Carter #2
"I think you’re a distraction I can’t afford," he spat, his eyes blown wide, dark and unsteady. "And I think you’re looking for a reason to ruin me before I can ruin myself. Well, find a different target. I’m not giving you the satisfaction of being the one to turn out the lights."
The air between us curdled. Whatever small moment had existed when he touched me earlier was now incinerated. I looked at him—really looked at him—and realized he was so busy building a fortress that he hadn't noticed he was the only one trapped inside it.
"You're right," I said, my voice dropping to a razor-thin noise. "We aren't friends. Friends actually trust each other to be human. You? You're just a machine with a broken part, and honestly, I'm bored trying to understand it enough to fix it."
I saw his shoulders pull rigid, tendons standing out in his neck as his eyes flickered like a guttering candle.
For a second, the armor slipped, and I saw a flash of raw, panicked emptiness—the look of someone who had finally pushed everyone far enough away to realize how cold the dark actually was.
"Fix me?" Dominic’s voice came out low, raspy, and laced with a sudden, ugly venom.
"That’s the problem with people like you.
You hang around the edges of a life you claim to hate, just hoping someone will notice you enough to let you play doctor.
Don't flatter yourself. You aren't my savior; you're just the latest person I used to kill some time.
I don't need fixing—I just need you to get out of my eye line. "
I went still. The air between us felt heavy, thick with the grit of the sand and the stench of his pride. I didn't give him a scream or a slap. I just looked at him, letting my eyes sweep over him like he was something small and insignificant I’d found on the bottom of my shoe.
"Don't worry," I said, my voice flat and devoid of any warmth. "I’m done trying to find a heartbeat in a polished facade. Enjoy your reflection, Dominic. I’m sure the view is exactly as empty as you are."
I didn't run. I didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me worked up. I simply turned my back on him and walked toward the roar of the engines and the smell of high-octane fuel. Every step was deliberate, sinking into the sand and pushing off with a finality that made my lungs feel lighter.
Before I even realized what was happening, the world was reduced to the view through a visor. I needed the noise. I needed something that did exactly what I told it to do.
I was strapped into the seat of my rig, the engine beneath me a violent, shaking beast. My helmet felt heavy, my breathing loud and rhythmic inside the padding. I sat at the staging line, my heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for the signal.
I don't know why I looked over to my left. Maybe it was the sudden silence from my seat, or the way the crowd shifted.
The person holding the clipboard pointed a finger directly at my rig, then back at the guy in front of him.
Standing there, bathed in the harsh, yellow glare of the floodlights, was Dominic.
His face was pure, unadulterated rage—a red-misted stare that should have made me flinch.
I’d told the bookie the track’s favorite disaster—the Formula One driver who can’t seem to stay out of my existence—would be covering my buy-in.
A parting gift. A petty little tax for privilege of being exactly who he is.
I watched him pull out a thick roll of bills, shoving the money into the guy's hand with a violence that made him stumble back.
Dominic didn't even count it. He didn't look at the cash, and he certainly didn't look at him.
His eyes were locked on mine through the glass of my windshield, burning like it could melt the visor right off my head.
He wasn’t just paying my way. With his free hand, he reached down and snatched a loaner helmet off the bench, his knuckles stark as he gripped the casing.
He was buying a spot on the line.
I felt a surge of adrenaline that tasted like copper. I lifted my hand, giving him a slow, mocking finger wave before curling them down and leaving the middle one standing tall.
Fine, whatever, I thought, my pulse slamming a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I gripped the wheel. I didn't care if he was there. I didn't care if he was angry. If he wanted to chase me into the surf, he could damn well try.
I turned my attention back to the dark expanse of the shoreline, the engine’s roar drowning out everything else. If he wanted a fight, we’d finish it on the sand.
Someone with a flashlight stepped into the center of the lane, as he waved me forward. I crawled to the starting line, the tires of my vehicle digging into the damp, packed sand.
I glanced to my left, expecting to see the usual mix of young adults and local thrill-seekers. Instead, there was only one other vehicle.
The rig idling beside me was just as battered and salt-crusted as mine—a heavy-duty vehicle that looked like it had spent the last decade being beaten by the tide.
But even under the layers of dried mud and rust, the vehicle sat with a certain predatory stillness.
I didn't need to see the driver to know who it was. The sheer arrogance of the idle gave it away—the way he kept the revs perfectly steady, waiting for the bite. I wondered for a split second if he’d peeled off a few extra hundred to clear the field, paying the guy to keep the other racers back just so he could get me alone on the sand.
Never mind. I didn't care.
I gripped the wheel, my fingers finding the familiar grooves. I stared ahead into the black expanse where the shoreline met the sky, the only markers being the distant, rhythmic white of the breaking surf.
The official raised the flag high. The world narrowed until all that existed was the dim light on my dash and the dark horizon.
The flag dropped, and the roar was instantaneous.
I slammed the pedal, the force pinning me back as my vehicle fishtailed, tires screaming for purchase in the loose, dry powder of the upper shelf.
Beside me, Dominic was a blur of speed and aggression.
He didn't spin; he launched. His rig hit the sand with the kind of clinical efficiency you only see on a starting grid, his gear shifts so crisp they sounded like cracks of a whip.
I shifted, the vibration of the gearbox humming up through my spine as I fought to close the gap. He was driving with a reckless precision that made my heart skip—he wasn't just racing; he was hunting.
The first turn came up fast—a sharp, banked curve where the dunes dropped toward the wet shoreline.
I didn't brake. I threw the weight of the vehicle, the back end sliding out in a spray of salt and grit. I steered into the skid, muscles locking to hold the line, but Dominic was already there. He’d taken the turn with terrifying speed, his fenders inches from mine.
He was forcing me wide, using his car to squeeze my lane, his engine practically radiating through my door.
We hit the flat, wet sand of the low tide, and the real chess match began.
He was using F1 lines—perfect, geometric arcs that maximized every inch of momentum.
But this wasn't asphalt. I watched him hit a patch of washboard sand that made his rear suspension bounce, a tiny opening I’d been waiting for.
I jerked the wheel, diving into the spray of his wake, using the slipstream of his own speed to pull myself alongside him.