by Dallas Cole
Dammit. I’ve got to stop. Even though Nash and I are on a break, shouldn’t I be pining for the day we reunite? Yet I’ve barely thought about Nash since our argument. It’s been a relief not to feel responsible for him. I thought I’d miss him more than I do. But I don’t feel anything except for a cold emptiness, after what an asshole he’s been.
“Elena.”
Lennox steps toward me. For a second, I think he’s going to reach for me, plant his hands on either side of my hips. Then I’m disappointed when he doesn’t. Shit. I’ve got to get a grip. No matter what happened between Nash and me, I can’t forget what Lennox is: a murderer. A threat to the crew, and the delicate balance we’ve struck since he left.
“Looks like your cuts healed up nicely,” I tell him.
“I had a good nurse.” He props his fists at his sides as he surveys my Camaro. “And here I thought you didn’t want to be a driver.”
“Yeah, well.” I lean against the Camaro’s side and cross my arms with a grin of my own. “I had a good teacher.”
Lennox’s grin widens. He knows I mean him. “He can’t be that great, if he’s letting you limp along with that crappy engine whine.”
“Yeah? You hear that?” I ask. “I only just started tinkering with this rust bucket a few hours ago. I’m lucky it runs at all.”
“Looks like you handled it pretty well, then.”
He finishes circling around the Camaro and comes to a stop before me, unusually close. My body tingles at his nearness. An overwhelming urge fills me to wrap my arms around him. Rest my head against his chest and bury myself in his warmth. I don’t know if it’s a need for comfort or lust that’s drawing me toward him—probably a bit of both—but it’s threatening to pull me under.
Instead, I clear my throat. “I’m uh . . . I just thought I’d bring it out here, and . . . and see where I should focus my work.” I grin. “So far, pretty much everything needs fixed.”
Lennox waves his hand toward the driver’s door I’m leaning against. “Do you mind if I give it a spin?”
“I’d be honored.”
He hops back into the Nissan and I follow him in the Camaro back to the waiting area for all of the tracks. After he parks the Nissan, I slide the driver’s seat back and scoot over toward the passenger’s side. “Passenger door is jammed. I can’t raise or lower the window, either,” I explain, pointing to the half-up pane of glass.
Lennox laughs as he slides into the driver’s seat and buckles up. “Like you said. At least it runs.”
He coasts us, nice and easy, toward the entrance to the rally track. The sky is deep blue now, with only the faintest edging of green and orange along the western mountain range. The track’s lights bathe us in a soft golden glow. In this light, Lennox looks every bit the god I always imagined he was when I was younger: smooth and smiling and at peace with the universe. He bears none of the sadness from before now that he’s behind the wheel. None of the scars. It’s just us and the road before us.
I wish it could always be that way.
“Hang tight,” he tells me.
I grip both sides of my mildewed bucket seat, but I’d much rather be grabbing onto Lennox.
The starting light quavers at yellow, then switches to green.
Lennox easily maneuvers over the first set of easy curves, then jumps us up the overpass ramp. He makes it look effortless, though I can hear the car straining to keep up with his cues. We wind around the switchback and he has to slow down for the slalom when the steering wheel catches and hesitates on every sharp turn.
“It sticks a little shifting from second to third,” Lennox points out, as we swing around for a second lap.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too. I’ll probably have to rebuild the entire transmission.”
He nods. “Fights me when I try to pull to the right, as well. You topped up the steering column fluid?”
“As much as I could, though it’s probably leaking somewhere.”
“Sounds about right.” He squares his shoulders and readies for another pass.
I watch him instead of the road this time—the way his lean muscles flex against his arms as he shifts and turns the stubborn steering wheel. God, he’s still so gorgeous. His face used to be the last thought I’d conjure up in my head before falling asleep, once upon a time. But he always seemed so much older than me, and he was almost always Amber’s man, too. He was always just out of reach.
We finish our third loop and he pulls in, nice and easy, next to his Nissan. The moment he downshifts, the engine groans and dies. “Shit.”
“Great.” I run my fingers through my hair.
