Motorhead

by Kate Gilead

  Sliding in behind the wheel makes me feel instantly better. Not one hundred percent, but better. Tommy slides into the stripped-down seat next to me to attach my harness while my dad helps me secure my head restraint.

  Then we go through our radio test. The connection is static-y, as it sometimes is, but today it’s really bad. Bursts of white noise and loud squawks, trills and beeps sound randomly, making us all grit our teeth.

  Unable to find a perfectly clear connection, we have to settle on one with minimal interference.

  That done, I steer my car to the starting line, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the crowd already filling out the seats in the stands as well.

  I sit quietly and just breathe. A drop of sweat trickles down the side of my head, tickling all the way down. Digging my gloved fingers up underneath the helmet, I soothe the itch but manage to push the visor too far down over my face.

  Once I get that adjusted, all is quiet and still. I give my dad the thumbs up and he drops the green flag.

  In response, I tromp my foot on the throttle and lay rubber, jumping ahead when the tires grip the track surface, making the vehicle drift to the left.

  Correcting for the drift, I let my reflexes take over and smooth out my thinking and worrying.

  I forget my discomfort and let my skills take the lead, my hands and my feet making corrections in tandem with the road and each other.

  By the third lap, I’m getting a feel for how the car handles now. She feels good, solid but light, her tires hugging close to the road.

  My confidence starts sneaking back.

  Not all the way back, but…some.

  I take the first straightaway and then, inch into the turn….drift, straighten, accelerate. Then repeat: Turn…drift…accelerate…throttle off, throttle on, turn, drift…lap after lap, just like ballet.

  Three laps later, I’m almost there, almost in my good place, focused on the road and the vehicle under my body.

  Then the mistakes start happening. Touch the brake, drift…shit, shit…fish-tail, fish-tail…easy, easy…foot off throttle, lightly steer…whew!

  Got her back…steady now. Steady.

  Zone out, zone out zone out, c’mon…c’mon!

  Then, two laps later, I oversteer and she slides sideways for a few feet. I get her back, biting my lip and sweating bullets.

  Get it together Marie! Come on!

  Finally, another two laps and I’m slipping into the Zone.

  I let myself disappear––the me who thinks, and worries, and cares––I let that part of me dwindle away until I am nothing but a point of consciousness, a single, pure point of awareness in a car on a track, circling endlessly.

  Bliss.

  “I” don’t come back until ten laps later, when I’m done.

  As soon as I pull off the track, all the noise, the stress and the sweaty discomfort, all the clatter of reality comes flooding right back.

  I let out a little groan and steer the Wee Marie back into her bay. Tommy and Dad are both hurrying toward me.

  Biting my lip, I taste a salty drop of sweat. Bleh! I just want to get out of here now.

  When I pull my helmet off and run my hand through my hair, it comes away damp with sweat.

  “What the fuck was that? Why they hell did you turn your radio off, Marie?” Tommy says, opening the door and taking my helmet out of my hands.

  “Off? It’s not off…” I test the radio to find it dead. “Oh. Shit! I…I didn’t realize,” I say, my eyes flicking between the concerned faces of my dad and my twin.

  Tommy pokes at my headset, and a frayed end of a wire falls out, hanging there limply.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Dad says, “I noticed you were pushing at your helmet at the starting line. You must’ve pulled it out. You need to watch that! Also, you made some dumb mistakes on the track, girl.”

  “Yeah, what happened? And you can’t yank at your helmet like that! Dammit, Marie!” Tommy adds, sharply.

  “It’s not my fault you did a crappy job wiring it” I mutter peevishly, climbing out of the car.

  “Are you daft?” Dad barks, eyes spitting fire. “You need to pay better attention out there!”

  “Hey, my head was itchy, okay? Look, it’s not my fault the damn wire is so flimsy! I should be able to move my helmet without worrying about pulling wires out of the headset!”

  “And you should be able to ignore a little discomfort and concentrate,” Dad retorts, annoyed. He takes the helmet out of Tommy’s hands, examines the headset and then hands it back. “Thomas, see if you can’t secure that wire better, just in case Little Miss here needs to scratch again.”

