“Yes, sir, loud and clear.”
* *
“Okay, Lane, I bought you another year but that’s all it will be. Dad wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about it.”
“Oh, thank God, Rafe!” She kissed him all over his face. “I’m so happy!”
“I know you are, Honey. And you know what else? They put me in charge of the money to buy you what you need so, Lane,” he gave her a mock evil look, “that means I control the purse strings and you’ll have to give me a blow job whenever you want me to write a check.”
She giggled. “Oh, Rafe, you know, I’d give you a blow job any time you wanted me to anyway!”
He was running his finger tip around her nipple. She had definitely sprouted this last year. He splayed out his fingers across her breast. Not quite a handful but getting close.
He turned serious. “Lane, you’re going to have to start psyching yourself up for life without me. Next year I’ll be leaving for sure, Dad made that plain. You’ll be almost 15 by then, almost grown up. You’ll need to start thinking about dating and boyfriends. You know, Sweetie, what we have might always be a part of our lives but it can’t be our whole life.” He ran his hand down her long blonde hair. “Do you know you’re getting beautiful, Lane? By next year, you’re going to have the boys swarming you.”
“No, Rafe,” she was almost breathless. “No, I don’t want to go with any other boys. I love you!”
“Think about this, Lane. What are you going to do when it comes time for the Harvest Ball or the Prom? You’ll want to do those things and you can’t take your brother as your date.”
She buried her face in his chest. “Let’s not talk about it, Rafe, please!”
“Okay, we’ll forget it for now.” He kissed her. “Mom and Dad said they have several trips planned. They’ll probably be gone about half the time and it will just be you and me here so we’ll have us a high old time in our final year together.”
Inwardly, he sighed. He knew he was going to have to start weaning her away from him. That would sometimes hurt her and he’d really hate it, but it was going to be up to him to make sure she was ready to make it on her own when the time came.
* *
Rafe lay on the raft soaking up the sun’s benevolent rays. In the beginning, he’d asked for this limbo year off mostly for Laney’s sake. It hadn’t really mattered to him one way or the other. He actually could have just as easily gone to Princeton from the get-go and got a year under his belt but since he’d done it this way, he’d decided to just enjoy it and he was. Besides spending lots of time on the boats (he’d entered and won the Regatta this summer), he had a couple of other things going that he was finding pretty entertaining.
First, since he had his own car now and could go where he pleased, he’d gravitated to the auto races. The dirt track at Pequin, about 30 miles west of Benedict, wasn’t anything special in the scheme of big-time auto racing - just a quarter of a mile of clay but watching the small winged cars barely missing walls and each other, sliding through the curves at high speed excited him. He knew he could drive as well or better than anyone out there so he asked around about how you got to get behind the wheel and was told to go talk to Chester Hughes. A former racer himself, Chester owned three Sprint cars. He mostly competed at the smaller tracks in the area. He could introduce Rafe to driving, if he would.
Chester Hughes was in his middle 50’s. His once-red hair was mostly gray now. His once- trim body now sported an older man’s belly, his belt almost unseen below it. He walked with a noticeable hitch in his stride. Still, the blue eyes were as shrewd as they’d ever been.
“What makes you think it would be smart for me to risk an expensive vehicle on a total beginner? I’ve never even seen you here before and you think I ought to hand over a car to you? You must think I’m fucking nuts, Kid.”
“I can win for you, Mr Hughes. Just give me a shot. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
“I don’t think that’s a promise you’re in a position to make.”
“Try me.” It wasn’t a dare, just a statement of complete self-assurance.
Chester looked at him with narrowed eyes. There was something about the boy, maybe it was his supreme self-confidence, but something, that inclined Chester to go along with him. Maybe the kid was full of shit and maybe he himself was buying into a con job but what the hell, nothing ventured nothing gained.
“I’ll give you one shot. I don’t necessarily expect you to win your first time out but you’ve got to show me something or that’s it.”
