Chapter 23 #2
I find an open spot about halfway along the road, backing in, then rushing around the car to open Saylor’s door for her.
I take her hand the minute her feet hit the gravel, and I don’t let go.
I won’t. Not until it comes time to race.
It may have been a few months since I’ve been here, but once a few familiar faces shine through the crowd, it’s as if I was here only days ago.
I introduce Saylor to Rodrigo and Gus, the guys who run the Friday night races and have for years.
They’re brothers from Maricopa, and they taught me and Mig all their secret recipes for making cars fast. Not everything they do under the hood is above board, and a lot of it is unsafe, but out here, they’re legit.
They’re here to build community. To turn young guys into them.
And given the way the sound of the cars roaring by jolts the blood in my veins, I’d say they’ve done their jobs.
“You racing tonight, Row?” Gus asks me, the white tufts of hair sticking out of the sides of his Phoenix Suns hat.
“No, not me. But she is.”
My gaze zips to Saylor, and she stiffens like a board. Her eyes flash wide and her mouth hangs open as she forces her head to shake.
“Don’t be scared. Nobody cares if you lose. It’s just for the rush. And besides . . .” I lean in, close to her ear. “You’ll have the best car out here.”
Her head swivels slowly until our eyes meet again, our noses almost touching. She’s positively panicked, but behind all that fear, I see the rush. That girl who likes to win will always be in there.
“Saylor Jayne Kelly. And here’s her license,” I say, holding out my hand for Saylor to hand it over.
A nervous laugh spills out of her quaking lips, but her fingers fumble with the zipper of her crossbody, and she manages to pull her license out for me. I hand it over, and Rodrigo pulls his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and jots down her number.
“Okay, sweetheart. Here’s the waiver,” he coughs out.
“Give him a pass,” I mutter to Saylor, noticing her hairs spike up at the sweetheart bit. “Rodrigo means well, and he’s called me sweetheart too once or twice.”
“Hmmm,” she groans, keeping her eyes on the sixty-year-old man who once launched a car in the air out on this very track simply because his brother bet him he couldn’t.
“You’re up in two. Good luck!” He hands Saylor her license, and I swing my arm around her shoulder, urging her stunned body to walk away.
“What are you doing?” She’s having a hard time zipping up her purse, so I halt us and do it for her.
“I’m showing you off. And I’m giving you something I think you need. Do you trust me?”
She shakes her head, but her mouth says, “Yes.”
“You’re so goddamn cute. Now come on, you’ve got time for a two-minute lesson.”
Once we get back to the car, I walk her through the ins and outs of the race.
It’s a straight line, a little more than a quarter mile, and there’s plenty of room to slow down at the finish line.
But the tricky part for her will be working the paddle shifters.
She’s used to automatic, and my car works both ways by design—my design.
“It’s going to sound strange, and you won’t think it’s ready, but once you punch the gas, start counting to three. Every time you hit three, shift.”
“How do you know it will be on time?” Her gaze is darting all around the dashboard. I tap on the odometer to focus her.
“This is all you need to worry about. Don’t let it get too high,” I say.
“Sure. Yeah, no problem. Don’t let that clock-looking thing get too high. Drive straight. And go fast. No problem.” She’s kidding, but I won’t let her psyche herself out.
“Basically, yeah. You got this. Now buckle up and go get in line behind that yellow Dodge.” I point to the cars getting ready at the spot where we drove in, then nudge her knee inside so I can close the door.
She holds it open with a stiff arm, though, and glares up at me with deer-in-headlight eyes.
“You’re not coming with me?”
I lean down and lift her chin, pressing my lips to hers.
“I’ll come with you later. Right now, I want to watch.”
I leave her stunned with the faint smile and the ball of nerves in her belly. Swimming has become so easy for her, it’s lost the thrill. If she’s going to have to endure it for four more years, she needs to find the joy in competing for herself again. Out here is as good a place as any.
I step away, leaving her with her own thoughts, forcing her to focus as she pulls out onto the strip and coasts to the starting line, where she flips a U and gets in line.
“That’s quite a woman you’ve got there,” a guy who looks about my age says as he pulls two beers out of a cooler in his trunk. He hands me one, and we both pop the caps off, then toast in the air.
“She sure is.”
I kick back with my new friend, Doug, both of our feet crossed as we lean against the hood of his Chevy Malibu.
We pass time talking about his goals for his engine, and before Saylor’s race starts, I give him one of my cards.
The second the lights on 007 flash down the straightaway, I’m done pitching my business. Now, I’m simply a fan.
The light goes from red to yellow, then green, and Saylor squeals the tires at the start, smoke billowing from my Camaro’s backend as she cuts down the pavement neck and neck with the Toyota Supra racing her.
The crowd is roaring as they would for any driver, but it feels especially loud for her.
Maybe I’m projecting, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s come halfway and is still right in the guy’s sightline.
I hear the slight change in my engine as she shifts, and she reaches the final gear right on time.
Nothing left but to hold her steady. And when she ends up losing by half a car length, I toss the rest of my beer and leap into the roadway like a fucking lunatic before sprinting to her and helping her stand on her shaking legs.
“I almost fucking won!” Her smile beams, and her eyes are full of honey and light.
Nothing left for me to do but tip her back in my arms and kiss her in front of hundreds of people. And that’s exactly what I do.