“Ladies and gents, I believe the studs of the show have arrived. My hate for them has returned. I envy these bastards,” one of the commentators says over the speakers.
“Preach it, brother,” his partner chimes in.
The female reporter in her tight bun and equally tight blazer is speaking rapidly into her mic. She pushes her way through the sea of rally girls and motor heads. Good luck to her. Those gathered know how best to keep the press occupied so no one bothers the top five. It’s an unwritten rule. We never give interviews during a Gathering. This place is all about the race.
Heart in my throat, I struggle to stay upright. My decision is made. I’d race at least one of them tonight. The crowd grows still. Anticipation hangs in the air. Even the techno lowers from blasting to mellow thrumming. All eyes land on the first corner down the path. Two camera drones position themselves right above the apex.
Headlight beams wave at the Gathering. A cheer, like a great exhale, reverberates from the crowd. This is a different kind of adoration. It’s blind, almost cultish. Ace and Bedlam can say jump and we will all scream “how high?” They are gods. The energy their arrival injects into everyone is akin to the countdown on New Year’s Eve. The din gets louder and louder.
Over the speakers a commentator says, “Motor heads, gird your loins. Rally girls, pull up your panties. Ace and Bedlam have arrived to party.”
I grin. You never know when Ace is coming during a race until all you see is his taillights after passing you. Bedlam is plain insane. When he gets going, he doesn’t care who he kills to win. Only Ace can keep him in check. I certainly hope I’ll be able to clear the hurdle Bedlam presents. My relationship with him is nothing short of complicated. Actually, I think we define the word. But I remind myself that he’s what stands between me and Ace and victory. During a race my only loyalty is to myself and my car.
“Ace’s SF22 comes around the corner first. Listen to that 2000 horsepower engine encased in a carbon fiber Kevlar-blend composite body. The best money can buy and the only one of its kind. All that white accented with black side panels. The sleek lines resemble a shark in the water. I need a tissue to wipe myself off. It’s a sin to give that much power to one guy. Ace, man, you have to share!” Envy coats the second commentator’s voice. It’s the same reaction every time. I wonder if the viewers are as sick of it as I am.
“Power isn’t everything,” the first commentator gripes. “I’ll put my money on the intimidation factor that oozes out of Bedlam’s Zonda GR. Six headlights that resemble spider eyes. Body lowered to the ground in gunmetal silver. He modified the bodywork to include front and rear diffusers for improved aerodynamics. That monster can go from zero to sixty in three point three seconds. What more can you ask for? I’m getting stiff just thinking about it.”
“Ah, but the Street Fighter beats the Zonda at zero to sixty by at least point eight seconds,” the second counters. For as long as I’ve been forced to listen to them during races, they’ve never agreed on who is better between Ace and Bedlam. One is always more superior than the other in one aspect while the other dominates in another. I shake my head. Get on with it already.
Gaze glued to the white Street Fighter, I watch it smoothly back into its specified parking space at the front of the field. Anyone who drives into the plateau will see the handsome hard edges of the supercar powered by a twin-turbo engine first. The sight of my nemesis is definitely a blinding one. It eats at my gut like termites that I still haven’t challenged him to a downhill race since we started racing five years ago. It pisses me off that, outside his SF, Ace is kind and charming. It’s so hard to hate him, which makes me hate myself instead.
The SF’s driver door lifts upward like a wing. My heart stalls. Silver hair gelled into spikes stick out first as Ace exits his car. He tugs at his shirt and cargo pants, smoothing some of the creases out as best he can. He does a quick scan of the crowd and flicks a wave at the rally girls. They all swoon at the sight of him, calling his name; even the reporter is lost in her own dumbstruck world, blushing madly. Several pieces of underwear land a yard away from him. He pays them no attention. He smiles when he spots me and saunters to where I stand. I close my eyes from the bright glare, like staring straight at incoming headlights. He’ll never change. When I recover from my momentary blindness, I lift my lids. I refuse to adjust any part of my clothing or hair. I absolutely won’t look uncomfortable in front of him. Totally won’t lose my cool. I fold my terribly shaking arms across my chest.
Star shrieks and makes a running leap for Ace. She wraps her arms behind his neck and her legs around his waist. He doesn’t even stumble back when he catches her. His hands cup her ass, using the fabric of her skirt as a buffer. Not waiting for a cue, he bends down and grants her a kiss. After indulging her, he untangles Star’s clutches. She lands on unsteady feet, her pretty face flushed down to the valley of her cleavage.
Like a panther on the prowl, Ace keeps moving. He reaches out and curls his fingers into Slipstream’s green hair, pulling him in until their foreheads touch. They breathe in together, sharing the exhaust-filled air between them. And like an indirect kiss, their exhales mingle. Slipstream looks
