I could make mistakes, I could try out new maneuvers, and I did it without the watchful eye of those I might be competing against. I also could fly in an even less-controlled manner than I usually drove.
Ron Gamble would probably have a fit. If he thought I was too uninhibited when I tried out for him—when I was actually holding back—well, he’d likely fire my ass if he saw me now.
Oddly, that just made me push harder.
I went to the back roads Trent and I drove a lot. I coasted up and down hills, powered around corners, and drifted around curves. After that, I hit up a couple straightaways and opened up the engine. The Fastback needed some work. I’d been driving her hard lately and hadn’t really babied the engine as much as usual. I’d been too busy.
After I spent a few hours on the asphalt, I drove across town to an auto parts shop to get some of the stuff I needed beneath the hood. I liked an auto parts store; it was what a bookstore was to a bookworm. I liked the smells, the crowded shelves, the chrome (oh yeah, the chrome). I even liked shooting the shit with the guys behind the counter. They all knew me by now. So we talked parts and sometimes they gave me deals or the inside scoop on new shit before it hit the shelves.
My hands were full when I stepped out onto the sidewalk and let the door swing shut behind me.
The sound of a smooth engine caught my attention, and I looked up. Lorhaven’s black Camaro slid into the parking spot right beside my Fastback.
Goody gumdrops.
As I was stepping off the sidewalk, his driver’s door popped open and the dyed blond head of Arrow emerged.
I was relieved it was him and not Lorhaven himself. In fact, I kinda liked this kid, even if he was a Justin Bieber lookalike and my rival’s kid brother.
I felt his eyes even though I didn’t look at him. “Hey, kid, give me a hand,” I called behind me as I went around to my trunk.
He appeared beside me, and I lifted one finger off the box in my hands and wiggled it so my keys would jingle. He took them and popped open the trunk.
“Thanks,” I grunted, piling in my stuff.
“That’s a lotta shit,” Arrow said, poking around in it all.
“Thank your brother for me. All that money I won at his last race sure has come in handy.”
“I’ll be sure to not pass on that message,” Arrow said pointedly, then turned to walk away.
“Loyalty, huh? I like that.”
He stopped between our two cars and turned. “He’s my brother.”
“Your brother teach you how to drive?”
Beneath the light-gray plain and oversized hoodie he wore, his shoulders shrugged. His jeans were tight yet still seemed to fall past his ass. How was that even possible? I guess it really shouldn’t matter because the sweatshirt and T-shirt beneath it hung so low it covered his boxer-clad ass.
At least I hoped it was boxers. Tightie whities would be fucking wrong.
Nobody needed to see that.
His tight yet too large jeans were ripped at the knees, but his shoes… his shoes were pristine. White high-tops of a very designer brand.
Kid had priorities I supposed.
“He shows me some stuff.”
I nodded and slammed the trunk, leaning a hip against the back end. “So you drive ‘cause he does, or is it something you love, too?”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s with the twenty questions?”
I held up my hands and pushed off my car. “Just making conversation. Contrary to what your brother says, I’m not that bad.”
I walked around the Mustang toward the driver’s side. I wanted to get home and get to work. The driving had been awesome; now I just needed some grease under my fingernails and I’d feel back on track. Besides, the sky was looking a little gray and moody. I wanted to get some work in before rain ruined it all.
“He doesn’t talk bad about you,” Arrow said.
I glanced over the roof; I know I looked surprised.
He smirked. “At least not to me.”
I respected a guy who didn’t teach his little brother to disrespect other people.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m almost twenty.”
A little older than I thought. I cocked my head to the side. “You not in college?”
He glanced away. “I don’t like school.”
Why did I feel like there was more to it than that? In fact, why did I suddenly feel like there was a lot more to Arrow than just bleach-blond hair and ill-fitting clothes?
“So you’re more like a free-range chicken.” I nodded.
“A what?” he echoed.
“You roam free. It’s what you do.” I finished.
He laughed. I think it was the first genuine laugh and maybe smile I’d seen from this kid.
“I don’t roam. I drive.”
I chuckled. “All right, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.” He half growled, the annoyance clear in his face. In fact, the way his eyes whipped up to me and flashed said a lot more than his words.
“All right, Arrow.” I put emphasis on his actual name. Seriously, though, was that his real name? “You doing anything right now? Wanna drive?”
“With you?” His voice took on a curious tone.
“Sure. How about a friendly race?”
“Friendly?” He scoffed.