They line up, and with a quick, light progression on the tree, the race is on. Tires squeal, engines growl, and they roar down the quarter-mile.
As expected, Wilson gets the win and a round of applause goes through the small crowd. Everyone’s watching closely, either for entertainment or because it’ll be their turn on the line soon enough, and it’s always an advantage to know what and who you’re up against.
The races continue on for the evening, pairing after pairing. I bet on a couple more, but mostly, I watch and wait.
Jerry wanders up while Mike and Clint chat up a possible rematch. They run pretty close, trading wins depending on the night. “Good run,” I tell Jerry, knowing that he’s probably a bit grumpy about losing to Wilson.
His lips twist wryly. “Next time. Where’s Just a Guy?”
“Who?” I ask, my brows knitting together.
“Brody,” Jerry says with a smile. “First time you brought him, I told him he must be special for you to bring him here considering the whole situation with Keith. He said he was ‘just a guy’.” Jerry does air quotes, but his fingers are straight, not curved like most folks do it, which makes me smile. As does his story. I didn’t know Brody told him that. “He ain’t just a guy, is he, Rix?”
My smile grows. “Nah, he ain’t ‘just a’ anything.”
Jerry throws a fatherly arm over my shoulder, side hugging me. “Aw, our little Rix is growing up, falling in love.”
I cringe, knowing he means well, but shit. He’s going overboard here, and I don’t want anyone to overhear him and swipe away my hard-earned reputation with some softie Emily-style romance fluff. I shrug his arm off as kindly as I can. “I’m not that girl, Jerry. Brody and I are good, though.”
He doesn’t take offense at my moving a step away. “He met Keith yet?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I snort. “And don’t go saying his name again. You’ll conjure him like Beetlejuice.”
“Beetle-who?” Jerry asks, turning his head like he misheard me. I almost repeat myself and explain the say-his-name deal, but Jerry laughs. “Just messing with you. I saw that movie with the kids when they were little.”
I push at his shoulder, teasingly glaring as he looks mighty pleased with himself. “Really, though, you’re gonna have to introduce him to Keith.” Jerry looks around like Dad is going to magically appear. If he does, I’m totally fucked. Luckily, that’s just a movie, not real life. Still, I look around too, smiling at Jerry when there’s no one but the two of us around.
“I know. I will when the time is right.” Or never, which is preferable.
I care deeply for them both and don’t want to hurt either of them. Their paths never crossing seems like the most surefire way to be kind. Dad won’t get upset over the reality that I’m never going to marry Reed, Brody won’t have to lie to my dad’s face about the racing, and I can keep on doing exactly whatever the fuck I want. Win all the way around.
I’m saved from any further fatherly advice by Ed calling my name. “Rix versus Mike Senior.” I nod toward the middle-aged guy standing across the crowd from me. He’s a good driver, with a great car—a tweaked-out NISMO Skyline GT-R. But I’m a great driver with a great car . . . Foxy.
“Let me go kick this guy’s ass real quick, then we can talk more,” I tell Jerry as I strut away. Half of racing is mental, and if Mike Senior thinks I’m better than him, I will be.
We all know each other’s strengths and weaknesses well, but posturing is always a factor. Especially when you’re a tiny woman in a male-dominated field. I’m more than happy to let him think I’ve got some advantage, maybe a recent tweak to my engine that he doesn’t know about yet.
Oh, I haven’t done anything major to Foxy in ages, but that doesn’t mean Mike Senior knows that.
I do my walk around Foxy, verifying that she’s ready, and then climb in. I shut the door, but really, I’m shutting out everything but me and Foxy. The rest is unimportant white noise.
I pull up to the staging area, and Ed leans in, his voice loud to be heard over the engines. “You good? You ready?”
What might seem like casual questions are anything but. He’s asking if I’m ready mentally and physically to drive ridiculously fast while maintaining control and responsibility. He’s asking if I’m comfortable with my car as she sits. Man and machine is a powerful relationship, and he’s asking if I’m ready to test its limits.
