by BB Easton
“Happy birthday,” I grumbled on my way out the door.
It was nice knowing ya.
I thought I’d sobered up enough to drive home—until I hit the back roads. Every twist and turn had my empty stomach in upheaval. I remembered that particular brand of nausea. I’d felt the same exact way at Sin just before I fled the ocean of gyrating dominants and submissives and ended up on all fours, barfing in the alley.
As soon as I pulled into my driveway, I could feel the bile beginning to rise. The second my car was in park, I threw open my door, leaned out, and spewed a vile combination of keg beer and stomach acid all over the driveway. No skinheads came to my rescue that time. I was going to have to do this on my own.
As soon as my dad’s shadow fell over me, I burst into a fit of tears and hiccups. What was he going to do to me? Would I be grounded forever? Would he take away my car? Public shaming? Tar and feathers?
“Shit, Scooter. Not you too,” he said, in a voice that was the opposite of wrathful.
Huh?
I sat up and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. Looking at my dad, all I saw was concern in his tired, bloodshot eyes.
“Your mother’s been throwing up for hours. Must be food poisoning. I’ll bet the mayo went bad. I don’t know how you two eat that shit.”
I just stared at him, unable to process what was happening. Was I not in trouble? Did I actually have food poisoning? No, that was ridiculous. You had to eat food to get food poisoning.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside before the next wave hits,” he said, extending a hand to help me out of the car. “You think you can handle Gatorade? I have the orange kind. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
And that was it. Either my dad had been too busy tending to my legitimately sick mom to realize how late I was or he’d forgotten to care. Either way, my punishment never came.
At least, not that night.
It’s amazing how common interests can bring people from different walks of life together. Like fast cars. And starting fires.
I don’t know whose bright idea it was to build a bonfire in the middle of the track, but I’ll be damned if every single faction didn’t pitch in to help make that shit happen. The girls—gangsta, chola, rockabilly, and redneck—all gathered rocks from the edge of the woods to line the pit while the guys found tree branches to break over their knees and use as kindling. Bubba got a little too excited and yanked a pine tree right out of the fucking ground with his truck’s winch.
Show-off.
Once the fire was ablaze, the truck owners all backed their tailgates up to the fire pit for people to sit on. Beers were drank. Mosquitoes were slapped. The sun went down. The music—a different genre blaring out of every aftermarket stereo—grew louder, and engines began to rev. It was race time.
Harley and I were sitting on Bubba’s tailgate, happy as a couple of pigs in shit, when he gave me a peck on the lips and said he’d be right back. I’d been to enough races by then to know what that meant. Harley was going to go hustle.
So I lit a cigarette—my favorite go-to behavior whenever I had to be somewhere by myself—and tried my best to look cool yet approachable.
I’m not sitting here by myself like a loser. I’m smoking. It’s a totally different thing.
Just as I was considering lighting a new cigarette with the butt of my current one, a girl walked over and hopped up next to me—which was no small feat, given the lift kit on Bubba’s truck.
This chick looked like an old-school calendar girl. Her blonde hair was pinned in victory rolls and tied with a cute little blue-and-white bandana. Her curves were accentuated by a blue-and-white-checkered halter top and pair of red high-waisted shorts. And she was wearing bright red lipstick. Bitch looked like the Fourth of July, and sitting next to her made me feel like April 15—fucking Tax Day.
“Hey,” she said, giving me the smile of a spokesmodel. “This is going to sound really weird, but did you used to date a tattoo artist named Knight?”
I glanced around to make sure Harley wasn’t within earshot. Knight wasn’t exactly his favorite subject. Or mine. Happily, the insanity of starting a new school, keeping up with a college-level course load, working part-time, and seeing Harley every chance I got had kept my mind pretty busy. Until Miss July showed up, I probably hadn’t thought about Knight for, like, five whole minutes.
“Yep, that’s me,” I answered hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”
Miss July’s face brightened, if that was possible. “I knew it! I recognized you from the photo on his tattoo station. I stared at that damn thing for, like, three hours while he did my thigh piece.”
She laughed, shifting her weight so that I could get a better look at the outline of skulls and roses etched onto her leg. It was definitely Knight’s work.
“I’m Tracey.” She beamed, offering me her red-tipped fingers.
I accepted her outstretched hand and cringed inwardly, knowing exactly what was going to come next.
“Damn, honey! Your hand feels like a little ice cube!”
There it is.
I gave her a lackluster smile and snatched my cadaverous hand back. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“You are sittin’ by a fire in the middle of August, girl! You need to put some meat on your bones!”
I rolled my eyes. “I get that a lot, too.” I didn’t mean to be rude, but my weight was yet another subject that I didn’t exactly feel like discussing with a stranger.
So far, Miss July was batting oh for two.
“Sorry, hon. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine. That’s a beautiful tattoo,” I interrupted, pointing at her thigh and successfully changing the subject.
It really was. Just like him, Knight’s art had a very distinctive style—intense, complex, and dangerous.
