “What the fuck did you do?”
He lets out a dry laugh and then a painful cough. “Got in way over my head with GC.” He’s quiet for a moment. I don’t have the patience to sit here and try to coax it out of him. I just want to get out of here. Leave this place a distant memory. “Never thought we’d end up here again, huh?”
I don’t crack a grin at his wry, self-deprecating comment. Between the both of us, Marco’s supposed to be the one who got his shit together. I’m the one who’d get into trouble with Giancarlo and the likes. But we had an unspoken agreement to avoid anything GC-related since the Walker incident, silently pledging to stay out of any trouble. Neither of us should be here tonight.
“I got caught counting cards,” Marco mutters, lacing his hands behind his head. He looks skyward, the tilt of his head allowing me to get a better glimpse of a dark bruise forming below his jaw.
“Need me to give you a ride?—”
“Nah, man,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. I spot his truck just then, and it’s hard to tell if its headlights have been bashed in or not from this far away. “I’m good. Thanks for?—”
“Don't thank me. You know why I did it,” I cut in, and he reluctantly spares me a nod. No doubt his pride is wounded.
“I owe ya one.” He pats the roof of my car before he steps back. “See ya later, man.”
He knows me well. We both know I don’t want to be around here any longer. There’s no point in standing around, shooting the breeze.
With a terse nod, I slam the door shut and take off. People have the good sense to scramble out of my way, so that I can peel down the street and put this fucking night behind me.
I don’t like to go home when I’m in a foul mood. Usually, I prefer driving, cruising down the empty highways and their winding paths, and letting the scenery unravel my brain until the tension is gone from my body.
Tonight, I’m too raw with anger. Not about Giancarlo. I’m pissed over the stupid stunt Wally and his idiot friends pulled. Nobody in their right mind would ever do something that fucking risky. It ain’t fucking worth it.
Not when death is always in the cards. Death is final. Undiscriminating. You can’t walk away from it. We’re lucky tonight didn’t end with our cars crumpled like soda cans and our bodies crammed in body bags.
A harsh exhalation breaks free, and I glare ahead. Sticking to the side streets, I drive until I hit this shitty hole-in-the-wall venue where the bar doesn’t even check for IDs. There’s a tight spot by the front, one I skillfully swing into in an impressive few seconds.
“What?” I gripe irritably when it occurs to me I’ve got an audience. Pedestrians on the sidewalk continue to gawk at me while I climb out of my vehicle. “You’ve never seen someone parallel park before? Ain’t that fucking hard.”
Since the ticket booth is closed for the night, I toss a hundred-dollar bill at the bouncer, storm inside the venue, and regret my decision to come here immediately.
It ain’t aggressive rock tonight. Whatever is assaulting my ears sounds pitifully indie as the lead singer crows into the mic with a whiny, nasally voice.
It’s not the music I want to get hammered to, but I’m too heated to care.
I snake through the crowd formed at the bar, slamming another hundred-dollar bill down on the counter to catch the bartender’s attention.
“ Dane ?” comes a soft whisper.
Instinctively, my spine goes ramrod straight. Muscles tense, I turn my head to my right and find myself looking into a pair of dark brown eyes.
My little savior. What are the odds?
“What happened to your eye?” she gasps, her hand flying to her chest, the abrupt movement drawing my attention to her nice rack.
“Got into an altercation,” I say, carefully choosing my words. My father would be proud of me for that.
She flags the bartender. “Can we get some ice?”
“I don’t need?—”
A plastic cup of ice slides our way.
“Beer,” I demand, pushing the bill toward him. “Keep it coming.”
From the corner of my good eye, I see her reaching for the cup of ice.
“What are you doing?” I ask when I see her dump trail mix out of some Ziploc she takes out of her purse.
“You need to ice it,” she whispers, pouring the ice cubes into the plastic bag and zipping it up.
“I don't—” She doesn’t give me a chance to finish my sentence, already rising on her toes to press the bag against my cheek. “I can do it,” I say irritably, taking it from her hand.
“Okay.” Thankfully, she lets go, scooping the mess of trail mix off of the counter. She rushes over to the nearby trash bin and returns with that look of worry I’ve seen before on her face.
Exhaling deeply, I readjust the ice, pressing it firmly against my eye. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on a date with Caleb.”
That explains the tight white sweater and the pale blue miniskirt she’s wearing. Even her long hair has a curl to it. She’s practically beaming as she rocks on her feet, radiating pure sunshine in this dark venue. That is until her gaze goes to my eye again, and her smile falters.
Since she’s the one person I don’t want to tell off for looking at me, I decide to make nice. “Where’s your date?”
She lets out a soft exhale. “He went to the restroom, so it’s just me by myself right now.”
