by Kim Karr
The girls make a show out of walking up onto the stage, and then they take the corners of the blue silk cloth in their hands—the silk that covers the car—and hold tight.
My car.
Our car.
The Storm.
The spotlights anchor it as if it’s a work of art.
It is.
Slowly, my gaze assesses the rest of the stage. Banners with Detroit’s profile on them. vote yes signs. Everything is red, white, and blue. Fourth of July is over, but Detroit’s celebration has only just begun.
Scouting the area, the showman is nowhere to be seen. Everyone is waiting for him. Soon enough, I spot him coming through the door. Tux. Hair slicked back. Straight bow tie. Expensive shoes. The rich boy from Grosse Pointe. You can’t miss him. Although he’s not taller than me, he’s much bigger. Two-forty, I’d say. Football player girth like his father.
The music ceases. He approaches the stage with two sexy girls dressed in red standing on either side of him. Another woman, in a suit, is behind him and stands off to the side with a clipboard in hand. She’s new. I’ve never seen her in his entourage before.
He clears his throat. Adjusts the microphone. Looks out into the audience. Makes eye contact. Grips the podium. It’s like he’s ticking off a checklist. He must have passed public speaking with flying colors. “Hello, Motor City!” he shouts. “Tonight we’re here for a very special reason . . .”
My eye roll can’t be contained, but I have to hand it to him: he’s playing the part beautifully.
His speech drags on, though, and I’m finding it hard to stand still much longer. I feel the need to move around, but that would be rude. And I wouldn’t want to be rude. My gaze shifts from Will to Jake. Where the fuck did Drew go? I peer through the crowd but don’t see him anywhere.
Will nudges me and I set my attention back to the man in front of us.
“If there’s one thing that can give this city the future it deserves, it’s our shared love of cars.”
I nod my head in agreement.
Everyone claps.
I join in.
As his final words trail off, he looks to the girls behind him and gives them a nod. With bright smiles, they pull the silk away to reveal a super-shiny, super-sexy, red Storm.
After the unveiling, the crowd explodes in applause.
They’re cheering.
Hooting.
Hollering.
I take a sip of my drink and let it all sink in.
Years and years of hard work and a lifetime of dreams coming to life.
Everyone is so full of excitement.
No one more than me.
He smiles. Raises his hands. Tries to calm everyone down. Alex Harper has a flair for the dramatic.
“Pretentious prick,” I mutter under my breath.
Will leans in toward me. “Shut up. He’s our golden ticket to getting the factory up and running, and don’t forget it.”
I bite down on the swizzle stick that the bartender stuck in my old-fashioned along with a wink and an eyeful of what was beneath her tight white blouse. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Alex is the city’s new mayor—the youngest one ever in Detroit. He’s handsome, energetic, and the man everyone is looking toward for hope. He does things differently than any previous mayor. Everything is bigger. Brighter. Worthy of celebratory status. Honestly, it’s what this city needs. Something to look forward to. He’s also the man everyone thinks can bail us out of the billions of dollars of debt we’re in.
Sadly, Detroit is one of only nine cities to ever file for bankruptcy in the United States, and even more sadly, it’s by far the largest city to ever go bankrupt. And it’s our new mayor with his larger-than-life presence who thinks he can turn things around.
Even if I hate to admit it . . . I think he just might.
Especially if tonight he’s able to persuade the City Council to vote in favor of the petition I filed with the city government just a week ago. A petition that will force the city to finally sell a piece of abandoned land over on 8 Mile Road. Land this town considers sacred ground because of the many deaths that occurred there.
There are many steps involved in achieving the end goal—making the mass production of the Storm possible and bringing wealth back to Detroit—but tonight’s vote is by far the most important. If the petition passes, and we’re able to purchase that piece of land at auction, it will be the first step we’ve been able to take forward in a long time.
With the drain of the past three years and the funds needed for startup, there won’t be enough money left from the sale of the Pulse to become fully operational. The challenge to come up with the rest of the capital to fund the private automotive factory seems daunting, but my hope is that investors will see what we see—that our state-of-the-art factory will change this city’s dynamics forever.
Currently, 8 Mile Road serves as a physical and cultural dividing line between the wealthier, northern suburbs of Detroit and the poorer part of the city.
My goal is to change that.
No, our goal is to change that.
A new factory means new jobs and new businesses to support our needs.
Increased prosperity for all.
Which in turn should help make the city safer.
The our, of course, is Will Fleming, Jake Crown, Drew Kates, and myself, Jasper Storm. Four poor boys who grew up just south of 8 Mile Road and despite the hardships of life, managed to come out on the other side.
Will bumps my shoulder. “Are you listening?”
“Not really. I thought his speech was over?”
He laughs. “No, not yet. Just listen. will you? He might say something you need to know later.”
I nod and direct my attention back to the stage. “Tonight, the City Council will vote on whether or not to allow the sale of a piece of land that holds tragic memories for a lot of people . . .”
Alex’s words hit me and despite what Will just said, I can’t help but tune him out.
