“Chili and cornbread sound good,” I responded while rubbernecking without shame, endeavoring to scope out our surroundings.
Duane was right. It wasn’t even 7:30 p.m. and things already looked a little crazy. I’d never been to The Canyon before, never seen one of the dirt races, never had an occasion to do so.
This wasn’t some country fair, wholesome dirt racing. This place felt dangerous, risky. The air smelled like various types of smoke—wood fire, charcoal, and engine oil—and would have been overwhelming in the hot, stagnant summer. But borne on the cool wind of late fall it was heady, but not overpowering.
I noticed a group of skinheads and their girls making out next to one of the bonfires—like, for real making out—black labeled bottles of bourbon lining their blanket. Two of the guys were arguing over one of the girls and tempers appeared close to snapping.
As well, I felt a little overdressed. And by overdressed I should say over-clothed. The night was mild, but it was still cold; yet every woman we passed was wearing either a miniskirt or leather pants, sometimes a leather miniskirt. And their tops showed more skin than my bathing suit.
“Not everyone is friendly,” Duane said, obviously noticing my gaping.
“Skinheads aren’t usually known for being friendly.” I pressed myself closer to Duane. He took the hint and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“The groups segregate themselves, don’t mix much, except on the track.”
“Which group is yours?” I glanced up at him, watched as his eyes narrowed and he twisted his mouth to the side.
“I don’t really have a group.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know just about all the racers—the ones who take it seriously—and we have a mutual respect thing going on. But I don’t usually associate with any one group.”
“A lone wolf?”
He smirked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Something like that.”
We passed several clusters of people, either gathered around one of the bonfires or lingering within a circle created by their cars. Several were calm, sedate, like they were tailgating at a football game. Others were rowdy like the skinheads—fighting, drinking, and screwing for everyone to see. I supposed everyone had a different idea of what constituted a good time.
As well, every age was represented and, seemingly, several socioeconomic strata. I saw Corvettes next to souped-up Honda Civics; a rusted-out Nissan truck parked beside a brand new Acura. Some of the groups looked like they were my age or younger—college and high school kids—and several seemed to be at least twenty or thirty years my senior. And some groups were mixed.
After assessing the crowd, the first thing I noticed was that The Canyon wasn’t really a canyon. The Canyon was an abandoned mine.
Street racing was obviously illegal, as it was almost everywhere. Racing at The Canyon, though not technically sanctioned by local law enforcement, wasn’t an arrestable offense. Betting on the races, however, was illegal. But I’d heard rumors that betting was rampant and thousands of dollars exchanged hands every weekend; the race winners supposedly went home with a big cut.
We eventually approached two giant Dodge trucks with grills and tables set up just in front of the truck beds. We stood in a line of about twenty or thirty people, all waiting to grab food. The man in front of us glanced over his shoulder, his eyes moved down then up my body. I scowled at his blatant leering.
“Keep your eyes to yourself, Devon,” Duane growled, his arm turning me so I was pressed against his side.
The man’s attention shifted to Duane. Then his eyes grew large and he turned completely around, a big smile on his face.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks.” He reached for and grabbed Duane’s hand, shaking it with enthusiasm. “Wait ’til I tell the boys you’re here.”
I studied this Devon person as he smiled at Duane with something like worship. He was about my age, maybe a bit older, and wore a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and boots. He was obviously part of some biker club, but I didn’t recognize the emblem on his chest.
“Let me buy you and your lady dinner.”
“No thanks, I got it.”
Devon’s dark brown eyes glanced at me, then back to Duane, and he lifted his dark eyebrows. I heard Duane sigh.
“Jess, this is Devon St. Cloud—or just Saint if you prefer to use his club name. Devon, this is Jess.” Duane made the introductions reluctantly, like his good manners required it.
Devon’s big brown hand enveloped mine as he gushed, “Your old man is the best. The best. Ain’t nobody race like Red. We used to race Humvees around dirt tracks in Afghanistan, when I was stationed there, and I thought those guys were crazy. But nobody compares to Red.”
I couldn’t help my smile, liking Devon a bit more now he was praising my old man. Plus I liked that his biker name was Saint.