I felt my face crack into a smile. “Yeah, as in we won’t run each other off the road and I won’t take your money when I leave you in my dust.”
Arrow sneered. “I’m not that easy to beat.”
“Why do you think I’m asking you to ride?” I lifted a brow. “No one likes an easy win.”
Truth was the kid—I mean Arrow—was a good driver. I wouldn’t necessarily say beating him would be easy, but I’d be surprised if I lost. He just needed some practice and a couple more years.
“Where?” He lifted his chin.
I grinned. “Your turf. You pick the road, and I’ll follow.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”
I smacked the top of my Mustang. “Oh, hey, not downtown.”
“Why?” He glanced over his shoulder curiously.
“‘Cause I’m supposed to be at work right now.”
“You a free-range chicken, too?” he cracked.
“Just on days I’m sick.” I made a bogus coughing sound.
He tossed back the long hair falling over the side of his head and laughed. “Let’s go.”
I followed him… Okay, I rode his ass a few miles away to what looked like an old airstrip that wasn’t used much anymore. There was a chain-link fence around the wide, open area, and as we drove closer, I could see the long tufts of brown grass that had grown up and since died between some of the cracks in the pavement.
There was an old, all-white pretty jenky control tower that looked more like a lighthouse perched down the strip, with windows all around the top.
Parked near the fencing in the overgrown grass were planes that were old and looked abandoned. They weren’t the big commercial planes; most of these looked like they were (or had been) privately owned.
On the far side of the strip were some metal buildings, all with rounded tops and huge doors that opened. Basically, they were barns for planes.
Arrow pulled up to the gate and got out. My car idled behind his as I watched him jog over where it was locked. For as abandoned as most of the place looked, the lock and security was state of the art. After he flipped up some kind of latch, he moved to a sleek-looking keypad and punched a few buttons.
Seconds later, the chain-link gate swung inward. Arrow made a motion for me to follow him before getting back into his car and driving through. After I followed, the gates swung closed behind my car.
Maybe this place wasn’t as unused as I assumed. If so, why would anyone bother with such a nice lock?
I followed him across the pavement toward one of the longest looking strips. He stopped at a white painted line (not faded and chipped, but freshly painted), so I did the same.
He didn’t bother to roll down his window; he just revved the engine.
I did the same.
We took off seconds later, and I opened her up, but like always, never going as hard or fast as I knew I could.
It was awesome.
We did a couple drag runs up and down the strip. I beat him every time.
The fourth time I beat him, he hit his brakes and fishtailed to an immediate stop. I was a little more delicate.
He slammed out of the car and glared at me. “Why the fuck do I keep losing?”
I grinned. “You’re trying too hard.”
He cussed at me some more.
“You’re too worried about what I’m doing. Start putting all that energy into what you’re doing.”
He gave me a look and crossed his arms. “Aren’t I supposed to pay attention to you?”
“Yes and no.” I began and then straightened away from my car. “Obviously, you need to know where I am so we don’t collide. And obviously, you want to be able to anticipate my moves. But this is a private road. It’s just you and me here, and we’re dragging.”
“So?”
“So a lot of variables are taken out. Pay less attention to me.”
He nodded, thoughtful.
“And stop letting off the gas at the finish line.”
“I don’t,” he argued like I was insulting him.
“The fuck you don’t.” I chuckled. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but you do. Keep that foot pressed down all the way through the line.”
“I drive through the line every. Single. Time,” he growled.
“Yeah, and that’s good. Keep that shit up. But don’t slow down. Keep going, even if you think you’ll lose.”
He studied me like he was trying to decide if I was bullshitting him. I didn’t plead my case. I didn’t have to.
“Why would you help me?” He challenged.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Let’s go again.”
We lined up again and gunned the engines. We both tore off the line at the same time, and he did better. I don’t know if it was frustration at losing so much or maybe he took my advice, but he punched it more. He was more involved with his own driving.
This time I barely beat him.
(Maybe I slowed down a little.)
He didn’t hesitate at the end.
When he pulled up beside me and rolled down his window, the grin on his face said it all. “Almost!”
“I’m tired of driving in a straight line,” I told him. “What’s over there?” I pointed toward the plane barns.