Jake looks at his watch. “I don’t think I can listen to much more of this. How much time do you think we have until the vote comes in?”
I slam the rest of my drink back. “I was wondering the exact same thing.”
“Great minds—” he starts to say.
“You’re going to bail? Are you kidding me?” Will asks in astonishment.
Jake nudges him and shifts his eyes toward me, as if I can’t see it. Memories of years gone by aren’t for right now, though. Those memories have lived locked deep inside me for far too long, and once the word passed is stamped on the amendment, I’ll figure out how to deal with them. Hoping to avoid a lecture, I answer Will with a straightforward, “No, I’m not kidding.”
He rolls his eyes.
I lean toward Will. “That bartender is waiting for me.” I don’t know why I add fuel to the fire, other than that’s what I seem to do best.
My words have Jake craning his head toward the bar, trying to catch a glimpse.
“I’m sure she has a friend, or two,” I say and glance between Will and Jake.
“Jasper, for one night can you stop thinking about getting your dick wet?” Will hisses through gritted teeth.
“You must be shitting me. I haven’t been out in months.” Believe it or not, it’s true. I’ve been working around the clock.
Will makes a face.
I pop the cherry from my drink and taste the expensive bourbon, then I look at him. “Listen, Will, three years ago I almost died. So excuse me if I have a need to live each day as if it’s my last.”
Will rolls his eyes. “Stop with the I almost died shit, will you? It’s getting old.”
With a pat on his back, I say, “It’s not a lie, bro. You know I only speak the truth.”
“No, it’s not a lie, but I also know that’s not why you’re skipping out.”
I give him a look.
“You have to be able to talk about it.”
“Talk about what, Will?”
&n
bsp; His demeanor softens.
With a raised brow, I almost dare him to say it, but I don’t want to hear it.
Fuck this.
Scowling, I turn and walk away. He won’t talk about it anyway, but he will bring up the accident. And excuse me but I don’t want to talk about that either.
I know what I did.
Three years ago when I got behind the wheel of the first Storm prototype on a test run, I crashed it.
And I almost died.
My inability to listen to Max’s pleas let everyone down.
Including myself.
I fucked it all up.
It cost us a lot.
Hours of reengineering.
Months and months of prototype rebuilding.
Every extra dime we could spare.
To this day, Max still claims foul play, but no one has been able to prove it or figure out why. That crash not only set us back in bringing the Storm to production, it cost me personally a lot too—six months of my life, six more months of physical therapy to rebuild strength, and every cent I had ever earned.
But the mental anguish that I still suffer is far greater. Fear of dying behind the wheel. To this day, I have yet to get behind the wheel of a car on the track. And I have yet to push the gas pedal past 70. Psychosomatic bullshit that I can’t seem to shake.
Still, Will is right. My need to escape right now has nothing to do with any of that and everything to do with the first eighteen years of my life—ten of which I never want to remember and the first eight I wish I could remember better.
With Jake on my heels, I haven’t even gone five feet before I walk right into Drew and a harem of red bikini–clad girls carrying trays of shots. So that’s where he went. I should have known Drew would be looking to get the real party started. He’s a big guy who says he has big needs. And he’s not kidding.
One of the girls steps forward. She looks certain of herself and right away I’m attracted to her. She has blond hair with blue strands, luscious-looking tits that peek out from her skimpy top, curves that never end, and vibrant green eyes. She’s a knockout.
“Where you going?” Drew asks.
“Nowhere now,” I say with a smile, and then give the girl who looks like she stepped out of a pinup my biggest grin. Her return smile makes me forget all about the bartender waiting for me.
“Good, because I reserved the penthouse at the Marriott next door for the night.”
I lick my lips at the thought of continuing this party in private with this girl. I swear she’s sticking out her chest for my benefit. She raises her tray and gives me a come-hither look.
Who am I not to comply? “Hi, Blue,” I practically purr to her as I take what she’s offering.
“Hi,” she returns with a flirtatious smile.
Out of nowhere, the spotlight lands on me.
Alex’s voice booms through the microphone. “And there he is, the man of the hour. The man who’s going to help turn things around, this city’s white knight, Jasper Storm.”
Is he shitting me?
White knight?
More like tarnished punk.
All joking aside, I don’t want anyone looking to me for anything. If no one counts on me, no one will be let down. Besides, he knows I don’t do the public thing.
“Come on up here, Jasper, and say a few words.”
I stand utterly still.
Will is behind me. “Come on, man. You can do this.”
I still don’t move.
“You can do this, JJ,” he repeats and then adds, “Just go up there, smile, and tell everyone thank you.”
I nod and grab another shot. “Later,” I mouth to the girl with the blue streaks in her hair, who for some reason seems to have backed out of the spotlight, and then I slowly head toward the stage.
Alex’s voice carries through the night and I can’t block it out. “Many of you might not know this, but Jasper Storm lost his father in the explosion at the Laneworth Automotive Parts Plant. It was an explosion that none of us will ever forget. Hundreds died. And tomorrow marks the twentieth anniversary of that dark day. The day that changed Detroit forever . . .”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and consider bolting.
