“That’s what I’m doing, Reed. Fucking who I want and working when I want. You know, since it’s my garage.”
My belly revolts at the vitriol. Reed’s been my friend for so long, and I don’t want to be mean, but maybe it is a twisted sort of compassion?
“Fuck you, Rix.” He turns away, throwing a wrench at the ground before stomping off.
Manuel looks after him with dark eyes and then back at me before nodding solemnly. Guess he thinks Brody’s right too.
But if Reed and I both feel like shit and are pissed, can it be a kindness?
Chapter 16
Brody
Erica is a mystical, magical witch.
It’s the only explanation.
Somehow, she managed to talk me into riding in her Mustang to the races. Yes, the one she got arrested for driving too fast just last night and the one she got out of the impound lot this afternoon. Also, the one that was not made for guys my size, which means I rode bitch, with my knees damn near tucked up under my chin like a toddler. And now, she’s holding court over a whole racetrack full of swinging dicks.
Somehow, not a one of them seems to give her any attention, though, which I totally don’t get. Oh, they talk to her, laugh with her, and when we arrived, several of the older guys gave her hugs that left her feet dangling a foot off the ground. But it all seems very platonic and community-like. She’s one of their own, and they’re protective of her, which is where the swinging dicks come in. They’re all competitive against each other, smack talking about car stuff that means jack shit to me but also eyeballing me like I’m trying to steal away with their girl.
Their Rix.
“What do you drive?” Jerry asks. The pot-bellied man introduced himself a second ago and instantly made me think of Papa Smurf because of his white beard and round face. The white ballcap on his bald head adds to the image.
“Ram dually,” I answer, knowing it’s not what he wants to hear. Or at least not all that he wants to hear.
“Shut your piehole, Jerry. He’s not a car guy, I’m giving ya that. So you and the lot of you can let that go now.” Erica starts out talking directly to Jerry, who looks slightly chagrined, but ends by addressing the whole crowd.
Another guy, this one a twenty-something guy with an honest-to-God mullet, calls out, “Never thought I’d see the day the great Rix Cole would settle down with a regular Joe. If he can’t talk engines, what do you even talk about?”
“His dick, Mike.”
I choke on my tongue. She didn’t just . . . but oh, yeah, she did.
A snicker goes through the crowd, but they seem to take her outburst in stride, like it’s a normal thing for her to say. Hell, maybe it is, I don’t know.
Erica’s eyes stay on Mike, but she talks over her shoulder. “Hey, Jerry, what’d Marlene say when you were trying to decide between the 305 and the 350?”
Jerry’s brows lock together. “Not a thing. She don’t care what I’m running. She only cares if we’ve got enough money to go on our summer cruise. Alaska this year.” Pride and excitement tinge his voice.
“Regular Joe, huh?” Erica’s conclusion works its way through the crowd slowly, each of them seeming to realize that their significant others don’t always share their enthusiasm for their hobby. Is it a hobby or an obsession? Both?
Erica claps. “Now that that’s settled, let’s do some racing. Who’s up first, Ed?”
And just like that, she’s the queen of the racetrack again and everyone moves toward their cars to do her bidding.
The racetrack isn’t what I was expecting, though I don’t know what I thought it would be like. It’s a straight quarter-mile track with black streaks covering the length of the asphalt, a lighting rig at the starting line, and an official with a clipboard. That’d be Ed, and this is his racetrack.
“Mike versus Clint,” Ed calls out.
Mullet-haired Mike holds out his hand to a dark-haired guy with a beard that reaches down to his belly. That must be Clint. They shake and then turn toward their cars. The quiet hum of talk is drowned out by a loud car starting and then another with zero harmony. It’s all growl.
Mike and Clint line up. Mike’s driving a large older-style car from the ’50s in flame red. Past that, I can’t tell much about it. Clint’s car looks more like a ’70s sportscar, something I can imagine Burt Reynolds driving. My money’s on Clint, partly because his car looks fast and partly because he just seems like a guy who won’t back down from a challenge. In contrast, Mike seems like a bit of a punk ass kid with more mouth than brains.
As Ed goes to each man’s window, Erica fills me in.
“Ed runs a tight ship here. First and foremost, cars have to meet safety requirements. Drivers too. He does a track check at the start of the night and again if there’s a crash.” Erica says ‘crash’ like she might say ‘hello’, zero inflection or concern.
Slowly but surely, over Mike and Clint’s race and then several more (Mike wins, surprising me), I get to see a different side of this woman. She’s a roller coaster of emotions, from still and almost prayer-like when they line up to excited and yelling when she’s rooting for her guy to win. Or more precisely, her engine.
She’s worked on a large number of these machines.
“If so many people know that you’re doing all this custom work, how does your family not find out?” I ask in her ear at one point of not-deafening noise.
“I trust them. They trust me. They all know my dad, and a lot of them knew Big John too. When Dad pulled his one-eighty and stopped working on their engines, it left this void that needed to be filled. Who better than his daughter, the one who learned at his elbow?” She smiles at the memories, letting me know that despite the secrets, she has positive feelings about her dad.
“The first few I did for the cost of parts only, no labor charges at all. Had to prove myself as more than a tool bitch to these guys. The first time my engine got the win was one of the happiest moments of my life. I started charging that night, and now, I’ve got a sweet side gig with a lineup of work to do. The guys keep it quiet out of respect for my dad, who they loved and miss seeing around here, and for more practical reasons, a.k.a. if my cover gets blown, there’s a real shot that they’ll lose their best customizer and mechanic.” Zero modesty or brag, merely all truth.
“You’re amazing,” I tell her honestly and then plant a smacking kiss on her lips.
I don’t hear her answer because another race takes off and the loud squeal of tires drowns her out. But I see her smile. I feel it in my bones.
As Erica watches a few more races, I watch her. This whole thing is a big share, something she chose to tell me. She could’ve asked me to bail her out, then told me to fuck off. Honestly, I probably would’ve and not given it a second thought.
Okay, that part’s a lie. I would’ve thought about Erica again. At least once or twice, maybe a couple of dozen times. But the secret part I wouldn’t have pressed about.
They say the best way to keep a secret is to tell no one. If you keep your own mouth shut, there’s never any risk of discovery. Erica, though, has a secret an entire group of people knows but have managed to keep quiet. Plus me now, but I won’t let her down.