Chapter 13
ERICA
Ishould change. I knew it before the Uber driver dropped me off at the garage. But I don’t. I’m mad that Reed interrupted the fun I was having with Brody and pissed at the cock block. So a small piece of me wants to irritate the fuck out of Reed in return.
Petty? Yes, admittedly so. Am I doing it anyway? Also, yes.
So I climb up in the tow truck, knowing that Reed will have to do all the work of hooking up his car while I stay in the relative comfort of the driver’s seat.
Serves him right. I’m not a monster. I don’t typically blame folks when their vehicles break down.
Like I told Brody, sometimes it’s just bad luck, or maybe maintenance snuck up on them and they couldn’t afford it, or a laundry list of reasons a piece of machinery might stop working unexpectedly.
But Brody is right . . . a mechanic shouldn’t break down. It’s bad for business.
I pull up to the lot where Reed told me he was parked to find him sitting on the hood of the Camaro he overhauled himself, leaning back against the windshield and staring at the stars. He looks lost in thought, small against the big blackness of the night surrounding him.
My petty anger dissolves. If it were me, he’d rescue me without a second thought.
I should afford him the same, especially since we’re friends.
Also, maybe partially because we have so much history.
I know I hurt him when I left, more than I thought I would.
But I shouldn’t have to keep apologizing for wanting to actually live my life according to my own dreams and wishes.
Stupid, eighteen-year-old me hadn’t had words for that and had immaturely bolted, but I’ve tried to man up and explain since then.
Reed doesn’t want to hear it. But at the minimum, I should pick him up in his time of need without being a bitch about it.
“Find anything new up there?” I ask, pointing to the sky.
A smile blooms on Reed’s face. When I was too young to know any better, I used to love that smile, but now it makes my stomach turn to stone with sorrow.
In a way, I wish I could just change, want what Dad and Reed want too.
It’d make everything so much easier if I simply settled into the life they designed for me.
It wouldn’t even be a bad life. Reed’s a great guy, after all. He just isn’t The One.
Shit, I sound like Emily.
But as much as I goad her about finding Mr. Right on every corner, I know there really is someone out there for everyone. I’ve seen it with Mom and Dad. And I won’t settle for less than that. And less-than is what Reed and I had.
I’m not looking for more-than, though, not right now, except with the garage.
“Nah, just searching for shooting stars and contemplating life.”
I nod, not wanting to open that door to deeper conversations.
“Let me get in position so you can hook it up.” I let off the brake, pulling forward and shifting in front of the Camaro.
I back up, quick and efficient, getting aligned, and then I can hear the chains rattling as Reed gets everything set.
It’s a rule that you don’t tow something you don’t check yourself, but I’m breaking that rule tonight because I’m not getting out until we’re back at the garage.
The passenger door opens, the overhead light coming on and illuminating me. Reed stops halfway into the truck, one leg in and one leg out as he scans me from head to toe. I see his nostrils flare and his jaw clench. “Shit. Didn’t mean to interrupt a date, Rix. Sorry.”
He’s not sorry. He’s pissed as fuck.
“Didn’t mean to rub your nose in it. Sorry.”
I’m not sorry either. Not really.
It hurts him, I know it does, and I am sorry for that.
But maybe seeing me dating and fucking other people will help him to finally move on.
I know he hasn’t been just waiting on me either.
He’s dated and fucked around, even bringing one girl to the garage a few times.
But it’d seemed more like an attempt at making me jealous than a show of being over me.
He deserves more. He should have a woman who wants him the way he wants her. And that’s not me.
“Tannen?” he asks, climbing in and buckling up. His voice is tight, strangled in his throat.
I level him with a stare. “You wanna do this?”
That shuts him up, and the rest of the trip to the garage is silent. We get the Camaro into bay two and park the tow truck.
“Take my truck home if you want. You can work on the Camaro tomorrow or Monday, whatever you want.” The dismissal is a kindness because I know he wants to get away from me right now.
“Yeah, I’ll come by tomorrow so I can see what’s wrong. Think I popped a belt, but it was too dark to tell out there.” He grabs the keys to the garage truck out of the desk drawer and is gone without a look back.
Until he gets in the truck. He watches to make sure I lock up, mostly because he’s a good guy and wants to be sure I’m safe. But deep inside, I know he’s checking to see if I’m going back out, going back to Brody.
I don’t answer the question in his eyes one way or the other, but I lower the overhead door, lock up, and turn off the light. I don’t need it to get across the garage I know like the back of my hand.
Three days.
Reed is giving me the silent treatment. Manuel is walking around on eggshells because of the tension at the garage. And Brody is ass-deep in work, splitting time between cattle care with Mark and crop work with Brutal and Bobby.
I’m not even entirely sure what all that entails, even though he told me. But dirt quality and growing seasons, calf weights and contracts? It’s like he’s speaking a different language, but the final result is that he’s so tired at the end of the day, he keeps falling asleep on me.
And I don’t mean literally on me, unfortunately, but rather after a few texts, he apologizes for being boring company and zonks out. At this point, I’m eating cheeseburgers with layers of tomatoes and lettuce in protest for the cows and crops getting all the attention from Brody that I want myself.
It shouldn’t be like this. That’s part of the deal of keeping things casual. I shouldn’t miss him after a few days.
But I do.
