Carter #3
For a hundred yards, we were locked. Door to door.
Every time I gained an inch, the roar of his engine surged, his front tire hovering right at the edge of my peripheral vision.
He’d look for a way to cut me off, and I’d counter, feinting toward the surf before snapping back to the harder pack.
It was a dance of weight and torque, skill versus raw, unyielding instinct.
The wind shrieked past the windshield, a chaotic howl that drowned out everything but the frantic thud of my own pulse. I saw him pull ahead by half a length, his taillights mocking me. He thought he had it. He was driving like he could out-muscle the ocean itself.
He knew the shoreline, but he was driving like he owned the tide. He was too blinded by the red mist of the chase to see where the shelf dropped off, turning the packed sand into a graveyard of heavy machinery.
Ahead, the beach turned dark and deceptively smooth where a tidal pool had drained, hiding a sudden ledge beneath the silt.
I saw Dominic’s brake lights flicker for a millisecond—a reflex from someone used to avoiding imperfections.
But on this sand, weight-transfer was a death sentence. In that second, he lost.
I didn't flinch. I shifted down, letting the engine scream, and aimed right for the center of the soft patch.
The rig bucked, the steering wheel jerking violently in my hands, trying to rip itself out of my grip as the sand tried to swallow my tires.
I kept my foot floored, heart in my throat, feeling the suspension bottom out with a bone-shaking thud.
Then came the surge.
I hit the hard-packed grit on the other side and the rig launched like it had been shot out of a cannon. I surged past him, the sudden, weightless gain of speed leaving him a blur in my rearview.
The finish line was a pair of flickering headlights not far off. I didn't look back. I didn't look at his headlights. I just watched the distance grow larger until I crossed between the orange glows, the engine screaming in one final, triumphant note that echoed off the area.
My foot let off the gas, the vehicle slowing as I coasted into the dead stretch beyond the dunes. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal and the distant, heavy crash of the ocean.
I’d won.
I yanked my helmet off, my hair sticking to my damp forehead as I sucked in the night.
To my left, the other vehicle had skidded to a halt, kicking up a final, defiant cloud of grit.
I expected a confrontation—I expected him to come over and demand a rematch or finish the fight we’d started by the bathroom.
Instead, the door to his rig swung open and Dominic stepped out.
He didn't look at me. He didn't even glance toward the spectators lining the edge of the path. He simply turned and started walking away into the dark, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight as he headed toward the dunes. He looked solitary, like the beach had rejected him and he hadn’t bothered to argue.
"Unbelievable! Carter!"
Luka’s voice cut through the surf, loud and full of a genuine, infectious energy. I looked over to see him jogging toward me, waving his arms, a massive grin on his face. He didn't look like someone who’d been ditched; he looked like he’d just watched a masterclass.
"I thought you went to wash your face, not put on a clinic for the locals," Luka said, leaning his arms on the window frame.
He was smiling, but there was a tension around his mouth that hadn't been there before.
"That last line you took through the soft pack?
I thought for sure you were going to roll it. That was incredible."
"You're not mad?" I asked, my voice still breathless from the adrenaline.
"Mad?" Luka’s laugh was short. "I got a front-row seat to you smoking a professional. I should be taking notes. Though, I think I owe my brother an apology—I didn't realize he was that desperate for a workout tonight."
I looked at him, trying to let his energy ground me, but my focus kept drifting back to the dunes his brother disappeared behind. Luka was still talking, but the silence Dominic had left was the only thing I could actually hear.
I’d won. I had the victory and the satisfaction of seeing his headlights disappear in my mirror. But as I watched Luka—steady and uncomplicated—the ache in my chest only widened.
Dominic had been right. We weren't friends. I’d spat the agreeance back at him like a curse, matching his venom with my own just to see if I could make him hurt. I’d wanted to win the argument.
So why did saying it feel like I was the one losing blood? Why did the truth feel like such a lie the moment it left my mouth?
I leaned my head back against the seat, the adrenaline fading into a dull, heavy throb behind my eyes. I’d spent the last several minutes trying to prove I didn't care, that he was just another driver on a different line. But as I sat here, I realized the win didn't taste like I thought it would.
I didn't want to love him, and I certainly didn't want to save him. I just didn't understand why, out of everyone on this beach, the one person I couldn't stand was the only one who could make the world feel quiet enough to breathe.
I had the trophy, but as I looked at the empty dunes, all I felt was the cold.