***
Addie fills the car with endless chatter as we drive, not once asking about our destination. There’s a thrum of anticipation underneath her light banter though, a quiver in her voice that betrays nervous excitement.
She’s a peculiar little thing: refused a drink when we first met but climbs into my car tonight no questions asked.
I could take her anywhere. Literally anywhere. It’s not like she’s strong enough to fight me off.
Looks like she trusts me, odd as that is. What’s more...Itrusther. God knows why, but I do. Enough that I’m revealing a secret I’ve cloistered away from my family for over a year.
“We’re almost there,” I say, cutting through her chatter.
She falls silent, gazing out the window, big brown eyes wide and eager.
The desert stretches to the horizon, lifeless under the California sky. The rumble of my engine and Addie’s breathing are the only sounds piercing the silence.
We haven’t passed a single car in at least twenty minutes, navigating the forgotten roads until the emptiness around gives way to something very different.
Something alive.
In the distance, an orange glow flickers against the night sky. The deep beat of music resonates across the sand, hitting us in waves. Vibrations pulsate through the floor of my car, all the way into my bones.
I fucking love this moment when I emerge from complete stillness into the vivacity of our meeting spot on the long-abandoned airfield. I love the reckless, adrenaline-starved part of me rousing from sleep, and I love the excitement streaming through the air to bubble in my chest. It’s addictive. Exhilarating.
I turn onto the final stretch of the road, watching the scene ahead unfold further. An asylum of light and sound. A wild mix of engines roaring, music blaring, and bodies dancing. Car headlights, neons, and strobing, colorful lights cut the darkness, illuminating a sea of cars as diverse as the crowd around them.
From all-out American muscle to Japanese imports. From high-end exotics to souped-up pickup trucks.
Every petrolhead’s heaven on earth.
People are everywhere. Leaning against cars, beers in hand, their laughter ringing over the music. Some are dancing, bodies moving in rhythm with the bass, others talk, joke, and drink beer. A couple is making out against the hood of a shiny yellow Corvette, oblivious to the surrounding chaos.
I pull my car into a spot between a pair of heavily modified Nissan GT-Rs. The drivers—both regulars and both in leather jackets—nod at me in silent acknowledgment. Someone else sizes up my car with visible appreciation.
It’s nothing exotic. Nothing much at all if you take it at face value—Dodge Challenger—but I poured my blood and sweat into this car, making it one of a kind.
There isn’t a faster Dodge in California.
Turning off the engine, I glance at Addie. She stares at the spectacle outside, her breath coming in short bursts, cheeks pink, hands trembling softly. As if she can feel my stare, she meets my eyes, hers full of hesitant awe.
“Welcome to my world,” I say, a smirk playing on my lips. “Remember the rules?”
I wait for her to nod before I step out onto the tarmac. The desert heat hits me, dry, thick, warm like a second skin. It’s at its worst now with August just around the corner. I’ll never get used to the sticky, stifling, smothering feeling.
I help Addie out, my hand landing on her lower back as we navigate the crowd. The bass from hundreds of car speakers is so potent it shakes the ground beneath our feet. Whistles, shouts, and greetings come from all directions, as they do every weekend. I nod at a few familiar faces and shake hands before Curly’s booming voice steals my attention.
“Colt!” he yells, barreling toward us.
His long, curly hair bounces with each step. Cody’s was the same years ago while he grew his hair out. Maybe that’s why I took to Curly so fast.
He slaps me on the back, an ear-splitting grin on his face. “Ready for a race? Some punk wants a shot at your title.”
Of course he does.
Every weekend, I race a minimum of three newbies. They come from all over California, cocky and confident when they arrive, then utterly disappointed and a few grand poorer when they leave.
I don’t go against new guys for less than five thousand dollars. The regulars... well, that’s a different story. We race for fun. We race because we fucking love it. No cash involved between friends.
Addie tenses beside me like a drawn bowstring. A polar opposite reaction to the surge of adrenaline traveling across my nerve endings. I bet she thought we came here only to watch.