I miss that intense way he looks at me, like he’s thinking of filthy things to do with me.
I miss the peek at his humor that he’s stingy about sharing with most people but not with me.
I miss the rumble in his chest when he says my name.
I miss feeling like I’m enough when I’m in his arms and the sole owner of his attention.
Not that I’m sitting around pining like some sappy-sentimental bitch, though. That’s definitely not my style. I’ve been working after hours on a special project of my own.
The roar of the engine doesn’t purr as it breaks the quiet of the garage. It growls, blub-blub-blubbing as it fights to idle because it was designed for speed.
My 1984 Ford Mustang GT.
Once upon a time, it was probably some douchebag’s version of a gas-guzzling, poor man’s sportscar to get to and from work. But it ended up in the junkyard, where it was waiting patiently for me to rescue it. I found it a couple of months after getting home.
I’ve worked on every bolt and bit of it now, customizing it for myself. That’s not to say it’s pretty. No, it’s not a trailer queen hot rod that never touches actual asphalt. But it doesn’t have to look pretty to go fast.
It’s got some of its original navy paint, but mostly, it’s washed out to gray and rust since I’m saving paint for last. The original seats have been replaced with five-point harness racing seats, and under the hood has been gutted and replaced with a custom Frankenstein of my own design.
And fast is putting it mildly.
My baby is a screaming demon that begs to be let loose even when I put the pedal down, and I’m not shy about pushing it to the metal floorboard. I can hit 120 by the time I hit third gear on a straightaway.
I yank the cover off Foxy and pop the hood, tinkering here and there. But I’m restless, have been all day.
That’s probably why I called Emily earlier and invited her over for a sister night, with ideas about ice cream and popcorn—yes, in the same bowl.
Don’t knock it. Vanilla ice cream with the crunch of salty, buttered popcorn on top like sprinkles is divinity in a bowl.
But you gotta eat it fast so the popcorn doesn’t freeze.
It’s like racing but with food—who’ll win, you or the popcorn? Only the dentist bill will tell.
But she’d had plans with her friends. Oh, she’d invited me along, promising me a great time, and while I love my sister dearly, her friends are all just a bit much. So I opted out of it, even though it was my idea to hang out, with a ‘remembered’ engine checkup I needed to finish.
I look over the shiny chrome monster of an engine concealed by the rusty hood. Yep, engine check done. I already know I’m going out tonight so I might as well get gone.
I slam the hood, giving Foxy a pat. “In rust and Rix, we trust.” It’s my motto, a play on a common saying that probably needs work, not that it matters since it’s only between me and Foxy.
A quick opening of the bay door lets me get the car out, and while I should probably turn her off while I lock up, I don’t.
I love listening to the rumble, letting it wash over my skin and pull goosebumps to the surface.
The neighbors? Not so much. But it’s barely past seven, so I’m not breaking any laws. Yet.
I pull out of the lot, and as soon as my tires touch city road, technically, I’m illegal.
Foxy hasn’t seen the right side of an inspection in this century.
We won’t be confessing to the legalities of what’s under the hood, either.
Nothing’s hot—I’m always meticulously careful about that—but some of the imports under her hood do things the DMV doesn’t exactly approve of.
I keep it slow and safe through town, knowing exactly where I’m going.
The track’s closed, but there’s a spot outside town where people drag race and that’s where I head at a respectful, responsible speed, using my blinkers and everything.
I can’t get pulled over if I’m using my fucking signals to change lanes on a nearly empty road.
Once I get to The Mile, I drive it extra slow to check for any hazards.
The stretch of road is long, straight, and flat, lit with street lights even though the sun hasn’t fully set yet.
I swear whoever designed this road for the Department of Transportation had to be a racer him or herself because it’s damn near a perfect drag strip.
It’s all clear, and I line up at the north end.
I complete my own mental checklist—seatbelt clicked into place, black-faced gauges reading correctly, pedals unobstructed for quick presses, road clear as a bell as far as I can see.
Three, two, one . . .
I slam the clutch in and hit the gas at the same time, the engine jumping at the demand and meeting it joyfully.
A blink later, I switch to second, and as the engine whines, third.
I hold, contemplating fourth . . . fifth.
But I know I don’t have road space to hit those speeds and recover before the slight curve far ahead.
So I do the responsible thing and slow back down.
It might not seem responsible. Dad certainly doesn’t think so, or at least he doesn’t anymore. But I’m doing what I love in a way that considers all the risk factors and mitigates them as much as possible.
But tonight’s just for fun.
I pull a U-turn at the south end, lining back up and counting myself down again. And I’m off.
I listen to every nuance, feel every thrust of horsepower, knowing Foxy better than I know myself. Power at my fingertips, rumbling under my ass, all controlled by the press of a pedal. It’s everything.
I must make six or seven runs before I realize I’ve pressed my luck.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. Those cherries coming from the south side have got to be for me.
I’ll admit that I have one little moment of thinking ‘fuck it’ and seriously contemplate hitting the gas and getting out of here. I know Foxy can outrun a police cruiser. I’m wild enough to do it, too, but I’m not that stupid.
But still . . .
Shit. I am so busted.
Majorly busted.
Dad’s going to be so fucking pissed at me. I’m not even supposed to be racing anymore, but here I am, racing the sunset, racing my past, even racing myself.