“You like this kind of music?” I ask incredulously, and the singer’s voice cracks just then. He can't sing for shit, but he’s got impeccable timing, I’ll give him that.
She makes a face, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “Well, um, no. Caleb likes them, so I thought I’d give them a shot.”
“Damn, you must truly like him if you’re willing to torture yourself with this.” I point at her. “Or you’re secretly a masochist.”
“I’m not a masochist,” she huffs, her attention going to the counter when the bartender slides a couple bottles of beer my way.
“You want one?” I put the bag of ice down.
Her nose crinkles. “No.”
“Get the lady whatever she wants, then,” I say, slapping another bill onto the counter.
“I’m fine.” With a painted-blue fingernail, she slides it back toward me, and I can see the bartender’s gaze wistfully following the hundred. She pulls out her credit card instead, and there’s a hint of honey in her voice as she asks, “Can I get a root beer soda?”
“Goody two-shoes,” I tease.
She shakes her head but doesn’t respond. When I glance over, I catch her peering directly at my eye, a small crease forming between her eyebrows.
“It’s rude to stare,” I grumble. “You know that, right?”
“What happened?” she asks, ignoring my comment.
“Some fucker punched me.”
She winces. “I see.”
“He didn’t get away unscathed,” I add, before I take a huge swig of beer. Then another.
“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” she says softly.
“You are obsessed with my well-being,” I snark.
She visibly stiffens, a wounded look flashing in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, feeling shittier than usual. I guess my gut has decided it doesn’t like it when I hurt her feelings. “I’ll get some appetizers if that will make your highness feel better.”
She rolls her eyes at me and sighs, reluctantly nodding a beat later. I order a side of chili fries at her behest and let the bartender keep the change.
With an arched brow, I dryly ask, “Happy?”
I’m met with a closed-lip hint of a smile. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. Faintly curling the corners of her lips. I’ll take that over the wounded puppy-dog look any day.
“Much.” She grabs her soda and peeks over her shoulder, perking up immediately. “Oh, I see him.”
“Have fun on your date,” I tell her, grimacing when the lead singer’s voice cracks again. “Don’t buy a CD tonight.”
“Um, sure,” she whispers back to me. “Don’t drive home drunk.”
“I’ll call an Uber this time,” I promise her, and a ripple of surprise surges through me when her shoulders sag with relief. “Aw, you care about me.”
“I don’t want to find out later that you died,” she says.
I scoff. “I know better than that.”
The expression flickering across her face lets me know she doesn’t believe me. I don’t know why that gets to me, but it does.
“Bye, Dane,” she whispers.
“Bye—” Huh. I only now realize I have no clue what her name is. I have her saved as Little Savior on my phone, which I need to rectify. “What’s your name again?”
She hesitates for a brief moment, and I swear, I see genuine reservation gather behind her eyes. It’s not as if I asked her for her social security number and bank information. “Reese,” she tells me. “Reese Vann.”
“Reese,” I repeat. “Fun Sized Re?—”
“ No .” She levels me with a murderous glare. I almost crack a grin. It’s probably for the best that I didn’t. My face stings like a motherfucker. There’s no reason to hurt it even more. “I know what my favor is. Don’t call me that. Never call me that.”
“What about Reese’s Pieces?”
“Or that.”
“Mini Reese’s?”
“I think they’re called Reese’s Minis? Still.” She points at me with a stern frown. “ No .”
“Goodbye—” I fish my phone out of my pocket and unlock it.
“Bye,” she replies curtly.
“—Reese’s Big Cups.” I look up from the search results on my screen, blinking innocently.
Her face is beet red; her neck is twice as flushed. “I will steal your keys and run you over with your very own car if you ever call me any of these nicknames again,” Reese threatens me. She’s adorable. “ Especially that one .”
I cackle loudly, despite my busted face aching and all. This is the same girl having trouble telling that guy she likes him? Truly adorable. “Have fun on your date.”
She squints her eyes, clearly bracing for what I have to say next.
“ Reese .” I flash a half-smirk at her.
She stares at me for one quick beat before she flounces back to her date with shit taste in music.
I wait until she’s halfway through the crowd before I send her a text. She halts, checks her phone, and spins around to glare at me.
I don’t even have to be close to her to know she’s definitely red all over.
Reese: Stop it
I send the same text again because I’m having too much fun at her expense.
Dane: Reese’s stuffed with Caleb’s pieces
Reese: I’m blocking your number
Dane: I’ll shout it from here
Reese: Please don’t
Dane: fine
Dane: have fun
Dane: being stuffed
Reese: Shut up
I watch her hastily shove her phone into her purse, sparing me one final glare before she returns to her date.
I know when to rein it in. The girl should be able to enjoy her date, shitty music and all. I return my attention to the chili fries set in front of me, snickering to myself as I dig into the greasy food.