Redline

by Alex van Tol

  It’s all of it.

  By the time we pull back into the parking lot of the coffee shop at a quarter past one, I’m breathing heavily. My mouth is open and my breath is short. I’ve never felt so alive. My senses are finely attuned, ready to pick out the slightest noise or sensation. The night air has sharpened my sight and smell.

  Dmitri kills the engine and we unbuckle. Usually he lets me off at my car, but tonight he’s parked us over on the other side of the lot. Away from the streetlights. Which is fine by me. He turns and looks at me wordlessly. I see in his eyes what I feel in my own body. He reaches for me, and I’m already there. Our lips meet and we’re kissing, hot, breathy, tongues slicking across lips, taking in each other’s smell, feeling each other’s skin. Tasting, for endless minutes. And then harder, more urgent, biting lips and sucking tongues. I’ve never kissed like this before. Never been kissed like this before. I can’t stop myself. I want more. I want this all night. His kiss is intoxicating. I drink it in, greedy for more of this drug that is Dmitri. I can’t get enough. Can’t get close enough. I want to crawl inside him, to eat him up, to have this feeling forever.

  I climb out of my seat and he grabs my hips, pulling me across the console so I’m sitting astride his lap. He buries his hands in my wind-messed hair, kissing my neck, running his tongue along my jaw, biting me. I am completely unhinged, fully at the mercy of this moment. He runs his hands down my back, touching off a nerve center, and I arch toward him, my head back. His lips graze my bra through my T-shirt, and I press against him, wanting everything, right here, right now. I kiss him, soft, inhaling his smell. He pulls away and looks at me, his eyes dark. Unguarded.

  I kiss him again. His hands find my stomach, my sides, my back. They’re warm, and they’re strong, and they’re holding me.

  I feel safe.

  He kisses me again, gently, and suddenly the tears come, hot and silent and unbidden. They sting my eyes, running like thin, scalded streams down the sides of my cheeks. Dmitri kisses them, too, and the more he touches my face, the more I cry. He doesn’t ask with his words, just his eyes. And he sees that I’m okay with it, that I don’t need to leave or be alone or be not touched. God, no. His touch is the only thing that’s keeping me on earth right now, in this storm of emotion-choked insanity. I cry and he kisses me, and then he pulls me close, into his arms, and stays with me, holding me.

  I let go—of all the fear and blame and guilt and sadness, of all these long months, of this nightmare I’ve been living.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words come out in heavy hiccupping sobs, and I can’t stop them. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And I’m talking to Dmitri, of course I am, but I’m talking to someone else too.

  I’m talking to Adrienne.

  I let go and lean into Dmitri, and let it run its course, my tongue unable to hold my apologies any longer. He holds my head against his shoulder and strokes my hair. And then he says the words that lift it all from me, even just for a moment.

  “I know.”

  When my tears have dried into sniffles and I’m making sense again, he pulls me away from him to look at me. I’m a mess. My face is hot and puffy, my eyelashes still wet. His eyes are full of understanding.

  “You drive,” he says, “because you’re running.” He touches my hair.

  And then I tell him.

  Chapter Eight

  I can’t bear to see Dmitri again.

  When I wake up the next morning, the cold light of day brings it all home to me. I feel naked, exposed, like I’ve shared something I never should have.

  It’s all still there. Nothing’s changed. I’ve still killed my best friend. And telling someone else about it— even someone as amazing as Dmitri— doesn’t make it better.

  In a way, it makes things worse. Because now all the details that I’ve kept locked up so tight over these past six months are spread all around for me to examine again. It’s like a wound that’s been torn open just when the stitches were starting to dissolve.

  I hate myself for not staying in control. For letting myself get involved with someone else.

  For letting myself care again.

  Dmitri messages me a few times the following week. But I can’t bring myself to answer him. On Friday, I avoid the coffee shop after work.

  Just after nine thirty, Dmitri texts me, wondering where I am. A little while later, another one pings my inbox.

