Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Festering—like the sour scent of old fuel and years of burnt motor oil.
That’s the only way I can explain the past sixteen hours.
I took my shower after scarfing down mom’s food that lost its flavor between my breakdown and stepping under the spray.
Sleeping was a fool’s errand, I tossed and turned, replaying the entire night in my mind.
Emmett and the job, the police chase, Fuentes, Gene, Ivy—it’s all so fucking heavy.
When I woke up around eleven, I got dressed and left.
There was nowhere else to go, or things to do.
I needed the fresh air and let go of what wasn’t currently serving me.
I’m not blaming Nadia by any means but the shit that always seems to follow her around is draining without my own to add to it.
There’s no understanding how tiresome this life has been for her and what’s worse is there are people who have lived through more unimaginable things.
While I’ve never been super religious, despite coming from a Catholic background, I can’t help but ask the age old question of ‘why’.
Why do bad things happen to good people?
Why does the church continue to say God gives his hardest struggles to his strongest soldiers?
It’s ass backwards–give the hard shit to the bad apples.
Why does he continue to torment the people who only want to live their lives in peace and just be?
All it’s doing is setting them up for failure—depression, anxiety, ideation—and that’s heartbreaking enough.
I’m angry, bone deep, soul shaking, angry, and I have no idea how to cope with it.
Other than a few hiccups in my early years, I was never taught how to deal with these types of emotions.
Love and appreciation are completely different—my mom made sure I was mature in that sense.
She raised me into being a man who would value vulnerability, yet with all her love and support, anger management wasn’t on the curriculum.
That would have been something I learned from my old man but that’s not a story I want to tell.
All I have is Uncle Ren who leads with hatred and narcissism which is the reason we fight—we are opposites and volatile. The last thing I want to do is heed words of advice from a man who detests his own family and heritage.
The plan for today is to get the car ready: tire rotation, air check, NOS replenish, system checks, safety inspections, equipment inventory, the full gauntlet.
She needs to be in tip top shape for this race, I have an impression to make and a career to bag before leaving this shit hole with my girl.
Tucked away in the garage at Wes’s parents, the hood is up with Zap under it, his computer plugged into the modules looking for any bugs or odd codes the car may be throwing.
At the back, Wes is finishing up with the tires while I roll the NOS canister on its edge across the concrete slab floor.
Once he squeezes out from under the back, he eases the jack down and pulls it free from the frame, the metal wheels creaking and clanking from too many years of being pinned between thousands of pounds and the unforgiving ground.
The Doors are whining in the background, pouring through speakers with the ambient sound of rain on the same track–Riders on the Storm–it’s almost fitting but it keeps me in the zone; averting my impending spiral into the abyss of anger.
This is the shit I can drive to late at night when it’s just me and my thoughts.
There are a few other tracks that have a similar effect on me and I plan to hunt for them on the radio when I finish up with the race and take my victory drive.
Listen to me, getting ahead of myself. That’s alright, I’m ready for this.
I’ve been training and burning through all of my finances to make sure that when I compete, Delinquent and I show up loud and perform perfectly.
Today is the day. I’m landing a sponsorship before the end of the night, I’ve even conceded to attending church with my ma, then Monday I’m seeing Nadia again.
It’s all falling perfectly into place and I couldn’t be happier—if it wasn’t for the anger crawling beneath my skin, which reminds me…
“Hey, y’all finish up with what you’re working on and let’s grab a burger before we have to head to the track.”
“Fucking hell, thought you’d never ask.” Wes groans, immediately putting his tools away and wiping his hands off on a red grease rag.
He’s at the sink scooping a glob of Mean Green hand scrub onto his palm, quickly scrubbing it up to his elbows.
“I’ve been thinking about that place right outside of town for days.
They have this double bacon burger with a fried egg and hash browns on top.
Best of both worlds if you ask me, breakfast and lunch in one go. ”
“That does sound good.” Zap adds his two cents, setting his laptop aside then shutting the hood with a hard thump. “She’s good to go, Rey. Tune up completed, all codes have been assessed and fixed. Did you get the NOS loaded?”