“Yes and yes. Let’s go,” I yell, nodding my head to be clear.
“Track rules,” he states as always before going over to Mike Senior to do the same pre-race check.
Track rules are simple. Be honest, responsible, and safe. You have to know your own skills and limits, and your car’s, and not push either too far. Good sportsmanship is an expectation. We give each other shit, but at the end of the day, we’re a community of racers that backs each other up, so all ‘fights’ are on the track only.
I pull up to the burnout box and heat my tires. Some people love the smell of Christmas trees or warm cookies out of the oven. I love the smell of burning rubber, acrid and pungent and a reminder of so many happy memories. I pull up, triggering the pre-stage light and then the stage light, and wait for Mike Senior to do the same.
I’m poised, my entire focus on the shades of yellow in the three lights on the tree. I see the third start to darken and floor it, letting off the clutch simultaneously. Right as the green illuminates, Foxy crosses the line and we’re off.
The car glides down the lane accompanied by a deafening roar. The vibration of the seat beneath me spurs me on, the engine screaming at me to shift, shift, shift.
I have no idea where Mike Senior is. Somewhere behind me would be my guess. I cross the yellow line and slow down to turn onto the return track, stopping to get my time slip from Patricia, Ed’s wife. She mostly stays in the booth with her fan these days, claiming heat exhaustion if she has to help in the staging area.
“Good run, Rix. You hit one forty easy and early.” She actually sounds excited for me, and considering it’s probably one of the faster runs of the non-juiced cars, that’s understandable. Mostly, I think she likes having another woman around who likes cars because other than her and me, we only see the occasional bored girlfriend or wannabe car magazine model.
“Thanks, Patricia. How’re the kids?” She and Ed have two kids, a son who’s almost thirty and a daughter who’s twenty-three and lives in a group home an hour away.
She tells me about her son and daughter-in-law who have decided to become electric car-driving vegans. “Ed about had a heart attack, but I held him back. Those kids are gonna give me grandbabies one day, and I’m not letting a diet or a car get between me and those chubby cheeks.” She pinches the air as though there’s already a sweet baby in front of her. “And Jennifer got herself a job! She’s working at a warehouse doing inventory. It’s perfect for her. She gets to count and make spreadsheets and track discrepancies. Right up her alley.”
“Good for her, glad to hear that.”
Our conversation is drowned out by the roar of engines running. I smile and wave at Patricia, knowing our time has been cut short because those two racers will want their time slips to analyze. She waves back as I pull on around and park Foxy.
I walk up to the crowd of spectators, who offer me high-fives and congratulations.
“Thanks. Another day, another run.” I’m happy with my performance and Foxy’s, but bragging after a win is unsportsmanlike and asshole-ish. I try to follow a mantra I heard once, ‘humble in victory, gracious in defeat’, and so far, it’s served me well.
“Gassers are done. Ed’s doing bottle-feds now,” Jerry tells me. “Todd’s up against a new guy with an import.” Foxy is a pure gasoline engine, along with Jerry, both Mikes, and a handful of other cars. Todd’s part of the more heavily modified group that runs nitrous.
“What’d Todd put for his dial-in?”
Dial-in is what a racer estimates his car will do and is an important part of decid
ing who races whom. If you fudge your numbers, you can be disqualified, so honesty is key.
“Nine flat,” Jerry says disbelievingly. I eye him, not reacting in the slightest, but he reads me anyway. I make a mental note to never play poker with Jerry. “That’s what we all thought too. What’d you do to his Challenger?”
“Nothing,” I say carefully. “I ordered some stuff for him, but he canceled. Said he figured something else out.”
A million thoughts run through my head at once. Mostly, I try to figure out how in the hell Todd thinks he’ll pull numbers like that. His car is fast, and he’s a good driver, but that’s nearly half a second off his best time. There’s no way.
Todd and a blue Toyota Supra do their burnouts and hit the line, both revving their engines and purging their nitrous.