  I ignore it. I ignore it, too, when he calls.

  To his credit, he gets it, and stops.

  Forget driving with him. I’m better off alone, where I can keep my head about me. Much more balanced.

  And forget going to the track with him. I don’t need some stupid seven-second sprint to feel my escape. Sure, it might be nice to learn how to make my engine work to its fullest potential, or how to drive with more skill. But I prefer the open road.

  Instead of heading to the coffee shop, I make a pit stop at 7-Eleven. Diet Coke and a bag of sunflower seeds.

  I drive south, toward where the street racers go. I don’t know when these guys usually show up, so I’ve come prepared to spend some time waiting.

  I pull over onto a gravel construction road that connects with the highway. They’re still building and developing this neighborhood, which is probably why the street racers come here to do their thing. There’s not a lot of traffic, but it’s still inside the city limits.

  I turn off the engine and climb out, taking my music with me. I grab a blanket from inside the trunk and make my way up the steep berm beside me. At the top, I spread the blanket out, plug in my headphones and unscrew the cap on the bottle of Coke. From where I sit, I can see the long black tire streaks on the pavement. My stomach tightens a bit when I think I’m about to watch real street racing.

  Dmitri would freak if he knew I was here.

  I shiver. Then I shake off the thought.

  Whatever. Dmitri’s not part of the picture anymore. I try to ignore the little fluttering feeling I get in my belly when I think of him.

  I settle in to wait.

  They show up around one o’clock. Four cars. Three of them are old-school, like Dmitri’s, but not as nice. One car’s super flashy. It looks like a newer American model, but I can’t really tell from here. The guy who’s driving it seems to be some sort of leader. He walks with a swagger, and everybody listens to him. They don’t move around much when he talks. That’s power.

  The races get underway. I watch, grinning, as the cars rip down the highway and back, over and over, with a few breaks in between.

  It’s during one of those breaks that the powerhouse steps away from the group and starts climbing the hill. It takes me a second to realize he’s headed my way. I think about my options. Run? It’s dark. I’d trip and fall for sure. Stand my ground? But what if he’s dangerous? He’s totally breaking the law by racing on the streets. Who’s to say he’s not going to hurt me?

  Chapter Nine

  Maybe he doesn’t even know I’m here. Maybe he’s climbing up to get a better view or something.

  “What are you doing?” The anger in his voice cuts the night air, and I jump.

  Nope. Not looking for a better view.

  I fight the urge to look around to see if he’s talking to someone else. Of course he isn’t. Who else is out here but me?

  I take a breath and make sure my voice is steady. I need to seem like I’m in control, not worried. “I’m watching you guys,” I say, ignoring my pounding heart. “What else would I be doing up here at two in the morning?”

  “Holy shit,” he says. I hear a surprised laugh. “You’re a chick!”

  I don’t reply.

  “Why aren’t you down at the stage, hanging out with us?” he asks. He comes closer, and I can just make his face out. Dark hair. Strong features.

  I shrug, although he probably can’t see it. I answer his question with one of my own. “How’d you know I was up here?”

  He points far along the berm to my left. “We got a guy o
n lookout. Want to see the cops before they see us.”

  I look toward where he’s pointing, but I can’t see a thing. “Oh.”

  He takes a spot on the blanket next to me. Like he belongs here, in my space. I’m not sure I like sitting with a complete (lawbreaking) stranger, in the middle of the night, in an unpopulated part of town.

  But why else did you come here, Jenessa? You know you wanted to meet them sometime.

  You know you want to race.

  “You want to come down and watch?” he asks. “You should. We like chicks.” He smiles but doesn’t look at me. “Don’t get many of them around here. And the ones that do come are usually dogs.”

  There’s something that bugs me about the way he says chick. And dog. I wonder if he ever refers to girls as anything other than animals.

  “I kind of like it up here,” I say.

  He looks at me. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

  I meet his gaze. “Nothing, really,” I say.