Rafe’s smile went flashing across his face. “Deal,” he said, like it was all over but the shouting.
He loved the car from the moment he maneuvered his way into the cockpit and the car seemed to feel the same way about him. Getting into a sprint car is no easy task since the driver has to work his way past the wings, the chassis bars, the steering box, the torque tube….and when that’s done, he (or possibly, she), is braced into an upright position, hard against the seat, by a five-point harness, from which he can barely see thanks to the high bonnet, the front wing, a rock screen (to keep debris from entering the cockpit) and on top of all that, he has almost no peripheral vision due to wrap-around seats and neck restraint devices. Add to the rest, the “tearaways” on helmet visors so they can be torn off to be replaced by a fresh one when the visor becomes muddy and driving a sprint car turns out to require a kind of extra sensory communication between man, track and machine.
Starting one doesn’t even require a key. First the driver must ensure that a) the car is in gear since sprint cars don’t have gearboxes and b) that the fuel is turned on. When those two things are done, a “push car” pushes against the rear crash bar until the car fires.
Being direct drive, once the wheels begin turning, the engine is also turning over. Now the driver waits until he has the proper oil pressure (around 80 psi), then a few more seconds until he knows that all eight cylinders have enough fuel. Only then, does he hit the ignition switch, bringing his engine roaring to life.
All this Chester showed Rafe prior to the race. “You can see it’s not even close to just getting in that Corvette of yours, turning a key and driving off.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Hughes, I’m a quick study. I’ve got it.”
And he did. Chester had started him out in one of the novice runs where he so out-classed his competition, it wasn’t even close.
*
“Well, that was a waste of both our time, Son, except to show me your potential. How did you get so good at driving?”
Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know, I just have a kind of a sixth sense about it.”
“We’ll try you with something a little more challenging, next week. Don’t get cocky, Son, just because you did so well this time. You were only up against the babies.”
“I never get cocky in advance, Mr Hughes, only after it’s over and I’ve earned it.”
The result was the same the following week and then the next when he was pitted against even more experienced drivers. He really did seem to have an uncanny feel for how to position his car for maximum advantage, how to maneuver it around the turns, how to avoid trouble.
Chester Hughes began to follow him with interested eyes. He thought this boy might have real possibilities. And, Jesus H Christ, he made the race groupies cream their panties! They looked at him like he was candy and they wanted to eat him all up. Chester was not only an expert in cars but in marketing as well. He knew that a winning driver was great for business but a winning driver with sex appeal was a hundred times better.
“You might could start to be a little cocky now, Son.”
Rafe nodded and his smile went gleaming across his face. He probably knew as much about marketing as Chester Hughes.
* *
His second year-off diversion was completely different although some of the results were the same. A friend of his brother, Gabe, had contacted him at Gabe’s suggestion. The two had jammed a lot together when Gabe was go
ing through his guitar phase. Now, the friend, Duke, had a rock and roll band, Balmer Strut, that played mostly in Baltimore and DC, and sometimes, Philly. It was highly acclaimed and in great demand for country club dances and the private parties of representatives and senators and other government bigwigs. Their rhythm guitarist had just quit and Duke had asked Gabe if he’d be interested in filling in until they could find a permanent replacement. Gabe wasn’t, being fully engaged with the concert piano now and besides, he had a girlfriend living with him in his apartment in Arlington and she’d throw ten kinds of fit if he told her he was going out on the rock and roll circuit. When Gabe mentioned his brother, Rafe, Duke was doubtful.
“A 16-year-old kid, Gabe?”
“Just try him out, Duke. Trust me, he’s not your average 16-year-old.”
“Does he play as well as you?”
Gabe answered with a rueful smile, “probably even better although if he knows it, I don’t think he cares.”
So Duke called him and the idea piqued Rafe’s interest. He met them at Duke’s studio in Baltimore. He brought along one of the guitars Gabe had left at Heron Point, not owning one of his own.