Lennox looks at me, sheepish, then turns the key. It protests for several seconds, but then the engine finally grumbles and restarts, like a cantankerous old man.
We laugh again. Lennox leans towards me, eyes dazzling in the dome light, and I’m overcome with a sudden desire to lean over and kiss his cheek. Nothing aggressive, just that comfortable display of affection, of closeness that we once shared. My hand slips over the gearshift, toward his thigh. From the way he’s looking me, I can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling the same thing. Or maybe even something more.
Lennox breaks the gaze, though, and shifts away from me. “So, uh.” He tugs at the leather bracelets stacked on his right wrist. “I guess you’re with Nash now, right?”
My heart sinks. “Actually, we’re . . . we’re kind of taking a break.”
Lennox’s jaw loosens, though he doesn’t say anything.
“Nash lost it when you got out of prison. It was bad, Len. Real bad. It was all I could do to convince him not to hunt you down, okay? But I—” I choke on my own words. “I wasn’t enough to calm him down.”
“That’s not your job. You shouldn’t have to.” He works his jaw from side to side, thinking. “But that’s fair of him, I guess. I—I can see why he’d feel that way.” Finally, he risks another glance toward me. “Maybe a break will do you both some good.”
I’m not sure how to answer that, so instead I say, “We’re going to have a memorial service next week. For Troy. Nash didn’t, um . . . he didn’t really get to appreciate the funeral.”
“I’ll say.” Lennox rubs his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “That sounds good. Maybe that’ll give him the closure he needs.”
We’re silent for a moment, enveloped in the rumble of the Camaro’s cab. I’m used to comfortable silences around Lennox—hours lost working side by side in the shop, or gazing up at the mountain stars. But this feels different. Laden. It needs to be broken, but I’m not sure I have the nerve to break it.
Thankfully, Lennox does it for me. “Listen, El . . .”
My heart flutters as I look toward him. “Yeah?”
“I, uh . . .” He exhales through his nose and stares down. Shakes his head to himself. “Anyway, I need to get back to work, but . . . I’ll see you around, won’t I? At the races, if nothing else.”
And there goes that hope, racing away from me at max acceleration. “Yeah. Of course.” I take a deep breath. “I’d like that a lot.”
He gets out, then holds a hand out to me to help me ease my way out through the driver’s side after him. His skin is warm and soft around my wrist. For just one moment, I let myself imagine him running those hands through my hair. Down my neck. I imagine him lowering his lips to mine as he presses me against the side of the car. His hips sinking against me, his arms enveloping me . . .
But then he lets go and heads toward the Nissan.
I exhale and shake off my ridiculous fantasy. It’s not worth it—the hurt it would cause the crew. My uncle. And possibly me. “What’re you doing with that boring little point to point car, anyway?” I ask.
He glances back up at me. “Oh. It’s just for a job. Nothing exciting.”
But everything about Lennox is exciting to me. I bite my lower lip in frustration as he unlocks the car and opens the door. “Take care of yourself, Lennox. Don’t be a stranger.”
He smiles
sadly at me. “Yeah. You too.”
9
Elena
Ridgecrest’s cemetery isn’t big, but it has one of the best views in town, poking out from the face of the mountain slope. Mountain breezes, a wide sky overhead, and the dazzling high desert spread out below it—it offers all the peace and serenity our memorial service needs. There are even picnic tables and shelters set up at the cemetery trail intersections, perfect for mourners to gather and reminisce on better days.
We pick the shelter closest to Troy’s grave for our memorial service. Uncle Drazic’s not big on flowers, but I helped him pick a few tasteful wreaths in colors that I don’t think would have offended Troy’s masculine sensibilities. We printed out a few of our favorite photographs of Troy with the rest of the crew, and we’re all clustered around the picnic table, swapping stories and drinking Troy’s favorite brew—New Belgium—while soft white clouds roll by overhead.
Drazic goes first. After a long pull of water—he’s the DD for this afternoon—he cracks his knuckles and clears his throat. “Well, you all know what a smartass Troy was.”