  He smiles again, at me this time. He sticks out his hand. “Cody.”

  I look at his hand, then at him. His smile is a bit tight. Different than Dmitri’s. Which is all I’ve been able to think about this past week, damn him. All I want to do is forget about him.

  Maybe this guy can help me out.

  I take Cody’s hand. “Jenessa.”

  “You want to race, Jenessa?”

  I shrug. “Not really,” I lie. “Just like watching.”

  He studies me for a minute. “Bullshit,” he says. “You want to race.”

  I can’t help but laugh. It’s exactly the thing I would say. I look at him. He’s sizing me up, a gleam of a challenge in his eyes.

  “Maybe I do,” I say. “But maybe I’ll just watch.”

  Cody jumps to his feet and holds out his hand to pull me up. “Then at least come and watch where there’s beer and lawn chairs. It’s cold in the wind up here.” He looks around. “And you don’t have anything to drink, that I can see.”

  I point to my half-finished bottle of Diet Coke.

  He shrugs. “If you call that a drink.”

  I consider his offer. “All right,” I say. I stand, ignoring his outstretched hand, and draw my jacket around me. He leaves his hand there for a second to make the point that I’ve been rude in not accepting it.

  I pick up my blanket and Diet Coke.

  Cody shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. He leads the way down the hill. “Where’s your car?” he asks.

  I motion toward the bottom of the hill. “Parked around on the construction road.”

  He nods. “Whatcha got?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your car, duh,” he says. “What do you drive?”

  “A GT 2003,” I say, rankled at his comment. Guess he was getting me back for rejecting him up on the hilltop.

  I can’t resist. “What do you drive, duh?”

  He stops so suddenly that I almost bump into him. He turns around to face me. I feel a tiny spiral of fear start to twist in my belly. He looks at me for a moment. Then he smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “You’re a tough chick, Jenessa. I like that.”

  He points toward where all the cars are lined up in the ditch, just out of sight. A few guys are leaning against an old convertible, talking and laughing. “Mine’s the Viper, 2009.”

  “Nice,” I say. I mean it. It’s a beautiful car.

  “You got that right,” he says.

  We join the group, and Cody introduces me around. Mike, Mark, Rishad, some guy whose nickname is Bibs. They say hi and give me quick smiles.

  Cody bends to take a bottle of beer from a cooler on the ground.

  He turns to me and winks. “A mustang and a viper, huh? That’s quite the hot little combo. I think they go pretty well together.” He takes my hand. I let him have it, but not before he feels my instinctive reflex to pull away. He pulls me closer, forcing me to take a step toward him. I fight the urge to pull back. Instead I go bold, letting him get close.

  Cody looks at me. His eyes are a clear green, beautiful, like the ocean, but they’re cool. I look right into them, not flinching. He pulls me a fraction of a step closer. “You are a wild little mustang,” he says. I stiffen, my danger radar flicking quickly from yellow to orange.

  Then he holds my arm out. “Relax, Jenessa,” he says. “I’m just offering you a beer.” He places the cold bottle in my hand.

  I close my fingers around it, gripping it to stop my hand from shaking. “Thanks,” I say.

  The conversation near the other car has died away. The other guys are kind of watching without trying to seem like they’re watching.

  Part of me is telling myself to get in my car and leave, to not come back here again.

  And another, bigger part is thrilled to be here, this close to danger. With a guy who definitely feels like someone I shouldn’t be hanging out with. Who feels a bit dangerous himself.

  And who’s not Dmitri.

  “Want some help with that?” Cody asks, nodding toward the cap on my bottle of beer. It’s tight.

  I narrow my eyes at him and laugh. “As if,” I say. But I keep my tone light. I snatch a corner of my jacket and reef on the cap, hoping it’ll give and that I won’t look like an idiot.

  The cap pops off. I drop it on the pavement and knock back half the bottle in three seconds. Bless my father for showing me how to open my throat and guzzle Kool-Aid when I was eleven years old. I’m sure he has no idea how useful I’ve found it.