  “Ah, for Chrissakes! I’ll have to open the whole rig up, then,” Tommy says. “What a pain in the ass! Look at it! She yanked the wires right out of the casing.”

  “So? Open it up then!” Dad says. “Or, just get a new one!”

  “This was a new one,” Tommy mutters. “The last one we had. Pain in the ass,” he repeats. “I’ve gotta get going, I’ve got stuff to do tonight,” he says. “I’ll see you two later.”

  “Fix the headset or order a new one before you forget,” Dad says. Tommy tips him a salute and walks away, quickly disappearing into the crowd.

  “Maybe you should order a new driver, too,” I say grumpily, unzipping my suit and starting for the change room. I glance at my Dad, who just rolls his eyes, not taking the bait.

  “New driver? Where do I apply?” The owner of the voice steps forward from the crowd.

  It’s Mark.

  “Mark! What are you doing here? I thought you were going to pick me up at home?”

  “Hi, sweetie,” he replies. In two skips, my legs carry me to where he’s standing and I fling myself into his arms. “I came down to check out the new Speedway,” he says, his eyes taking in my sweat-dampened hair. “They’ve done a lot of work on it, haven’t they? Looks a lot different than the last time I was here.”

  “Oh yes, they’ve been doing renovations on it since the Motorsport Association took it over. It’s almost done. Do you want a tour? Everything’s different! Bigger, better and more updated! You should see the concession area, and…”

  “Ahem,” my father says, dryly, taking a step forward.

  “Oh, um…have you met my father yet, Mark?” As if I don’t know he hasn’t.

  “Not formally, no,” he says, turning to face my dad. “Mark Mollenkamp,” he extends a hand, his gaze direct and frank.

  “Carson Sinclair,” my dad says loudly, grasping Mark’s hand and pumping it twice. But instead of letting go, he keeps hold of it and puts his other hand on Mark’s forearm. “Nice to meet you. I heard you entertained my daughter last week.”

  Both men’s knuckles are showing white through their skin as they grip each other’s hands.

  Oh, boy, I think wryly. Is this a handshake or a pissing contest?

  “Yes, I took her to a friend’s place for some dune buggy racing. We had a nice time,” Mark says, staring straight into Dad’s eyes.

  “So she was saying,” Dad agrees. “Interested in racing, are you?” He lets go of Mark’s hand finally.

  “Sure,” Mark says. “Everyone’s talking about it since the ads started running. I wanted to check the place out ahead of the crowds, but I see now that I’m already late. Word travels fast.”

  “Yep,” Dad says. “Say, would you like to see Marie’s car? The one we’ll be entering in the race?”

  “Love to!” Mark says.

  Crap. My mind makes a paranoid leap, thinking my dad might use this opportunity to interrogate Mark.

  Quickly, I say, “Or, umm…hey, how about we do that tour instead? Haha! Yeah, we can look at the car any old time!” I grab Mark’s hand and pull it gently, trying to head my father off at the pass.

  But Mark encloses my hand in his and then tucks it under his arm. “How about we do that next? I’d love to see your car, Marie.” An
d he turns to follow my dad, pulling me along with him.

  Damn.

  Time ticks by as the two men get into a deep discussion about all things mechanical. Nearly an hour passes, with me in a state of high alert, ready to cut my father off and drag Mark out of there if things get out of line.

  I’m on pins and needles…at first. But miraculously, Dad seems to be on his best behavior.

  Hmm. I wonder if Mom had a word with him?

  Needless to say, Mark’s on his best behavior as well.

  I watch, pacing restlessly, as the two confer under the hood. Their talk meanders from computational fluid dynamics to 650 horsepower to max torque to air extractor lift-reduction. From time to time they draw me into the discussion with questions about how I find the performance or handling or some such, but it becomes obvious that this is another kind of man-test or, maybe, some kind of man pow-wow… and they’re holding it strictly between themselves.