“He comes by it honest,” Nash says, seated beside me. I glance toward him. We’ve only said a few words to each other, but it isn’t as awkward as I’d feared. He’s family, after all.
Drazic nods and grins. “Yes, he does that. Well, he hated when he couldn’t get in the last word.”
“Which also runs in the family,” Cyrus says, with a nod toward Nash.
We laugh, and Jagger and Cyrus clink beers.
“My favorite time, though . . .” Drazic tips his head back, remembering. “My god. It was when he mouthed off to the head of the upstate crew about his shit taste in music. Do you all remember that?”
We lean forward.
“Son of a bitch had just come in second to them in a circuit, and they were gloating, like always. And Troy says, ‘Well, hell, of course the rest of us lost, havin’ to hear your asses crankin’ that garbage all the way around the bend.’”
Jagger snickers.
“Oh, but it got better,” Drazic says. “Tank Al wasn’t having any of it. He walked straight up to Troy and socked him square in the jaw. Pop. And Troy just grinned. ‘What the hell,’ Tank Al asked him, ‘didn’t that hurt?’ And Troy says, ‘Nothing hurts as much as listening to your fucking Eagles soundtrack!’”
Chuckles all around; I grab a refill of my beer and slide back onto the picnic bench beside Nash. He presses his palm to the small of my back, and I freeze. I don’t think he did it intentionally—he’s still focused on the rest of the guys—but I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I want this anymore, feeling like I’m linked to Nash because that’s the way it’s always been, like he’s a TV show I watch out of habit even though it lost its charm. But this is Nash’s day—his and his brother’s. I want to be strong for him.
I manage a weak smile his way before turning my attention toward Jagger.
“All right, all right, here’s one of my favorites. The time Troy tried to be a good wingman for me.”
“Oh, boy,” Cyrus utters.
“Scary, right?” Jagger hunches his wiry shoulders. “So we were at the roadhouse and there are these two gorgeous honeys at the bar alone, obviously out for a good time, best friends or sisters or something, whatever, they were smokin’ hot. Legs up to here and—sorry, Elena—best tits you can find this side of the mountain, honest.”
“No offense taken.” I jab the neck of my beer toward him.
“So anyway, Troy sees me eyein’ them, and he dares me—this was back in my shyer days—he says, ‘Jagger, I’ll give you twenty bucks to go chat those girls up instead of eyeballin’ them like a fucking creep.’ I said sure, as long as he’d be my wingman, no harm, right?”
Jagger rolls his eyes. “Well, of course, as soon as we join them at the bar, they’re both just all over Troy. It’s like I’m a fucking hat rack next to him. To be fair, he keeps trying to dump one of them off on me, but they’re having none of it. So that motherfucker slips me the twenty bucks he owes me for the dare and takes them both home.”
More laughter. It feels good to laugh with the boys again. To file off the edges of this tension I’ve felt jabbing into my spine ever since Lennox was released. Nash looks more at peace, too, more like the laid-back guy I remembered as a teen, even though back then, I only had eyes for Lennox. I’m not ready to get back together with Nash, not until I untangle all these mixed-up feelings I have inside. Maybe I should go along with it—it feels awful to say nothing, to let him think it might happen. But he’s on the road to recovery. I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to set him off. No matter which I choose, I risk messing up all the progress he’s made.
“How about you, El?” Cyrus asks. “You got any good stories about Troy?”
“Oh, gosh, let me think . . .” I take another sip of beer. “All right, I got one. I remember how you boys were all fighting over that stupid BMW M3 we had at the shop when the client backed out of the deal at the last minute.”
“Oh, my god,” Jagger howls. “That fucking car. I wanted it so fucking bad!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you all did. It was about to come to blows.” I grin. “So Uncle D says fine, how about we all race for it?”
Drazic laughs and crosses his arms. He remembers where this is going.
“So Cyrus, you go out and do a lap. Not bad. But then Nash, you do the same lap in ten seconds less. Jagger, you totally skid out and suck, sorry, honey, but it’s true.”
Jagger holds his hands out to his sides. “No, that’s fair.”