The tree lights switch from the first yellow to the second, to the third, and then the green illuminates, and both cars rear up before lurching forward. Right off the line, Todd doesn’t seem like himself. The tires spin slightly and the front end lifts off the ground. Even once he gets all four tires connected with the asphalt, he’s barely in control, not holding his line the way he usually does.
“What the fuck?” I say.
At the same time, Jerry hisses, “Shit.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him cuss and not even need all my fingers.
In slow motion, there’s a deafening pop, and flames rise from under the Challenger’s hood. Instantly, people are on their feet and running toward Todd.
That’s what family does for one another.
“Get out! Get out!” I yell as the flames rise higher. I’m close enough that he should be able to hear me, but another burst of flames ignites loudly. I’m the first one to approach the flaming car, so I automatically flip the kill switch on the back to shut off the ignition and pull the driver side door open.
Todd is banging on the steering wheel. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Or I assume that’s what he’s saying, but it’s muffled by his helmet and overwhelmed by the hiss of extinguishers as several people aim the hoses under the hood to put out the fire.
I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull. “Get the fuck out now, Todd!” He turns, and his eyes are glassy with shock, not focusing on me. But he sticks a leg out and then the other, letting me yank him out of the car. “You okay?” I yell.
There’s another pop, and flames leap out from underneath the car, catching both Todd and me by surprise.
Hot. Hot. Hot.
My legs are on fire, actual flames licking along my calves, reaching for my knees.
I cry out, but it’s lost in the sound of everyone else cussing and yelling. Todd tackles me to the ground, and my head hits the asphalt hard, ringing my bell. I blink, trying to focus and trying to breathe beneath Todd’s weight.
“Be still!” someone yells.
“Close your eyes and hold your breath!” someone else yells at the same time.
It’s so quick, but it’s in slow motion too, like every second has been teased apart for maximum carnage. I feel the cool foam of the fire extinguisher hit my legs where there should be jeans and moan at the stinging sensation even though it’s better than the burn.
“Patricia called 9-1-1. Ambulance is on its way,” Ed says. “Hang in there, Todd. You okay, Rix?”
I realize that Todd is no longer smooshing me and thrash my head around to find him. “Todd?”
“You okay, Rix?” he says from my other side, his voice rough and tight. I turn to see him lying on the ground next to me. Someone has taken his helmet off, and he looks pale and clammy, his eyes getting shinier and more vacant by the second. My legs hurt, and I can’t see what’s wrong with Todd, but I can tell he’s a lot worse off than I am.
“I’m good, Todd. We’re gonna get you some help, ’kay?” I look back up to Ed and dig deep for my balls. “Get that fucking ambulance here now, Ed!” I bark.
He tries to chuckle, a watery smile trying to come through, but he fails and instead his lips just quiver. “Even down for the count, she’s a bossy one, our Rix.”
Jerry pats my head, something that would normally piss me off royally. Right now, it’s just what I need. But not who I need it from.
“Hey, Ed?” He leans over, coming into my field of vision, his brows raised. “Call my dad to meet us at the hospital.”
He nods, looking grim. I think we all know the shit just hit the fan in a spectacularly fucked up manner, and we’re all going to pay the Keith Cole price for keeping this from him.
Chapter 25
Brody
Motel rooms used to be so exciting. Once or twice a year, Dad would take me to the market auction to buy and sell for our herd, and it’d seemed like such an adventure. Fancy towels, folded toilet paper, fresh sheets, pizza delivery, and just the boys. We’d sit around with no shirts on, not shower, and once I was in high school, Dad would even let me have a beer or two.
Those are some of my best memories of my dad, actually, because back then, he really was amazing. I looked up to him, admired him, and respected him. He was worthy of it, earned it by giving us his time, attention, and lessons about his years of ranching.
Only now, as an adult, do I realize how hard staying in a motel can be. Everyone you care about is back at home, carrying on without you. You worry about germs in the towels and sheets, which aren’t fancy at all and are actually cheap and scratchy, and a pizza and beer diet makes you feel like shit.
