“Good run, Rix. You hit one forty easy and early.” She actually sounds excited for me, and considering it’s probably one of the faster runs of the non-juiced cars, that’s understandable. Mostly, I think she likes having another woman around who likes cars because other than her and me, we only see the occasional bored girlfriend or wannabe car magazine model.
“Thanks, Patricia. How’re the kids?” She and Ed have two kids, a son who’s almost thirty and a daughter who’s twenty-three and lives in a group home an hour away.
She tells me about her son and daughter-in-law who have decided to become electric car-driving vegans. “Ed about had a heart attack, but I held him back. Those kids are gonna give me grandbabies one day, and I’m not letting a diet or a car get between me and those chubby cheeks.” She pinches the air as though there’s already a sweet baby in front of her. “And Jennifer got herself a job! She’s working at a warehouse doing inventory. It’s perfect for her. She gets to count and make spreadsheets and track discrepancies. Right up her alley.”
“Good for her, glad to hear that.”
Our conversation is drowned out by the roar of engines running. I smile and wave at Patricia, knowing our time has been cut short because those two racers will want their time slips to analyze. She waves back as I pull on around and park Foxy.
I walk up to the crowd of spectators, who offer me high-fives and congratulations.
“Thanks. Another day, another run.” I’m happy with my performance and Foxy’s, but bragging after a win is unsportsmanlike and asshole-ish. I try to follow a mantra I heard once, ‘humble in victory, gracious in defeat’, and so far, it’s served me well.
“Gassers are done. Ed’s doing bottle-feds now,” Jerry tells me. “Todd’s up against a new guy with an import.” Foxy is a pure gasoline engine, along with Jerry, both Mikes, and a handful of other cars. Todd’s part of the more heavily modified group that runs nitrous.
“What’d Todd put for his dial-in?”
Dial-in is what a racer estimates his car will do and is an important part of deciding who races whom. If you fudge your numbers, you can be disqualified, so honesty is key.
“Nine flat,” Jerry says disbelievingly. I eye him, not reacting in the slightest, but he reads me anyway. I make a mental note to never play poker with Jerry. “That’s what we all thought too. What’d you do to his Challenger?”
“Nothing,” I say carefully. “I ordered some stuff for him, but he canceled. Said he figured something else out.”
A million thoughts run through my head at once. Mostly, I try to figure out how in the hell Todd thinks he’ll pull numbers like that. His car is fast, and he’s a good driver, but that’s nearly half a second off his best time. There’s no way.
Todd and a blue Toyota Supra do their burnouts and hit the line, both revving their engines and purging their nitrous.
The tree lights switch from the first yellow to the second, to the third, and then the green illuminates, and both cars rear up before lurching forward. Right off the line, Todd doesn’t seem like himself. The tires spin slightly and the front end lifts off the ground. Even once he gets all four tires connected with the asphalt, he’s barely in control, not holding his line the way he usually does.
“What the fuck?” I say.
At the same time, Jerry hisses, “Shit.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him cuss and not even need all my fingers.
In slow motion, there’s a deafening pop, and flames rise from under the Challenger’s hood. Instantly, people are on their feet and running toward Todd.
That’s what family does for one another.
“Get out! Get out!” I yell as the flames rise higher. I’m close enough that he should be able to hear me, but another burst of flames ignites loudly. I’m the first one to approach the flaming car, so I automatically flip the kill switch on the back to shut off the ignition and pull the driver side door open.
Todd is banging on the steering wheel. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Or I assume that’s what he’s saying, but it’s muffled by his helmet and overwhelmed by the hiss of extinguishers as several people aim the hoses under the hood to put out the fire.
I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull. “Get the fuck out now, Todd!” He turns, and his eyes are glassy with shock, not focusing on me. But he sticks a leg out and then the other, letting me yank him out of the car. “You okay?” I yell.
There’s another pop, and flames leap out from underneath the car, catching both Todd and me by surprise.
Hot. Hot. Hot.
My legs are on fire, actual flames licking along my calves, reaching for my knees.
I cry out, but it’s lost in the sound of everyone else cussing and yelling. Todd tackles me to the ground, and my head hits the asphalt hard, ringing my bell. I blink, trying to focus and trying to breathe beneath Todd’s weight.
“Be still!” someone yells.
“Close your eyes and hold your breath!” someone else yells at the same time.
It’s so quick, but it’s in slow motion too, like every second has been teased apart for maximum carnage. I feel the cool foam of the fire extinguisher hit my legs where there should be jeans and moan at the stinging sensation even though it’s better than the burn.
“Patricia called 9-1-1. Ambulance is on its way,” Ed says. “Hang in there, Todd. You okay, Rix?”
I realize that Todd is no longer smooshing me and thrash my head around to find him. “Todd?”
“You okay, Rix?” he says from my other side, his voice rough and tight. I turn to see him lying on the ground next to me. Someone has taken his helmet off, and he looks pale and clammy, his eyes getting shinier and more vacant by the second. My legs hurt, and I can’t see what’s wrong with Todd, but I can tell he’s a lot worse off than I am.
“I’m good, Todd. We’re gonna get you some help, ’kay?” I look back up to Ed and dig deep for my balls. “Get that fucking ambulance here now, Ed!” I bark.
He tries to chuckle, a watery smile trying to come through, but he fails and instead his lips just quiver. “Even down for the count, she’s a bossy one, our Rix.”
Jerry pats my head, something that would normally piss me off royally. Right now, it’s just what I need. But not who I need it from.
“Hey, Ed?” He leans over, coming into my field of vision, his brows raised. “Call my dad to meet us at the hospital.”
He nods, looking grim. I think we all know the shit just hit the fan in a spectacularly fucked up manner, and we’re all going to pay the Keith Cole price for keeping this from him.
Chapter 25
Brody
Motel rooms used to be so exciting. Once or twice a year, Dad would take me to the market auction to buy and sell for our herd, and it’d seemed like such an adventure. Fancy towels, folded toilet paper, fresh sheets, pizza delivery, and just the boys. We’d sit around with no shirts on, not shower, and once I was in high school, Dad would even let me have a beer or two.
Those are some of my best memories of my dad, actually, because back then, he really was amazing. I looked up to him, admired him, and respected him. He was worthy of it, earned it by giving us his time, attention, and lessons about his years of ranching.