“Tell us some songs you can play, Rafe. We’ll find some we all know and see how we sound together.”
Rafe reeled off a list of titles. Duke nodded. There were several the band was familiar with.
“I’ve never played with a group before,” Rafe warned, “only for myself, so I’m not sure how I’ll do with that part of it.”
“Well, let’s just make a run at it and see how it turns out.” He named an old ZZ Top tune, When the House is Rockin’. It was like most of what the band played, down and dirty bluesy rock.
He did fumble around for a while, trying to get the hang of coordinating his playing with band mates but then, he hit his stride and he was off and running, fingers flashing over the strings, in perfect rhythm with the rest.
“I think you’ll do, Rafe, if you’re interested. We usually play most weekends.”
“Sounds like fun, at least for a while until you can find someone permanent. I’ve only got this year and then I’ll be heading off to college.”
“We’ll have to help you with the songs you don’t know but we can add them back into the mix as you learn them.”
“Have you got them all on cds so I can listen to them?”
“Yeah.”
“Give’em to me. I’ll teach them to myself. I’ll be ready by next week.”
Duke found the cds although he thought the kid was blowing’ smoke to say he could learn that many songs in a week.
But, he wasn’t, blowing smoke, that is. Duke ran him through every tune on the list. He was letter perfect.
They had their first gig that weekend, a senator’s daughter’s Sweet Sixteen party out in Falls Church. The band was a hit and their new guitar player fit in like he’d been playing with them all along. Duke, who paid attention to every detail about his band (he was a lot like Chester Hughes in that way), watched the interaction between Rafe and the audience. He wore tight black jeans, a long-sleeved black turtleneck and black cowboy boots with silver kicks on the toes. His too-long black hair kept falling down so that he had to shake his head while he played to throw it back out of his eyes. Slender hips and long legs rolled in sexy time to the music. He was one of those natural showmen who could look across an audience and make every girl there think the midnight eyes and the flashing smile were focused right on her.
At the break, he told Todd to move back farther so as to be sure Rafe was front and center.
“Why’s that, Duke?”
“Aren’t you watching, Todd? The teenies haven fallen in collective love with The Kid. When word about him gets around, we’ll be so hot, we’ll be able to double our prices.”
After it was over and the instruments had been loaded into the van, Duke called Rafe over to the side.
“I forgot to tell you about the rules of the band, Rafe. There are only a very few.”
“What are those, Duke?”
“One, never miss a performance unless you’re on your deathbed. Two, no drugs and in your case, no alcohol either. Three, and this might be the one you’ll want to keep in mind, Rafe, no messing with the babies. I don’t care if you fuck their old ladies or their big sisters. They’re adults and that’s on them but there’s nothing that makes a Senator more upset than somebody taking advantage of his little girl. Are you straight with all that?”
Rafe nodded. “I can live with those things, Duke.”
*
“Well,” Gabe asked Duke, “how’s it going with my baby brother?”
“He’s a rather awesome kid, Gabe.”
“So, I’ve always been told.”
“Were you two not close when you were at home?”
“No, nobody’s close to Rafe. Besides, there’s eight years difference in our ages so I mostly remember him as a little boy. All of us used to call him Injun because Mom and Dad were always forgetting to get his hair cut so it was long and black, and he was so quiet, we never heard him come or go. He’d just be there one minute and gone the next.”
“Are you the one who taught him to play?”
Gabe laughed. “I guess you could say that. In fact, it’s the most vivid recollection I have of us together. He came down to the basement one day when I was practicing. He never made a sound, just sat in the chair in front of me and watched my hands. To tell you the truth, he was so intense, it made me kind of nervous. When I was done, he asked me if he could try it once. I went through my spiel about how you couldn’t just sit down and play a guitar. You had to learn a lot of things first and practice until you got good, etc., etc. He just said, “please, Gabe.” I handed the guitar over to him just to placate him and prove a point. I was astonished when he played the damn thing, almost perfectly. I know he didn’t know about reading music or chording or anything then. I don’t know if he does now or not. I tried to talk him into taking an interest in some music classes but he never would. I told him when someone was as naturally gifted in an area like music as he was, he should concentrate on it. You know what the little shit told me, Duke, just as matter-of-fact as could be?”
