A loaded pause. “How many corners until she fainted?”
I sigh. “She lasted until Suicide Curve.”
“I’m sorry, RC.” The tone Goose uses belies a child apologizing for breaking his mother’s antique vase. “She really wanted to come. She wouldn’t have raced tonight. I promise you that.”
“And yet you tuned the Zagato for the downhill.” I lean the back of my head against the seat. My free hand rests on my thigh.
“Just in case.”
I scowl at the smile behind his words. “Don’t be proud of yourself, Goose.” I stop myself. The guy probably has no clue what Zamara manipulated her father into asking me. “By now the entire gallery is buzzing with the presence of the boss’s daughter at a Gathering.”
“You managed to take their mind off that with your shenanigans,” Mac says.
“No one uses the word ‘shenanigans’ anymore, buddy.” The insulted silence at the other end eases the tension in my shoulders. “What do you have to say for yourself, Goose?”
“She loves the races, RC.”
“I have to wonder about that.”
I don’t expect an answer from Goose. I want him to understand the precarious ledge we all stand on. There’s a difference between watching the races and participating in them. One reason why the races are so fun is that the real action happens outside the control of anyone but the driver. I don’t willingly put anyone else in danger for my passion. Yet Zamara keeps throwing herself into the crossfire.
“The race is about to begin.” Mac’s excitement pulls me away from worrying.
“Goose, you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“How can I watch the race from the Zagato?”
I don’t need to see Goose to know he’s smirking from ear to ear at the paddock. Mechanics pride themselves in adding accessories to cars that aren’t connected to racing but don’t hinder performance. I have a feeling the Zagato is no exception especially since Zamara is an avid race fan.
“You see the CD player?” Goose replies.
“An outdated choice,” Mac comments.
“Shut up!” A smack accompanies Goose’s words.
“Ow! You’re aware that you just hit a cripple, right?”
“Boys! Boys! There’s a race to watch!” I snap. I don’t want to miss a single second of this rare battle between two masters. If I have a speck of a chance to beat them, I need to see what they are capable of against each other.
“Press the power button and wait,” Goose instructs.
I do as I’m told. From the CD player console slides out a black panel. It pops up to reveal an HD screen the size of a small tablet. The race between the SF22 and the Zonda flickers into focus. I wince at the annoyingly excited voices of the commentators. Zamara continues to snore beside me, oblivious.
“How do you mute this thing?” I ask, but Goose’s reply comes too slow. Saying the word “mute” actually accomplishes the task. I whistle. “Voice-activated commands. Nice.”
“Isn’t it?” Goose sounds too eager for his own good.
My eyes are instantly glued to how the race is playing out. Ace and Bedlam are neck and neck as they enter the S-curves with Ace taking the lead. The parallel drifts they perform are breathtaking. Mere inches separate the cars’ sides from each other—a testament to their godlike control over their vehicles. They are the perfect examples of man and machine working as one. I don’t dare blink.
“Goose, put Screw on the line,” I say as an afterthought.
A quick shuffling, and then Screw answers my unasked question. “Yes, he undertuned his car. Two thousand horsepower is useless on a downhill race.”
“But he’s still making Bedlam work for his credits despite it.” My heart pounds so hard I hear its beats in my ears. I grip the shift stick to anchor myself to the present. A hiss escapes my lips, too turned on by what I’m watching. A pulse begins at my core, begging for release.
Bedlam takes a wider racing line in an attempt to pass Ace as they navigate the hairpin racers use as the first quarter marker. Barely an inch separates both cars. If any of them slips or releases the steering wheel lock too soon….
I refuse to think about the resulting collision. Racers make it a habit to forget about crashing their cars. It only adds undue stress to an already anxiety-riddled circumstance. A thousand and one things can go wrong. Brakes can fail. An oil slick at a corner. Tires blowing. Thinking about each of them will ensure at least one will send a car too close to the guardrails. Everyone at the Gathering thinks the top five are fearless. I disagree. The top five have several bolts and pistons missing from our noggins to be able to drive the way we do.
An example is the maneuver Bedlam executes upon exiting the hairpin to get ahead of Ace on the second quarter stretch of the race. He pulls left, then veers right and barrels through. Two lanes are just enough room. But the Zonda never gets a chance to pull away and create a winning margin after taking the lead. The Street Fighter stays on its tail like a magnet is tugging it along. Ace shadows Bedlam for the rest of the descent. The rear of Bedlam’s car progressively becomes more erratic with each corner it enters. He’s losing grip on his tires.
“He’s oversteering,” Screw says.
“He’s never one to stay calm on a course.” I lick the perspiration dotting my upper lip. The salt brings up a low moan. I can barely keep my hand from easing the ache between my legs. “Having Ace tailgating him must be eating at his nerves.”
“Bedlam’s good, if a little unreliable in the sanity department.”
And that’s what I find most attractive about him. As an answer to Screw’s commentary, Bedlam brakes too soon into a corner, almost clipping Ace’s front end with the bumper of his Zonda. Ace, merely copying Bedlam’s driving line, manages to avoid the attack by braking in time. They drift into a corner, and despite having the
