Page 131

Perfect for when my family arrived.

“Jesus…” my brother Steve said as he took in the car. “That is beautiful.” His hand went out, wanting to caress the rear panel, but he stopped when he saw me. “So this is your shit hot driver?” He held out his hand. “Steve, mate.”

I shook it firmly.

“So is this The Stig from that car show or something?” Dave asked, peering at my helmet visor.

“The British one?” Steve asked with a chuckle.

“Something like that.” Brock’s reply was completely non-committal. “So we’ve got two laps today. We’re not racing, just taking the car for a spin around the track, putting it through its paces.”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to race a car like this,” Dad said. “Must be worth a bomb.”

Brock just shrugged as my brothers made disappointed noises.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t take the track at speed, though,” he replied.

“Alright.” Steve rubbed his hands with glee. “Guess we better get this show on the road. You’re the one putting on the shackle today.” He gave Frankie a shove. “Better have some fun before the old ball and chain weighs you down.”

I was thankful for the helmet, because it meant when I rolled my eyes, no one could see it. Instead, I walked over to the car and got into the driver’s seat, turning the ignition before giving the car a rev.

“Alright, I’m in.” Frankie was forced to slide in the backseat as Brock took the front.

“Got room for one more.” He nodded to my dad. “Want to jump in, Arthur?”

You didn’t have to ask Dad twice. He was in the backseat, the racing harness strapped down as I began to idle forward. Brock had a word with the marshal at the gates and then we were waved through.

My heart began to really pound when we approached the race track. Another official stopped us as the current driver finished their circuit, going roaring into the pit area.

“Fuck, this is gonna be good,” Frankie said, hand gripping the oh-shit handle.

Which of course, meant it had to be.

I’d studied the diagrams of the course in preparation for this moment, but as soon as I got here, I knew it didn’t matter. Some innate part of me came into play. Planting my foot on the accelerator to send a spray of dirt and rocks, fishtailing out onto the race track, the sounds of the crowd’s cheers a dim roar in the background, right before I changed gears rapidly and then hit the straight.

I’d learned to love cars hanging around with my dad and my brothers, but when I became a teenager, it felt like girls and boys had very distinct roles in the car world. Boys bought the best damn cars they could and girls were like graphics or custom interiors: there to sit pretty and make the guy they were with look better. The first few guys I’d gone out with seemed to want the same thing from me, until one thought it amusing to teach me how to really drive. Not safely, not sedately following the rules of the road, but like this.

Roaring into a corner at a speed that felt way too fast and right as you felt that vertiginous slide, you planted your foot and went powering out through the turn. The rear of the HQ slid out, my hands moving around the steering wheel to increase that swing back and forth before stabilising the car on the straight.

“Whoa…!”

I glimpsed at Dad in the rear vision mirror and saw he had both gone pale and was sporting a big grin as we raced forward, but Frankie? He’d wound down the windows, howling his delight like a wolf, to the sounds of the crowd’s cheers. I couldn’t focus on them though, punching through gears and then taking the next corner even faster.

“You’ve got this.”

A quiet, grit-teeth vote of confidence from Brock was all that I needed. The tyres stacked up around the corners to stop a driver from going too far if they spun out of control felt like they loomed closer and closer, right before I wrenched on the wheel. That light, weightless feeling of a tonne of metal going way too fast, then spinning out of control, had us all lifting slightly from our seats, before I was forced to use every muscle I had to wrench the car back on course. My breath came in rapid little pants, my heart singing even as every drop of adrenalin my body could produce rushed through me. We came hurtling down the straight before a marshal waved us over to the pits.

“Bloody hell, that’s got the old ticker going!” Dad said, stumbling out of the car.

“You’re not gonna have a heart attack, are you?” Steve asked, grabbing his arm to steady him.

“Heart attack?” Dad shoved him off. “Never felt more alive.”

“That was fucking amazing!” Frankie leapt free of the car, spinning around. “Whoa, what a rush! Today is gonna be the best. Hot car, a car show, and then I get engaged to the woman I love?”

“Shut up, you soppy prick.” Dave gave him a shove and then made a beeline for the backseat. “Alright Brick?—”

“Brock,” Dad corrected.