“But Troy . . . he swaggers up to that fucking Beemer and he schools you all. So much so that he slows down at the end, knowing he’s got a few seconds to spare, then steps out of the car like a rock star.” I grin. “But then Lennox is all, ‘Sorry, boys, but I’ve been practicing with this car all month.’”
What starts as warm laughter around me quickly dries out. Nash’s expression goes hard. Shit. I shouldn’t have brought up a story that involved Lennox. I just had to open my stupid mouth.
“Anyway,” I mumble, “even though Lennox won, he ended up giving it to Troy. And Troy loved that goddamned M3. He drove it until one of the wheels literally fell off.”
“That M3!” Drazic cries into the still-awkward silence, clapping his hands together. “Oh, lordy, do you all remember the time he entered it into the circuits, not realizing he hadn’t refilled the nitrous?”
I know what he’s doing—he’s pulling everyone’s thoughts away from Lennox. I flash him a grateful smile. The guys continue swapping stories. As the beer keeps flowing, Nash gets louder and sloppier. At least he’s happy—I can’t begrudge him that—but I don’t like his hand that keeps wandering along my back. I know we’re on a “break,” which isn’t the same as strictly broken up—not that I have any other boyfriends to judge this by—but it’s really getting to me. When he gets up to use the restroom, I take the opportunity to excuse myself from the group, and I wander off on my own.
My parents’ plot isn’t that much farther up the trail from Troy’s gravesite, though it’s more overgrown there, shrouded with young trees. I scatter a few extra flowers at their headstone and crouch down at the base of the nearest oak. I was only eight years old the night it happened. They were headed home from Uncle Drazic’s house, and a sleep-deprived soccer mom in her giant SUV swiped them off the road. They were Croatian immigrants, my mom and dad and dad’s brother. They’d survived the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the Serbian and Bosnian wars, and countless other atrocities besides, only to wind up crushed on the side of the road. Their cheap old used car couldn’t stand up to six tons of suburban safety features.
But it’s not like the woman who did it got off clean, either. She went halfway through her windshield before her airbag deployed, and ended up paralyzed from the neck down. She may not have died, but she paid a heavy price. Is still paying it, as far as I know. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel the same burning need for vengeance
that Nash feels. Hell, at this point, I can’t even remember the woman’s name.
Lennox carries scars, too. Not just those ones on his right side—it’s the kind of mental scar, the one that tells me he’ll never even come close to driving drunk again. That he’ll never, ever forgive himself for killing his best friend. Isn’t that enough? Can’t that be enough for Nash?
But I don’t care about Nash anymore. I care about whether it’s enough for me. And overwhelmingly, the answer is yes.
“Ellie.”
I twist around. Lennox is standing on the edge of the tree line, a handful of grocery store flowers in one hand. He quirks a sad smile at me and steps down the path toward my tree.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask. I don’t mean it to sound accusing, but he winces, leaning back from me.
“I just wanted to pay my respects.” He glances down the path toward the picnic shelter. We’re far enough away that there’s no chance Nash and the others could see him, but he looks nervous all the same. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
I draw my knees up under my chin. “No. It’s just . . . I don’t think Nash gives a shit about your respects.”
“Well, I’m not here for Nash. I’m here for Troy.” He sighs. “So Nash is still furious?”
“He started out okay today. But then he got trashed, and he’s getting all grabby, like I’m his fucking property again, and . . .” I exhale. “Shit. I guess I’m a little drunk, too.”
“You’re not ready to be his property again?” Lennox asks, grinning wryly.
“I’m not ready to be his, period.”
I drop my knees and stretch my legs out in front of me. Lennox is the last person I should be telling this to, but I have to get these thoughts out of my head. I’m making no progress turning them over and over in my skull.
“God. I wish I could just get out of here for a while. Leave the boys behind. I’m not . . . I’m not sure who I am without them.”
“I know that feeling.” Lennox sinks down into the grass beside me. There’s a comfortable amount of space between us, but I kind of wish there wasn’t. “That’s the thing with crews. They’re one part family and one part cult.”