“Right? He drew it himself. I had an appointment set up for him to fill in the color, but the shop owner called and canceled it. All she said was that he joined the service.” Tracey gave me a sad, sympathetic smile. “I hate to ask—I mean, you’re obviously with Harley now—but…do you know when Knight will be back? I don’t want somebody else to touch his work, but at the same time, I don’t want to walk around with a half-finished tattoo forever either.”
I sighed as I stared back at yet another girl left in the lurch when Knight disappeared. Another girl left incomplete. Searching for answers. Wondering whether or not to move on.
“If I were you,” I said, plucking another cigarette out of my pack, “I’d move on.”
Tracey’s perfectly penciled eyebrows shot up. That was not the answer she wanted to hear.
“Sorry,” I said, lighting my Camel Light and blowing the smoke toward the fire. Smoking wasn’t just my favorite sitting-alone behavior; it was my favorite difficult-conversation behavior as well. “But I don’t think he’s comin’ back. At least, not for good. Knight told me he was shipping off to Iraq right after basic training, and knowing his stubborn ass, he’ll probably stay there until they kick him out.”
“Really?”
I nodded and watched as the delicate stream of smoke I’d just exhaled floated over and joined forces with the gray cloud billowing up from the bonfire. Looking back at Tracey, I offered her my open pack. With slumped shoulders, she helped herself to a cigarette.
“You could have Bobbi do it,” I offered, not wanting to be such a buzzkill. “She does incredible work. She did a back piece for Knight that looks just like his style.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that,” she said.
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “Getting fucked over is just part of the Ronald McKnight experience.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Tracey said, pulling her Miss July smile back on. “You’re the only person who’s been able to tell me what the hell is going on. Thank you!”
I faked a smile right back.
I saw Harley approaching from the other side of the bonfire. God, I loved to watch that man walk. Purposeful strides, long legs, chain wall
et glinting in the glow of the fire. Harley’s mischievous blue eyes were glued to me as he advanced, and his pursed, pierced lips were pulled into a smirk.
Uh-oh.
As soon as Harley rounded the bonfire, he pointed at me, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re up.”
I blinked. “What do you mean, I’m up?”
Harley kept the serious act going, but the tug at the corner of his mouth told me there was a joke that I wasn’t in on quite yet.
“I mean, you’re up next, woman. You’re racing tonight. Go get the ’Stang and meet me at the starting line.”
My surprised exhale came out as a laugh. “No. What? No. I’m not racing. Here,” I said, digging my keys out of my front pocket and holding them out as far away from me as possible, “you do it.”
Harley shook his head at me. “Nope. Not tonight, pretty lady. We’ve got a newbie here who needs a warm welcome.”
I gave Harley the side eye. “Are you trying to say you want me to lose?”
“I want you to make sure he leaves with a smile on his face.” Stepping between my legs, Harley placed his hands on my hips and dropped his forehead to mine. “I know you can do that.”
Rolling my eyes, I looked over at Tracey who was absolutely no help. She simply grimaced and shrugged in the universal sign for, I can’t help you.
Harley took advantage of my head turn by forging a trail of kisses from my earlobe to my collarbone.
Groaning, I acquiesced. “Okay, fine. But only because I get to lose.”
“You don’t get to lose,” Harley whispered in my ear. “Between the mods I made and the way you’ve been practicing, you could easily take this guy. He’s in a Turbo, so I’m gonna need you to back off the gas in the turns enough to let him stay ahead. Homeboy has deep pockets, so if we play this right we’ll be able to take him for twice as much later.”
I hated the idea of playing someone, but that was the game. Everybody on the field was either winning, losing, or watching, and they loved every second of it. Who was I to judge?
Hopping off Bubba’s tailgate, I told Tracey to wish me luck and headed over to my car with a bowling ball in my gut. I drove about two miles per hour as I made my way around the track to the starting line, stalling as long as humanly possible. I don’t know why I was so anxious. Harley hadn’t just given me permission to lose; he’d commissioned it. The pressure was off. But pulling up next to a tricked-out Toyota Supra Turbo with a spoiler the same size and shape as the Golden Gate Bridge didn’t exactly calm my nerves.
Harley was waiting for me, just like he’d said he would be. I rolled down my window to talk to him and was immediately assaulted by the roar of the crowd. Who were they cheering for? Probably not the new guy, so that only left me. But I was there to lose. The idea of disappointing Harley’s people, my people, made me feel even more nauseous.
Harley leaned in through my open window and gave me a kiss. “Now don’t you go winning on me, okay?”
That one made me laugh out loud. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”
Yeah fucking right.
“I’m calling this one, so as soon as you see my hands drop, stomp on it. You’ll probably get the jump on him, so remember what I said, and take it easy through the turns to let him stay ahead.”
I nodded and tried not to roll my eyes. The fact that Harley thought I needed encouragement to take it easy through the turns was adorable. I needed encouragement not to get completely fucking lapped.
As soon as Harley took his spot on the white X, my stomach churned out a fresh batch of stomach acid.
Oh fuck. Here we go.
Harley squinted into our headlights and held up two fingers.
Two laps.
I lowered my parking brake.
Harley put his hands up.
I took my left foot off the brake and gave the gas pedal a tiny bit of pressure while the clutch was still pushed in, watching the RPMs rise slowly, just like he’d taught me.