This time, though, it’s Will on my heels. “Don’t think about it. Just go up there and give everyone the show they’re looking for.”
I nod. I can do this.
I.
Can.
Do.
This.
The girl in the suit is waiting beside the stairs. She pushes her glasses up. “Mr. Storm, this way.”
I give her a nod. Her blond hair is pulled back. She’s petite, and I can’t help but think she’s attractive in a naughty secretary kind of way. Stupid thought. She belongs to Alex, I’m sure.
Will stops and stands right next to her. As I take the steps one by one, I glance at him. He slowly nods in support the entire time it takes me to walk across the platform.
The applause is almost too much. I want to say, “Don’t count on me for anything,” but I know that’s no way to get them to vote yes tonight.
Alex’s hand is outstretched.
I grab it and give him the strong, confident shake he’s looking for, and then he steps aside and leaves the podium open for me to fill the empty space.
With hesitation, I stand before it. “Hello, Detroit,” I say, but my voice doesn’t boom through the crowd.
Will points to the microphone and mouths, “Raise it.”
I do so and then clear my throat. I didn’t pass public speaking with flying colors, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want this as much as Alex does. I do. And because I do, I let all the bullshit inside my head go and lay it all out there.
“Let’s try this again. Hello, Detroit!”
Everyone claps and I wait for the noise to settle.
“Mayor Harper touched on a very dark time in Detroit’s history. I was eight the day my father died in that terrible explosion, and yes, tomorrow does mark the twentieth anniversary of that horrible day. But tomorrow can also mark the dawning of a new era, the start of something brighter for all of us. All you have to do is vote yes tonight and allow the sale of that land that forever reminds us of the loved ones we lost. Now is the time to transform that pain into something that will give us all hope.”
I allow my gaze to wash over the crowd.
Tears from many.
Eyes being wiped.
Scowls on the faces of others.
The explosion was something no one likes to talk about. Me included, but Alex wasn’t wrong in bringing it up. Maybe everyone needs a little reminder to push past the ugly.
“So what do you say, Detroit? Isn’t it time for a change? For our world to look a little brighter? I think so. And I hope you do too!”
Cheers once again erupt, but there are also a lot of sneers. Just as I start to walk off the stage someone yells, “You can’t bring him back, you know. You can’t bring your father back by rebuilding on the place he died.”
Like I don’t know that.
It’s a female voice and for a moment, I wonder if it’s my mother. It sounds like something she’d say if she ever talked about him. But she’s not here, so whoever it is, I acknowledge the statement with only a solemn nod and then I exit the stage.
Will’s hand is on my shoulder. “Great job.”
I also give him a nod.
“Mr. Storm, can I ask you a few questions?” It’s a male voice this time.
Since I didn’t expect to be giving a speech, I’m not prepared for the onslaught of public attention. I keep walking and say nothing. This isn’t my thing.
“Jasper, they’re calling you the city’s white knight. How does that make you feel?” This question comes from a different male voice.
Not great.
“Jasper Storm, can we get an interview?”
The questions just keep coming.
“We’ll answer questions tomorrow once the petition passes,” Will tells everyo
ne, with a confidence in the vote he’s had since day one.
“Jasper. I’m Eve Hepburn. I’d like to know what it feels like to rebuild on a place this city has held sacred for so long.”
The words Fuck you sit on the tip of my tongue.
“Keep moving,” Will prompts.
High-heeled red shoes seem to be following me. “Let me ask my question in a different way. Why not build elsewhere?”
I want to scream, “Because something inside me won’t let the idea go. Because my father died there. Because I don’t know the fuck why!” But I don’t. Instead, I remarkably remain silent.
“Do you really think you’re doing the city a justice, or just yourself, by choosing that piece of property to build on?”
This bitch just won’t stop. I don’t even look at her. It takes all I have not to flip her the bird.
“Do you make it a habit to sleep with every woman you meet?” It’s the same voice.
What the fuck does that have to do with anything?
“You’re doing great. Drew and Jake are only a few feet away. Don’t say anything and just keep moving.” Will’s voice is calm. He must know I’m about to blow.
Glancing straight ahead, I don’t look at a single one of the reporters or photographers and ignore all of their lame attempts to get my attention.
Instead, my gaze lands on the girl with blue streaks in her hair holding a shot in each hand.
I head her way with one thing in mind . . .
I need to get the fuck out of here.
UNDER THE HOOD
Charlotte
LOOKING AT PICTURES of Jasper Storm is like exhaling a long, shaky breath. His name sounds like one, too: Jasper Jackson Storm.
He is without a doubt a lethal mix of visceral male testosterone and rebel. With his mess of light brown hair, matching light brown eyes that just look like they could peg you where you stand, and a body that must make every female in his vicinity yearn for him, there is no mistaking him in a crowd—that’s for sure.
The hotel room is small enough without Eve standing over my shoulder. I glance back at my roommate for the next two nights and force myself to not feel stifled.