  “Wow, yeah!” says the Bibs guy. He claps, and a couple others laugh.

  I take the bottle from my lips. Cody watches. I level my gaze at him. “So? You gonna race, big guy?” I smile sweetly. “Or are you going to stand around staring at me all night?”

  Laughter erupts from the group gathered around the convertible, but it ebbs quickly. Cody doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t say anything either. He’s not happy with me stealing his thunder.

  At the same time, I can see that he likes the challenge I’m laying down. I bet there aren’t a lot of people who give Cody a hard time. And chances are, if I knew him better, I might not do it either.

  But for now, ignorance is bliss.

  I stay until the last race of the night. At the end of the evening, as everyone’s packing up, Cody comes close. He smells like beer and engine oil.

  “I’ll see you next week,” he says.

  It’s not an invitation so much as an order. But I nod. I want to come back. I want to watch the racing. And, strangely, I want more of Cody.

  As I drive home, I touch the sore spots on my neck where he grabbed me for a kiss.

  I wonder if he left a mark.

  Chapter Ten

  I’m waiting when Mark and Bibs pull in. Cody follows a few minutes later. I’ve parked just off the shoulder, like everyone else.

  I lean against Cody’s car, and we watch a few races. Mark and Mike. Bibs and some new guy, Doran. The guys are always careful to make sure the road is clear before they take off. From the starting line, you can see almost a mile in each direction. When there are no lights coming, they go. And they rotate the lookout every couple of hours. No one wants the cops hassling us.

  Cody hands me a new beer every time I finish one. With him, it seems drinking isn’t really an option. It’s more like an expectation. I think he’s on his fifth.

  He’s standing beside me now, his arm draped carelessly around my waist. I kind of like it. The beer has loosened me up, worn down my sharp edges. I find myself shrieking and laughing every time the cars peel off the line in a scream of rubber.

  After my third beer, my vision has grown fuzzy. I reach for my cigarettes and light up. I hadn’t planned on letting Cody in on my dirty little secret, but I’m feeling good tonight. And I feel like having a smoke.

  I take a drag, careful to blow the smoke away from Cody. I hope he doesn’t say anything.

  Maybe I’ll offer him one.

  I take another puff and turn to see his hand moving towa
rd my face, fast. I flinch backward. My other hand comes up to shield my face.

  Cody laughs. The sound is hard. He takes the cigarette from my mouth with a sharp little yank. “Relax, Jenessa,” he says. “You’re so tense. Did you think I was going to hit you or something?”

  Funny, that’s exactly what I thought. My heart is racing.

  “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.” He holds the burning cigarette just out of reach.

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. His words are absurd. “Oh, and drinking and driving isn’t?” I say. It spills out before I can stop it. But I’m pissed that he scared me like that.

  Cody looks at me for a moment, then throws the cigarette onto the pavement. He ignores my question. “Put it out,” he says. His face is dark. “That shit’s toxic. I don’t want it stinking up my stage.”

  I can’t believe this. Stinking up his stage? Who does this guy think he is?

  I don’t like being pushed around. “I’ll go finish this somewhere else,” I say, bending down to pick up the smoke. “Where it won’t bother you.”

  He lowers his boot onto my hand. Gently.

  “I said, put it out.”

  The other guys are watching, shifting nervously. My face reddens with shame. But I don’t want to make him angrier.

  “Okay.” It comes out sounding weak. “Okay,” I say, louder. “Get off me.”

  He takes his foot off my hand. I stand up without looking at him. I step on the burning end and grind it out with my shoe. I want to say something nasty, something to put him in his place and tell him that I don’t like the way he’s treating me. But I can’t predict his reactions. He’s freaky. I don’t know what he’ll let go of—and what’ll flip him out.

  As soon as I’ve put the cigarette out, Cody’s all friendly again. I lean against the car beside him, and he puts his arm back around me.

  I’m sickened when I realize I feel relieved.