Tonight is just drag races, according to Eli, but it sounds like they set up street courses every once in a while, too. I don’t know how that works just yet, but I doubt it’ll be too long before Eli tells me.
I sit for a while watching reruns of a sitcom I never caught while it was on the air before Eli comes out of the back, dressed in a black, button shirt and dark pants. He shaved while he was in there, too, so his face is nice and inviting.
“Someone looks snazzy,” I observe.
He smirks at my word choice and says, “While we’ve got a few minutes, there’s something I want to show you.”
“What’s that?”
“You said your favorite color is violet, right?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Why?”
“Well, I was hoping to show it to you in the daytime, but I took a picture after it was finished and I wanted to get your reaction.”
“Okay?” I ask, just as clueless as before the explanation.
“Here,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He’s messing with it for a minute and then he hands it to me, asking, “How does it look?”
It’s a picture of his Chevelle, and it’s very, very purple.
“You did that for me?”
“Well, after the run last week, it needed a new paint job, anyway. As often as I get new paint on that thing, I figured it was time for a change. Do you like it?”
He’s smiling and rubbing his hands together, but I’m more than slightly unnerved. I know we’re kind of an unofficial thing now and all that, but it feels a little early to start changing car colors for each other.
“How often do you change it?” I ask.
“About once every three or four times I take it out,” he says. “Basically every time I end up with someone on my tail I can’t shake without pulling some stupid crap.”
Some of the pressure fades, but it still feels like a big thing.
“Did you want to get something to eat first, or do you just want to head down and see if anyone’s there yet?” he asks.
“Shouldn’t we wait until like right before? I can’t imagine it’s such a great idea to congregate publicly unless it’s going to be a quick in and out sort of thing.”
“Oh, the race won’t be anywhere near the meet point,” he says. “That’s just where we meet up, and everyone knows that if it’s not street legal and you’re not about to race it, it needs to be on a truck. Nobody’s breaking any laws for another hour at least.”
“And we’re not racing tonight?”
“No,” he says. “I’m probably going to pass on that for another week or two—after the HP has a chance to cool down a little.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “We can pick something up if you want.”
We walk back to the shop, and I can’t help but notice that along with the shower, the clean clothes, and the shave, Eli’s also decided to go with some cologne. He hasn’t overdone it by any means, but there’s something in the scent of it that’s just a little off.
It’s not until we get back to the shop and near the Galaxie that I recognize the smell. It’s oil. His hands are clean, so is the rest of him, but still, beneath the musk of his cologne is the smell of motor oil.
“Does that ever wash off?” I ask him.
Apparently, he’s gotten similar questions often enough to have an answer ready to go. “Eventually,” he says, “but it usually takes a couple of days away from this place and some of that grainy soap to do it.”
This is going to be a constant if things keep going with Eli, I guess. The first couple of times we got together, I didn’t really notice it, but if it’s going to take that long to get the stink off of him, this could turn into a bit of a problem.
This must be why they call mechanics grease monkeys.
I’m nervous to get into the car with him, given that it’s an enclosed space, but in here, the cologne does just enough of a job that it’s not really an issue.
He fires up the engine, and we pull out into the parking lot.
“I’ve got to lock up real quick,” he says. “It’ll just take a minute if you want to wait.”
“Sure,” I answer as he gets out of the car.
As soon as he’s most of the way back to the shop, I roll my window down. Only, the smell gets stronger as I do. I’d really never noticed it before, but knowing what his cologne is supposed to smell like must have made it jump out at me.
Maybe I just have to get him to stop wearing cologne.
We get to the meet-up at the old gas station on Stockholm Blvd, and I’m already a little overwhelmed.
I was expecting five cars, ten at the very most, but the parking lot is jammed with nearly every nice car I’ve seen driving around town. People are out of their cars, looking under hoods, chatting, arguing.
“So, do people ever call the cops when you’re trying to figure out where to go?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “They used to, but now we have a rule that if we meet up in front of an actual store, everyone buys something before we go. Thirsty?”
“Sure.” After that, Eli was right. It’s just a lot of waiting.
Everybody seems to want to race, but nobody wants to agree on a place to do it.
“Is there something I should be learning here?” I ask. “Like are they talking about which places are best to race or are they just trying to get out of it?”
“It’s a little bit of both,” he says as we just walk around. “Everyone wants to look like the one, but not everybody can hack it. They bargain down to a car they think they can beat in a place they think they can beat it, and that’s when something will actually happen.”
Eli tells me all kinds of things about the different cars as we go past, none of which I can remember or remotely understand, before finally it’s starting to look like there’s a growing consensus among the guys in the middle arguing.
Then, a few more cars show up and nobody can agree on anything once again.
This goes on for way too long.
I’m considering having Eli take me home when he nods toward one end of the parking lot where people are starting to get in their cars.