“What?”
“He said he didn’t have enough time to concentrate on everything he was good at. He’s some kind of fucking savant, Duke.”
“If you saw him work the women in a crowd, Gabe, you say he’s some kind of fucking cocksman too.”
*
So on this bright sunny day as Rafe lay out on that raft in back of the house, he was thinking that although he was having lots of fun, his restful year was turning out not to be so restful, in fact, he might be burning his candle at both ends. He sometimes had to hustle to get from race meets to band gigs. And then there was the sex. Between the race car groupies and the rock and roll groupies (not to mention, Laney wanting attention at home) he thought he might be pushing himself beyond his endurance, which he had always thought before was pretty well limitless. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought that he needed to start pacing himself but he wasn’t sure how to do it. The girls at school had known how to let him know they were interested but they’d been bound by certain restrictions. Those same limitations didn’t apply to either the race fans or the music fans who felt free to express themselves in more direct ways. He’d never had so many breasts thrust into his face, so many eager hands on his ass, so many pussies pressed against his groin as he had this summer. School girls tended to be note writers and he’d gotten plenty of written offers detailing what he could expect if he took out this one or that one and he still did get some of those passed up onto the stage or thrown into the window of his car. But most of them just came out and told him in graphic terms what they wanted and what they would do for him in return. He accepted as many of those offers as he could handle, maybe a few more than he could comfortably handle.
Duke had ordered him off the young ones at the dances and for the most part, he’d abided by that. There was
just that one time when the two beautiful twin daughters of the head of the Congressional Black Caucus said they wanted to play Oreo with him, him being the white icing in the middle. “Sorry, Duke,” he’d said to himself, “this is where me and the rules part ways.” Those girls had turned him every way but loose and when finally, at dawn, he half fell down the hanging stairs from their treehouse (yes, treehouse, which they seemed to use much as he used the cabin on Mount Vincennes only there were mats instead of a bed), he wasn’t sure he’d even have the strength to push the accelerator down on the Corvette. When he got home and Laney approached him, he’d told her, “not now, Lane, I just need a shower and some sleep”.
One nice thing about the band chasers was that, because of their following with Washington government types, there was lots of diversity and diversity was something that Rafe got off on. It was like having access to an ever-changing international sexual smorgasbord.
By contrast, the race track devotees tended to be more all-American, mostly white, some of them a little on the redneck-y side, although not all by any means. Not that it mattered - tight jeans, high cut tee-shirts and bleached blonde hair was fine with him too. And he liked southern drawls almost as well as British accents.
“Speed and sex and rock and roll,” he thought to himself right before he fell asleep in the sun, “my fucking cup runneth over.”
*
Laney was not so happy with the way things were going. The high hopes she’d had for this year were not panning out exactly as she planned. It seemed to her Rafe was gone almost as much as he would be if he had gone to Princeton what with the racing and the band. For sure, he wasn’t there on Friday and Saturday nights. He was home most week days but she was at school and half the time, he went off somewhere on week nights too. He offered to take her to the races whenever she wanted to go and she had gone with him a few times. She liked it okay, she guessed, but it wasn’t her favorite thing and he didn’t get to spend all that much time with her even when she was there. She’d also gone to dances with him twice but she discovered she hated that. He’d asked a group of girls if they cared if she sat with them and of course, they were thrilled to have her. Not because of her though but because they thought it would bring Rafe to their table more often, which it did, but that was almost the worst part. She hated seeing them fall all over him, touching him and cooing in his ear. She even saw one girl put her hand on his crotch under the table and he didn’t act like he minded either.
Sociopath? Page 8