When Harley’s hands dropped, I stomped the gas the rest of the way down and popped my left foot off the clutch at the same time. Harley was right. I definitely got the jump on him. In fact, I think I went fucking airborne for a second.
My head slammed back into the headrest as I struggled to maintain control of The Little Five-Oh That Could. I don’t know what the fuck Harley had done to my car, but whatever it was, that shit worked. I was already entering the first turn.
With my adrenaline surging and my brain doing nothing but repeating, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, on a loop, my body reverted to muscle memory. Without thinking, I did exactly what Harley and I had been practicing. What I’d done a thousand times on that same track, only in the daylight and with an audience of one. I eased off the gas through the turn, prayed to Jesus that my tires didn’t skid or spin out, resisted the urge to downshift, and gassed it once the straightaway was in sight.
Elated that I’d made it through the first turn alive, I punched it and threw it into third before the realization of what I’d just done hit home. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw the shiny white Supra—a good four to five car lengths behind me.
Fucking hell.
There was no coming back from that. Not when I was already pulling into the second turn. The way I saw it, I had three choices.
Fake a mechanical problem, which would require lying skills that I did not possess.
Slow down enough to let him pass me, in which case I might as well hire a skywriter to fly overhead and write, BB THREW THE RACE, in smoky cursive.
Win and fuck up Harley’s master plan.
Looking in my rearview mirror again, it became more evident that I didn’t really have a choice. I was already back on the straights, and Homeboy was just pulling into the second turn.
I eased off the gas a little, just to keep it from being a landslide, but as soon as Supra Man started to catch up, I lost him again in the third turn.
“Goddamn it!” I screamed at him from inside my car. “It’s like you’re not even trying! Do better, asshole!”
Before I knew it, I’d rounded curve number four and crossed the finish line. Just like that. Boom. Failure. I had one job to do, and I’d fucked it up. I mean, seriously, how hard is it to not win at something? Especially something that you’re not even good at.
I did the saddest victory lap in history and pulled up next to Harley, who was waiting for me at the starting line—looking positively pissed off.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
The only other time I’d seen him that pissed off was when he’d found out that I used to date Knight, but this was scarier because, this time, he was mad at me. I had no idea what the ripple effect would be from my fuckup, but I was sure it would be pretty bad. Harley always had these little hustles planned out so that every domino would fall exactly the way he wanted. Well, my domino didn’t fucking fall at all, so now what?
I took a deep breath and opened my car door, but Harley was gone. When I stood up, the noises coming from the crowd were an odd mixture of excited and infuriated. Unless Supra Man had a cheering section I didn’t know about, those jeers were for me. From my people.
A thick hand grabbed me by the elbow and spun me around. It was Harley, and he was staring at me with an unreadable expression.
Holding up two fingers with a wad of cash pinched between them, Harley said, “Here’s your winnings, Speed Racer.”
When I didn’t take the money, Harley shoved it into the front pocket of my ripped jeans, then turned toward the crowd and waved a cluster of rednecks over. When he faced me again, his scowl had been replaced by my favorite twinkly-eyed, naughty grin.
“And here’s my winnings.”
One by one, the hillbilly truck enthusiasts lined up to smack their bitter dollar bills—tens, twenties, even a few hundreds—down on Harley’s open palm.
He chuckled and talked shit the whole time, calling them “sexist assholes” and telling them, “That’s what y’all get for betting against a lady.”
Harley tsk-tsked him with a smile and said, “I think you owe BB an apology.”
Bubba looked at me with shame and sincerity in his dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry. You won the shit outta that race, girl. You oughta be real proud.”
As Bubba walked off with his floppy fishing hat in his hands, I stared at Harley with my mouth hanging open and my eyebrows pulled together.
“What…the fuck…just happened?”
“You just made us a shitload of money; that’s what happened.” Harley smiled and bopped me on the end of my scrunched-up nose with his index finger.
“You wanted me to win?” I didn’t know whether to be pissed off or impressed.
“No, I knew you’d win. Especially against that dumbass.” Harley flicked his chin in the direction of the highway, which was the direction Supra Man had run off in after his loss. “Not only was that thing an automatic,” Harley said the word as if it personally offended him, “but it also had a couple of heavy-ass subwoofers in the back. That motherfucker was just beggin’ to give somebody his money. Might as well be you.”
Harley’s smile was infectious. I couldn’t be mad at him when he looked at me like that.
“You fucking played me!” I laughed, jabbing a finger into his chest.
“Nah, I just didn’t want you to be nervous.”
“You took side bets against me!” I smacked him on the chest that time.
“Hey!” Harley grinned and held his hands up in surrender. “I was the one who bet on you, okay?”
It was the truth. Time stood still for a moment while the weight of that statement sank in. Harley was the only one who had bet on me. He’d believed in me when no one else had. He’d believed in me more than I believed in myself. He’d believed in me enough to risk losing hundreds, possibly thousands, of dollars.
And he also believed in me enough to risk looking like a jackass in front of the very people who worshiped him, which is exactly what happened when he dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him right there on the track.