I send a silent thank you to Dad for making it seem like fun when I realize how hard it must’ve been for him. But only for that. Not for the later shit when he was angry, miserable, and spreading his poison around like fertilizer. I forgive him, mostly, but I still blame him for being weak when we most needed him to be strong.
“Good picks today,” Mark says from his double bed. He’s leaning back against the headboard, long jeans-covered legs crossed at the ankles, his chin dipped low and eyes closed even though he started the conversation.
I grunt, knowing he’ll hear the agreement about the few cows and calves we bought.
“What’d you think of the buyer?” His sock-covered toes wiggle as he scratches one foot with the other.
“He’s all right. Fair price.” I sit on the other bed, elbows on my knees and rolling my neck to stretch out the tension through my shoulders.
Market day is hard on both of us, the high-pressure culmination of a year’s worth of work, blood, and sweat. No tears because we’re fucking cowboys, I think with an internal cocky smirk. It requires chatting up other ranchers about everything from hay prices to cattle weights, and being personable isn’t either of our strong suits.
Even so, we sold every head we brought to the same buyer, making it a convenient exchange. The cattle have already left the sale barn with their new owners, and we’ll load our purchased ones up tomorrow for the drive home. All in all, it’s left us in a good position for the next year of ranching.
Mark grunts.
A full-blown conversation for the two of us.
“I’m gonna walk across the street to the 7-11 for a beer. You want one?” I offer. I don’t give a fuck about the beer, but I know Mark will want some privacy to call Katelyn and I don’t want to be here for whatever they’re getting up to, anyway.
“No thanks. I’ll take a big water bottle, though.” He looks more alert now, eyes open and his phone in his hand.
By the door, I pull my boots back on and lift one brow at Mark. Unspoken code of ‘you’ve got thirty minutes,’ which he answers with a slow blink. This is why we get along so well. We understand each other’s subtle nuances.
I slow walk my way to the store, in no hurry and enjoying the cool night air after sitting on bleacher stands in a warm barn all day. The stars aren’t as visible against the inky sky here, even though we’re not exactly in a busy city, and I realize how comforted I am by the expanse of nothingness around me at home. Here, the buildings, cars, and people feel suffocating. At home, the world feels almost limitless when you st
and outside, blanketed by the dark of night.
The convenience store is empty, and I grab a can of Bud and a bottle of water. The cashier seems bored, half looking at his phone while he rings me out. “Have a good night,” he finally says as I walk out the door. I don’t acknowledge the last-ditch attempt at customer service.
At the motel, I lower the tailgate on Mark’s truck and have a seat. My feet dangle, and I kick them a few times, wishing I’d brought my book with me. It’s sitting in my duffel bag in the room, and I’ve still got a good fifteen minutes before I can go back in.
I look at my phone and consider calling Erica. I know she’s at the races tonight and probably busy, but it’d be nice to hear her voice even if it’s on her voicemail.
But I don’t do that.
I crack open my beer and take a long swallow. How in the hell did I get here?
Things I knew—I would die before I lost the farm. I would never settle down. I would fall asleep and wake up every day on the land I grew up on.
Things I know now—I lost the farm, and it’s mostly okay. Damn better than I ever thought it’d be, but I’m sitting down with spreadsheets again to figure out how to get it back. I’m not settled, exactly, but Mark’s insight that this thing with Erica is reminiscent of him and Katelyn has been coming up in my mind more and more. I’d be a lucky fucker to one day have a marriage like his. And I wake up at Erica’s apartment more often than not these last couple of months. There might not be a sunrise over the pasture to greet me there, but the sun shines in through the window over her bed, touching the curve of her hip and highlighting each freckle while I watch each morning. She jokes that it’s creepy to wake up to me eyeballing her, but she always says it with a smile teasing her lips as she stretches and poses, tempting me with wandering fingers along her skin and mine.
Rough Edge Page 25