When I pushed full out of the maze of metal, I felt pressure in my chest lessen. I hadn’t even noticed it building.
“Just go home. Get some fucking sleep. Come back tomorrow night.” My words were a mumbled half-growl, failure blooming in my chest that was already too tight these days.
I’m not sure why, but at that moment, the near-disastrous test trial for the Cirque du Sang head honchos came to mind.
Nitro missing his first throw, losing his shit, then recovering enough to conquer his target.
Fallon managing to shoot the apple off one of the CEO’s heads while riding, then nearly crashing afterwards.
Asher setting the stage curtains on fucking fire. That delighted the shit out of my pack brother; he just walked right into the flames wearing his retardant suit, then proceeded to perform his stunts. I thought one of the Cirque Execs was going to shit a brick when Asher breathed fire a foot from his face.
Xander was the only one of us that didn’t fuck-up. He’d handled the ramps like a textbook pro, even modifying the Superman during his last jump.
Me? I’d nearly driven right out of the Wall of Death, proving its name was accurate.
Failure. Just like tonight.
I started stalking in the direction of the front gate. Rotating my head slightly left and right, I made the light’s glow dance around the junkyard. It was childish, but it fed something in me. Absentmindedly, my eyes briefly landed on everything the glow touched. Newer SUV, a stupidly expensive one, the entire roof caved in. No doubt it had flipped during a crash. An older sedan some idiot had painted a garish shade of orange. A Suzuki Boulevard that made my stomach turn. Anytime I saw a motorcycle in that kind of shape, I thought about the rider. About a hundred yards from the first gate—the one that separated the actual junkyard from the gated section with the trailer office and parking—two round, center-set lights blinked at me. I looked slightly to the right, finding another identically sized headlight. To the left, same thing. Unmistakable grill. And chrome emblems. Slanted, all caps. GT 350.
I jogged over to it.
Heart rate picking up.
Stupid hope, even when I didn’t want to entertain it, always creeping back in no matter how many times I killed it. But maybe this was the universe throwing me a bone. And, fuck, I needed a win.
Like a kid outside a candy store, I went to the driver’s door, leaned down, and shot the beam of light inside. The glare made me squint. Hard to see. I wrenched the door open.
And disappointment flooded me.
Disappointment and rage.
Automatic.
The right car. The right year.
And some miscreant back in ‘67 went with a goddamn automatic. Getting a muscle car in auto was a fucking sin.
I slammed the Mustang’s door so hard that the Tetris pile of cars atop it quaked. Fucking waste of metal. I kicked the tire, sending dust and small pebbles flying. I needed to punch something. Needed to destroy anything. The headlamp beam bobbed wildly as I started pacing, hands clenched into fists.
"Problem?"
The voice came from behind me, and I whirled around, ready for a fight. The light from my headlamp caught a tall figure standing about twenty feet away. How had I not heard anyone approach? Too wrapped up in my own chaos.
“Fuck you want,” I growled, fists tightening, arms beginning to lift and bend and position. I’d go for his collarbone first.
“Now, Kane. I might have to rethink our little after hours arrangement if you beat shit instead of buy.” The voice was calm, almost flippant. Otto Gibbons. Owner of Gibb & Take Salvage Yard.
“Fuck,” I breathed out, running a hand down my face.
“Fuck indeed,” Otto walked over to a light post and flicked a switch. He cocked a thumb at it afterwards. “Day night sensor’s bust on this one.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.
“So, guessing you didn’t find what you’re looking for?” The old man’s weathered, brown face stared me down. So, I stared right fucking back.
Not breaking our locked gazes, Otto reached into the inner pocket of his oily, canvas jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He slapped the container against his palm a few times before giving the package a little jerk, so a single, slim cigarette popped out. He lifted the crinkled container to his mouth, clamped the exposed cig between his lips, and then heldthe package out to me. I shook my head. He shrugged and slipped the smokes back in his jacket.
“Tell me what you need,” he said, now retrieving a lighter from his jeans. The flame from the Zippo briefly illuminated his face in orange light. He inhaled a few quick puffs, and the end of the cig caught fire.
