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He said nothing to mepressing a few buttons on the stereo as I buckled in preparing for my death. Iwas sure I was about to die. The blue and red lights of his stereo lit up, astaircase display of rising lights bounced with the base.

My seat vibrated withthe lean idol before he revved the engine once and took off, dirt and rocksspraying out across the field as we took off for the highway.

Jameson didn’t listento the song he chose often but when he did, it was a direct reflection of hismood. A slow base thumped, his head nodding to the kick. I didn’t recognize thesong but the rhythm seemed just as dark as his mood.

His window was cracked.Each passing car detangled another loop of his hair resulting in a wild mess.His chin tucked toward his chest, his eyes scowled into the darkness. Shiftedslightly toward the door, his right hand hung over the steering wheel, his leftarm rested on the edge of the door panel as he ran his knuckles slowly acrossher lower lip and jaw, contemplating. I shouldn’t have been surprised by hismood. I knew it was coming.

I may have mentionedthis before, or not, but Jameson had this 1967 Shelby GT500 Mustang that I wassure was my only competition in his life. He’d originally purchased the carwhen he was sixteen. When hauling around a sprint car each weekend didn’t workwell for the Mustang, he sold it to Jimi and bought a Ford diesel truck thatcould haul his trailer and the sprint car.

When he signed withSimplex in the Winston Cup series, he bought his car back from Jimi.

So on the way back toDarlington that night, while driving that GT500, another, newer Mustang crossedthe centerline and revved up beside us on the two-lane highway. He was tauntingJameson and Jameson knew it.

Jameson, humming withaggression from Darrin, shook his head and rolled it to the side to glance atme.“Really?”

“Just ignore him,” wasmy attempt to calm him down.

Did he do that?

Sure, he tried. Buthe’s a race car driver.Meand the rest of societyshouldn’t expect too much.

Jameson revved forwardand my head snapped back against the seat as the torque jolted me.

The car darted backbehind us when another approaching car came around the bend.

Once again, the carcame right back, their headlights shining through the back window.Jameson’s dark menacing gaze lifted to the review mirror, his jaw clenchedanticipating.

“Jameson.” I slappedhis shoulder. “Knock it off. I just want to get to bed and preferably not onthe side of the road.”

There, I voiced myconcerns about being road kill and being tired. Now he knew.

He said nothing. Hisgaze fixated on the road. The glow from the headlights lit up the dark weavinghighway.

I’d never been in areal car chase before. This was similar, right?

When Jameson slammedthe car in fourth and my stomach met my heart, I knew for sure it was no longera car chase and maybe just on my way to road kill.

Engines roared, theonly sounds besides our heavy breathing when Jameson said, “Why does everyonefucking test me?” By the gruff question, he wasn’t looking for a response.

The car beside uslurched forward again but this time kept speed. And before long, was pullingaway.

What do you think racecar driver in the car with me did?

Before long, I wasgripping my seat with my eyes screwed shut. I couldn’t watch. Not only was theroad winding and sharp, but I also had this notion that if I didn’t see mydeath approaching, I wouldn’t feel it. What a crazy fucking notion that was.

“If he hits my car,”Jameson’s voice forced my eyes open. “I will fuck him up.”

“Jameson?” Theovergrown grass and trees were flying by so quickly I thought we’d make it toDarlington in minutes. And I was starting to get car sick.Reallycar sick.

“I’m serious.”

“Jameson?”

“This guy is a fuckingdouche.”

“Jameson?”

His jaw clenched. He saidnothing so I tried again.