“Finishing up right now.” I answer, screwing the refill hose to the connection.
Twisting the valve on my canister, I switch to the other, twist the red crank and listen.
The low hiss becomes much louder when one of them shuts off the radio and grabs their things.
There’s not much left to do other than drive and get a feel for the dynamics again—which won’t take a lot since Delinquent is an extension of myself.
I know her from inside and out. I can sense when something isn’t quite right, when a lug nut’s too loose, the RPM’s shoot up too high too fast, even when the air conditioning is taking too long to cool down.
She is me and I am her, we are a singular unit; a fast as hell, mean ass one at that.
Once the reservoir is full, I detach the canister and roll it back to the storage space, chaining it into place to keep it from getting knocked around or damaged. Grabbing my tool bag, it’s loaded into the basket I keep bolted down in the trunk where Nadia got the turpentine from.
I drop into the driver seat, immediately melting. This is my pilot's chair, my throne, my favorite recliner I’m ready to fall asleep in at the end of a hard day's work. Reverently, I run my hands over the steering wheel, the hard leather smooth under my calloused grip.
I’m ready, we’re ready.
Cranking the car, she hums loud in the garage.
Music blasts, delivering bass directly to my sternum vibrating and warring for dominance over the pattering of my heart.
Shifting her into gear, she crawls out of the open door and down the driveway where her rumble intensifies off the trees lining both sides of the outlet.
“She sounds fucking amazing, what did you do to her?”
“Tweaked the idle and exhaust output. Thought you might like it.” Zap replies, shifting in his seat as I praise his work–guy has a kink he refuses to talk about.
“That slight pull to the right is gone too, Wes. Appreciate it.”
“No problem man. She had some slight pressure differences and needed a quick balance but she’s good to go, shouldn’t experience any issues on the track,” he replies.
I can’t wait to open her up, feel the power she holds beneath us; we’re going to be glorious on the track.
Pulling onto the main road of the neighborhood, middle-class cars sit on both sides of the road as kids play in the front yards we drive by.
Some of them look up then return back to their innocent play while others watch as we roll by.
Those kids? They will remember this day, they will grow up and build model toy cars that look like mine.
Then the ones they have tucked away in their toy boxes will get to drive across every surface in their home–all while dreaming of having their own life changing race one day. I hope they get it.
Fifteen minutes later Wes crowds Zap on their side of the booth, nudging each other’s elbows trying to gain more table space.
Fuckers already know what they want, but I keep coming back to the steak burger.
It’s got extra cheese and two patties with added sausage, slathered with miracle whip, mustard, pickles, onions, and dripping with grease.
On the side sits a huge mound of shoestring fries, cooked to perfection, crispy outside and soft inside, salted the way I like them, and a big bowl of ranch to dip them into.
Between bites, I tend to a few texts on my phone.
One says I’m almost about to run out of text-minutes which I ignore, others are quick good luck messages, and one where I’m conducting business.
Emmett has been blowing me up all day, asking for another distraction, but I’m too busy to worry.
He slips a question about Nadia in there and I force myself to ignore it.
I told him what I needed and if this partnership is ever going to unfold, then he will need to follow through—I’ve done my good faith, it’s his turn.
One can only hope he doesn’t blow me off.
“Bro, move the fuck over with your bony-ass elbows!” Wes bites out, Zap nearly hooks him in the face with it instead of moving. “I’m trying to eat here.”
“I wouldn’t have to push you if you wouldn’t eat like a rabid dog. Slow down and chew, damn Hoover vacuum.”
We all chuckle at that, sometimes he has good comebacks, other times it’s as awkward as a baby giraffe trying to run. I smirk, both of my elbows braced comfortably on the table with all the free room in the world to move around, as I point a ranch coated fry at Wes.
“He has a point, should slow down before you choke on something. Unless you’ve managed to improve your gag reflexes when you were in jail.”
“You’re not fucking funny.” He swallows and glares at me. “What’s the plan today? We get there, watch you kick ass, come back to my parents and get drunk?”