  My father does kind-of interrogate Mark, but it’s not about me. At least, not directly. Rather, he questions Mark about his knowledge on cars, engines and his opinions about performance.

  They finally wrap things up when some people stop by to chat with Dad. Turning to me, Mark says, “It’s getting late. C’mon, let’s go to Arnie’s and grab a bite.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m sweaty. I’m not ready for our date! I need a quick shower and a change of clothes.”

  “No problem. Do you have a ride? I could drop you off, and pick you up when you’re ready. Or, I could wait in the truck for you, if you like,” Mark offers.

  “Aww! That’s sweet, but, no, you’re not waiting outside like a cab driver or something,” I say. “If you don’t mind driving me home, you can come in and wait inside, for heaven’s sakes.”

  “Sure.”

  We say our goodbyes to Dad. “Nice meeting you,” Dad says. “Maybe we’ll see you again.”

  “You can count on that,” Mark replies.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mark

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Marie says, as soon as we’re out of earshot. “I was afraid he was going to pump you about your intentions,” she adds. The look on her face is so relieved, it’s comical.

  “Maybe he’s saving that for when we’re alone,” I say, laughing. “This time, it was all mechanical stuff.”

  “Yes. And, you did good! He doesn’t hate you,” Marie laughs. “So you just came by to check out the track, huh?”

  “I…uh.” I pause, lips pursed. How much should I say? “Well, I admit, I figured I’d see if you were free, if you were still here. Any excuse to spend a bit more time with you.”

  She squeezes my hand tightly and smiles up into my face, dazzling me.

  As soon as we get into the truck, she slides over to me and wraps her arms around my neck for a long, slow series of kisses.

  Jesus Christ. Her kisses are like candy, and they just go on and on, heating up the inside of the truck and making my cock press painfully against the fly of my jeans.

  “Mmm,” she says, finally, as she slides over to her side and buckles up. “It’s so good to see you, handsome.”

  “Double back to you, gorgeous,” I say, heart pounding, head spinning and dick as hard as a rock. I adjust it, feeling it throbbing away in my jeans.

  Her warm eyes watch avidly. “You see what you do to me,” I say, quietly.

  Her nipples are poking through her shirt. Good to know it’s mutual.

  “I can’t wait, if you wanna know the truth,” she says. Her words are bold but her cheeks turn a deep red.

  Adorable!

  I feel like my body is pulling towards her, magnetically attracted to her nearness. I wish she could sit in my lap…or that we were at my place, alone, cuddling in my big bed.

  Argh!

  Pulling away from the Speedway, I push those thoughts away and settle for holding her hand all the way to her place.

  “This won’t take long,” Marie says as we walk into the foyer of her house. Shutting the door behind us, she says, “If no one’s home, you can come up to my…oh!”

  A tiny, extremely attractive older woman with short, dark hair appears in a doorway down the hall. “Hiya,” she says, dark eyes dancing.

  “Oh! Hi, Mom,” Marie says, “Didn’t know you were here. I’m just popping in for a quick shower and then we’re going straight out again.” She takes my hand and leads me forward. “This is Mark Mollenkamp. Mark, this is my mother, Vivian.”

  “Hello! Nice to meet you, Mark!”

  I’ve seen Vivian Sinclair around town here and there, but never had any reason to talk to her before now.

  Up close and personal, she’s a stunner.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  She extends her small hand. When I grasp it in my own big mitt, it completely disappears.

  Her smile is no less infectious than her daughter’s. The shape of her mouth and her generous lips are an older but just as lovely version of Marie’s.

  Wow! These Sinclair ladies are damned hot.

  “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “Come in, come in! Can I offer you something to drink?” She has a very clipped and sexy British accent.

  “Uhhh…well, I’m not sure how long we’ll be…?” I look at Marie uncertainly.

  “I’m just going to have a quick shower but please, do have a drink,” Marie says as we accompany her mother into the kitchen.

  “Sit here, hon,” Vivian says, patting a tall stool by the island.