We make our way to Eli’s, gathering the location of the start line as we go, then follow behind everyone else.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, “Rochester and Cedar Hill. We’ll probably get a couple of runs in there, and if you’re not sick of it, we can follow them to the next spot.”
I nod and look out the window.
Everyone in the pack is driving surprisingly courteously. I’ve been expecting revving engines and shrieking tires, but it’s sedate; however, there is a tension in the air. It’s like a surgery before the first cut.
We’re about a block away from the intersection when Eli pulls over, parking diagonally against the curb, leaving about a foot of space between concrete and bumper.
“We’re here,” he says. “We can stay here and watch so we can be close to the car in case they try to break it up, or we can go closer to the starting line and watch the burnouts and all that.”
“Burnouts sound like fun,” I answer.
“All right,” he says. “Do you want a play by play or do you just want to watch?”
“Play by play.”
Eli takes my hand, guiding me through the crowd of people moving toward the intersection.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks as we duck between two people.
“What’s that?” I return.
“How did you get so interested in this? It doesn’t sound like you’ve really ever been into racing and now you want to get out there and do it yourself. Don’t get me wrong: I think it’s awesome. It’s just, you know, there are cheaper hobbies—safer hobbies, too.”
“Would you rather I wasn’t so interested in it?”
“Not at all,” he says. “I just don’t want you to think you have to pretend to like something if you don’t. I’d rather you tell me if
something bothers you than just go on pretending you’re feeling great while you’re thinking about jumping in front of one of the cars.”
We’re finally to the point in the crowd where we can’t get any closer without becoming a lot more familiar with these strangers than I would like to be. But, Eli’s not quite done yet, and he shoulders his way between two people, and then two more, until we get to the front.
About twenty feet away from the starting line now, we’re standing on the edge of the curb. There are some people crowded in between the cars on the street, but we can see just fine from here.
“All right,” he says. “After they get the cars in place, they’re going to put down a mix of methanol and traction compound to treat the road.”
“Treat the road?”
He nods. “It helps a lot off the line,” he says. “They’ll do a burnout along the groove after they’ve lit the compound and it’s gone out. Then, they’ll go back and set up on the rubber they left on the road. You get a much better launch. Is all this making sense so far?”
“I think so,” I tell him. “It’ll probably help when I see it.”
About then, two men go out into the street, in front of the two cars that are lined up to race, carrying what look like one liter water bottles. They spray the road with some kind of liquid I’m assuming isn’t water and two more people follow them, setting the trail aflame.
They do this for about fifty or sixty feet and then run off to the sides. The cars on the line fire up their engines and roll forward.
“Oh right,” he says. “They’re going to put down a good puddle’s worth of traction compound in front of the drive tires to start the burnout and get the tires heated up enough to lay down-”
Eli’s voice is drowned out as the back wheels start to go and the smoke fills the air. I may not have the specifics down yet, but I think I get the general idea.
At one point, one of the cars catches some traction and roars down the road a ways, leaving a dark set of lines on the ground where a decent portion of his tires used to be. Then the other one goes.
They pull back to the beginning of their tracks, and I’m looking along the road, wondering why nobody else has tried coming down the street. It’s hard to tell from where I’m standing, but I think they’re blocking the intersections.
A woman wearing more clothes than I would have expected, having seen some of the movies Eli teased me about back at Grog Hill, walks out into the street. She points to one car, then the other.
The engines are deafening and the cars lurch forward at infrequent intervals, but always rock back more or less to their place. The woman standing in front and between the cars raises both hands above her head and, with an exaggerated gesture, drops them.
Both cars are off faster than I expected. They’re already most of the way down the block and past the intersection, their brake lights only coming on when they’re a long way in the distance.
“Who do you think won?” I ask Eli. I couldn’t tell; it looked pretty close to me.
“Hold on,” Eli says. “Nobody’s lining up after them. See that guy on his cell phone? We’ve got to go.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Everyone I’ve ever met who isn’t me has a cell phone.”
“Come on, cops are coming,” he says.
I don’t hear anything or see anything, but everyone on the street is starting back toward their cars, slowly at first and then we’re all running.
Eli’s got me by the hand to pull me through the crowd. We get to the car, but almost bowl over a few people getting over to it. I start for the passenger’s side, but Eli just says, “Nope,” and pulls me toward his side.
He throws open the door and I jump in. He’s in half a second later, and he turns the keyless ignition, The cars ahead of us are already gone.
Eli throws the car into gear and we’re peeling out, turning sharply to the left with just enough space to miss the curb when I see the first blue and red lights coming down the road toward us.
Eli takes a right and then a left on the next street.
“Still want me to tell you what’s going on or do you just want to focus on getting out of here?” I get the sense that he’d rather I do the latter.