  “Okay. Umm… I’ll be right back,” Marie says, but she doesn’t make a move to leave. “Try not to miss me too much!”

  “Hard to miss you when you’re still here,” Vivian observes dryly.

  Marie snorts and starts towards the stairs. “I’m going,” she says. “Be kind when you’re discussing me! Remember, I am shy and not well-adjusted socially!” She yells that last, laughing, then turns and noisily bounds up the stairs.

  Vivian and I grin at each other. “Would you like a coffee or tea? Iced tea, perhaps? I’ve also got Coke or Dr. Pepper.”

  “Iced tea would be nice. Thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  She opens the fridge and extracts a pitcher of dark, frothy tea. “So Mark… my daughter is quite taken with you. I’ve never seen her so giddy about any of her dates.”

  “That’s great to hear,” I say. “I’m impressed with your daughter, as well. She seems like quite a girl.”

  She smiles. “We think so.”

  That nicety over with, an awkward moment of silence ensues.

  Then, my curiosity gets the better of me.

  “Hey, Mrs. Sinclair, I’m wondering…”

  “Call me Vivian.”

  “Okay, Vivian. Thank you. Your accent has me curious about how you happened to come to this country.”

  “Oh! Well, that was a result of a rather strange coincidence. You see, Carson had been engaged to be married before he met me. A girl from Cincinnati, who was in Columbus to attend university. Long story short, he…they…well, they had change of heart, and, a few days before the wedding, he called it off.” She takes two glasses from a cupboard and holds them, one after the other, under the ice-dispenser in the fridge.

  “Oh? That sounds awful.”

  “Yes. But Carson had already booked the honeymoon and couldn’t get his money back. So he took the trip on his own.” She smiles at me, then pours the frothy liquid into the glasses. “I’ll give you one guess as to where he went.”

  “I’m gonna say…Britain somewhere?”

  She lets out a tinkly laugh and brings the drinks to the island, “Right you are! London, to be exact.” Taking a seat next to me, she crosses her legs and warms up to the story.

  “Understandably, he didn’t end up having a very good time. He’d been unable to find anyone to accompany him, and of course he was heartbroken. Quite a sad and lonely holiday. He spent most of the time in his hotel,
eating fish and chips, depressed and listless. He didn’t do any tours, didn’t go to see any of the sights, nothing. On his very last night there, he stirred himself to go for a walk, went well off the beaten path and got lost.”

  She takes a sip of her drink. “He went into a little pub to ask directions. It just so happened to be the pub where I was working…my very last shift, before I was off on holidays myself.” She touches my arm. “Guess where I was going!”

  “Um…I’m gonna say…the US?”

  “Right again! As if that wasn’t coincidence enough, I was coming here, to his hometown of Columbus, to visit my uncle and his Japanese war bride, who’d settled here a few years prior.”

  “Wow. That is quite a coincidence.”

  “Indeed,” she says. “We talked, hit it off, exchanged information and promised to get in touch in the US. When I arrived, I stayed with my aunt and uncle for the summer, but I barely saw them. I barely saw anyone except Carson. We were in love by the time I left. He came back to Europe several times over the next year. Subsequently, I immigrated here and we were married. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Well, how about that,” I nod, smiling at her. “Everything seems to have worked out for the best.”

  “Yes. Here’s to chance meetings and coincidence!” She holds her glass up.

  “Hear, hear,” I say, holding mine up as well. We clink glasses and drink.

  Our talk turns to business and work. Vivian shows a shrewd understanding of her company’s business affairs and asks me intelligent and pointed questions about my own plans and goals.

  I answer her honestly, casually outlining my plan to obtain high-end custom repair business in Columbus. She listens carefully, her dark eyes never wavering from my face.

  “You’ll be competing with Sinclair’s for some of that business. Do you realize that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, “I do.”

  I don’t tell her there’s something else I’ll be competing for. They’ll find out soon enough.

  She lets out that tinkly laugh again, and it’s so infectious that I have to chuckle. “You certainly have your share of courage,” she says. “I wish you all the luck.”