“Let’s just go,” I tell him. “We can talk about the rest later.”
We’re going down this street for a while, fast, but when we get to the next stop sign, Eli comes to a complete stop.
“There’s an old strip mall around here,” Eli says. “I can never remember which turn it is, though.”
“Shouldn’t we be going?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a left,” he says and I’m stomping the floor with my right foot, trying to make the car go with the pure force of my will.
He eases the Galaxie onto the road and he’s looking in his mirrors, saying, “I think we’ve lost them, but we should lay low for a minute. Everyone’s got their mark and we got out of there before a cop picked us as his project for the night. They should be out of the area before too long.”
It makes sense, what he’s saying, it really does. Still, there are cops and we were running from them and now, I can still hear the sirens in a few different directions as we follow the speed limit, using the turn signals.
We’re going along at about twenty five when Eli jerks the wheel hard to the left and I’m all but sitting in his lap.
“Sorry,” he says. “We’re here, though.”
We pull around behind the strip mall and there’s a little alley running for about fifty feet before a gate opening out onto the next street. Eli pulls the car a way down the alley and turns it off, putting a finger to his lips.
It’s dark without the headlights on, but the stars are out in force, providing an unmatched ceiling to the corridor between the buildings.
He slowly lowers his finger from his lip.
“Are we all right?” I ask in a whisper.
“I think so.”
I’m nervous enough to keep quiet, but relief is starting to flow through me, turning my fear into excitement as we actually outran the cops in this piece of junk car. They weren’t really chasing us specifically, I guess, but it’s still cause for excitement.
“So,” Eli says, his voice still low, “you never really answered my question back there.”
“Which question?”
“Why this, why street racing?”
I shrug. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “Why not?”
“There are a lot of reasons why not to do this,” he says. “There aren’t nearly as many for it.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “It just struck something in me when Mick was talking about it. Even though he was lying there in a hospital bed, knowing that you do this—it just caught me by surprise, at first. Then, I don’t know, I just kept coming back to the thought. The more I did, the more I wanted to see it, to feel it, you know?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean. Do you understand why I’m showing you this—not just the race, but the stuff with the cops, too?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s not a joke. One wrong move and you’ll end up in a tree with Mick.”
Eli cracks a smile and chuckles softly. “There’s another thing, too,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask, resting my arm on the top of the seat, resting my head against that hand and looking at him.
“It’s not just about the cops. They’re not all just out to get us or anything. People die doing this. If you’re not careful, you can hit someone else’s car, or worse, you could hit a person. As long as you’re in the car and the car’s moving, you’ve just become the most responsible driver on the road because you’re easily the most reckless. The chances of something going wrong with a racer are a lot higher than anyone else on the road. Except drunk drivers: those guys are just assholes because they’re all risk, no responsibility.”
“So it’s not just a hobby, it’s a philosophy,” I observe.
He suppresses a smile and, in
the nicest way I think he can manage, says, “Well, the philosophy is ‘don’t hit anybody, don’t hurt anybody, don’t kill anybody,’ so I don’t know if it’s all that involved. You just need to be aware that people aren’t going to know how to react to you, so you’re going to have to learn to anticipate-”
I interrupt him with a firm kiss on the lips, and it’s only mostly to shut him up. I’m interested in racing because it’s dangerous, exciting—just like Eli.
If I can just get out of this stupid shell I’ve been hiding in most of my life, I know that I can be one of those people who don’t have to walk around with their heads down, saying sorry for every little thing, even when it’s not their fault. Somewhere in me is one of those people that sees what she wants and isn’t afraid to take it.
Eli’s kissing me back, and his hands move around my sides to my back, his fingers pulling me toward him, only I run shoulder first into the oversized steering wheel.
I pull back, laughing and rubbing my arm.
“You know,” he says. “There’s a big backseat.”
Am I really doing this?
Yeah, I’m really doing this.
“All right,” I respond and, without further ado, I climb over the seat into the back.
I’m getting settled as Eli joins me. He’s on top of me now, and I’m stroking the back of his head as he kisses me. I don’t know how long it’s going to be safe to stay here, but if I have my way, we’re going to be here for a while.
He’s tugging at the bottom of my shirt and I lean up a bit so he can pull it the rest of the way off, the cool air electrifying my bare skin. He pulls his own shirt off, and I’m running my fingertips up his muscular sides. It seems all that work in the shop is doing some great things for him.
Eli wraps his strong arms around me, unclasping my bra with one hand. I pull it from my shoulders and off of my arms, more than a little nervous about being this exposed, this vulnerable.
As if offering his acceptance, Eli kisses my breasts and the heat coming through his kisses sets my blood aflame.
Shifting Gears: The Complete Series (Sports Bad Boy Romance) Page 7
