by Claire Adams
“Where are we headed?” I ask whoever has an answer.
“Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard and Eighteenth,” Mick says. “It’s been a while since I’ve run that quarter mile; you?”
“Not too long,” I answer.
“Okay,” Kate says, “I think I’m pretty good on just about everything, but could we run through the burnout again?”
“Yeah,” I answer as we pull away from the curb. “Someone should let you know when the traction compound ready for you. If not, I’ll tell you. Then, you’re going to want to get your revs up near the red line before you come off the clutch. That’s going to give you the wheel spin you’re going to need for the burnout. From there, just try to stay in the grooves.”
“Okay, that’s where you lose me,” Kate says. “I don’t know if we never went over it or if I’m just freaking out a little, but what do you mean when you say ‘grooves?’”
“After a while, roads start to wear down from all the cars going over them,” I tell her. “If you look close at an older road, you can see the ruts from the tires. It’s never a lot, but when you’ve got your foot down, going in and out of the grooves can really throw off your run if you’re not ready for it. With a drag race, it’s usually best to try to stay in the grooves as much as possible.”
“Okay,” she says. “Good, I think I’m good.”
“Good,” Mick says, “cause we’re here.”
Kate’s eyes go wide and her face goes pale.
“Okay,” she mutters. “Okay.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I ask her. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you into anything. If you want to get out of here, we can—”
“No,” Kate interrupts. “Win or lose, I think this is something I need to do.”
“All right then,” I say and wait for her to open her door.
She doesn’t.
“Kate?”
“Oh,” she says, “right.”
She opens her door and gets out with me right behind her.
“All right,” I tell her, rubbing her shoulders, “now, do you know which race you’re in or are they just going to do it by whoever rolls up first?”
Kate answers, “Mick said he pulled some strings and got me in the second race.”
I’m not sure what kind of strings those would be. Racing order only matters if you’ve been in one place too long, and the only time I’ve ever heard anyone argue about it is when flashing lights are coming down the road and someone with something to prove hasn’t had a chance to prove it yet.
Mick says, “Everyone was talking about who got to go first, so when I said Kate wanted to go second, nobody seemed to mind.”
I chuckle.
“What?” Mick asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him, smiling with relief. “It’s been so long since you were working with me I forgot your rule about first time races.”
The rule is to get the first race out of the way before you have too much time to think about it. It doesn’t matter who you are: unless you’re delusional, the nerves are going to get to you eventually.
Here I was thinking Mick was trying to come off as some sort of race guru when he was just doing the same thing with her he did with me. This doesn’t mean he and I are back to normal, but it’s a decent step in that direction.
The first cars are already pulling up to the line. When the race isn’t legal, you tend to waste a little less time starting it.
Kate, Mick, and I hop onto the back of the flatbed. Mick unfastens the ramps while Kate and I uncover the Chevelle.
When everything’s ready, Kate asks if I’d be willing to pull it down the ramp and off the back of the flatbed. I agree without hesitation and, within a minute, all four tires are on the asphalt and Mick’s looking around for Kate’s opponent.
Kate’s just standing next to the Chevelle, her arms crossed. She’s quiet, but the way her eyes are darting back and forth, I’d hardly say it’s a peaceful kind of quiet.
“Hey,” I say to her and pull her for a hug. “You’ve got this, all right?”
“Are you going to be mad at me if I lose?”
“Of course not,” I tell her.
“Are you going to do the insecure guy thing and get bent out of shape if I win?” she asks, loosening her grip around my waist so she can look up at me.
I laugh. “I’m going to be proud of you whether you win or lose,” I tell her. “I’m already proud of you, actually. I’m pretty sure the only problem I’m going to have win or lose is trying to keep the front of my pants from bursting open while you’re driving.”
“Yeah?” she asks. “You think racing girls are hot, huh? I guess I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
We laugh together and give each other another quick squeeze before I hand her the keys.
Mick calls out my name, and Kate and I look over, finding him standing next to what I’m pretty sure is an exact replica of a particularly famous 1970 Dodge Charger R/T. Apparently, he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t actually know anything about racing, but sure does love the movies.
The guy doesn’t have a chance.
“You ready to get behind the wheel and do this?” I ask.
“I’ll probably be a lot more ready if you stop asking me that,” Kate retorts. A moment later, she gasps and says, “I am so sorry for snapping at you like that.”
I put an arm around her shoulders, saying, “You sound pretty ready to me.”
The first cars start their burnouts, startling Kate and I out of our moment.
Without a word, we both walk to our respective doors and get in the Chevelle.
“Okay,” I tell her, “do you see the guy you’re racing?”
“Yeah,” she says. “He’s the one looking at both of us, holding up his hands and mouthing the words, ‘Come on, let’s go!’ right?”
“That’s the one,” I tell her. “If he’s like everyone else I’ve seen behind the wheel of that car, he’s going to waste at least a second trying to see if he can get his car to do a wheelie off the line, so you’ve already got the advantage.”
“People can actually do that?”
“You can, but I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time in a drag race,” I answer. “I’m here to help, but the actual race is going to be over pretty quickly, so if you have any last-minute questions, now’s the time.”
“Yeah,” she says. “After I win, how would you like to celebrate?” As punctuation, she fires up the Chevelle, and I’m not sorry to admit I’ve got goosebumps.
The first cars take off roaring down the street and now Kate’s pulling up next to her opponent on the starting line.
“They don’t waste any time, do they?” she asks as a few people come out and start laying down traction compound.
“Hey!” a voice I can barely hear shouts and Kate and I look over to the car next to us. “Good luck getting off the line with a passenger! Also, I’d like my money in smaller bills if you’ve got ‘em. It’ll be a lot easier making it rain on the finish line if I’ve got more paper.”
I’m about to throw the guy’s own smack talk back in his face, but Kate just starts laughing.
“Yeah,” she says, turning to me, her eyes wild, “I’m ready.”
Down boy, now’s not the time.
When the road’s treated, Kate and I wait for them to make a puddle around the back tires. As soon as they’re out of the way, Kate’s foot is on the gas and her foot’s off the clutch and she keeps her revs up as the back tires start spinning in place.
I’m about to tell her to ease off the throttle a little bit, but she does it on her own. The tires catch and Kate lays rubber for at least fifty feet.
I guess she didn’t need my help, after all.
As we’re backing up toward the starting line, I’m telling Kate, “You know, it looks like you’ve got this down pretty well. If you want, I can hop out and save you about two hundred pounds.”
She shakes her head as we come to a stop behi
nd the start line.
“I wouldn’t be behind the wheel if I still had any questions,” she says. “I wanted you next to me for my first race because I wanted you next to me for my first race.”
I’m about to respond when the guy next to us starts his burnout. Apparently, he wanted an audience.
The only thing is that he handles the burnout at least as well as Kate did. To be honest, just seeing the guy’s car, I was expecting him to stall it. Maybe I’m reading too much into a burnout, but this guy doesn’t seem like he’s just another rookie.
I’ve never actually met someone driving that particular car who knew what they were doing. This might not go so well.
The guy in the Charger comes back to the line and Kate’s revving.
“This is it,” she says, putting the car in gear. “I can do this,” she repeats, “I can do this.”
I keep quiet. She’s psyching herself up and the last thing she needs is me interrupting that.
After a few seconds, a twenty-something chick comes out carrying her cell phone and I have no choice but to speak.
“This is going to be a different kind of start than what we talked about,” I tell Kate.
“What?” she shouts. “Why the hell are you telling me that now?”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Instead of dropping her hands, she’s going to turn on her phone’s flashlight and that’s your go signal. As soon as you see the light in her hand, go.”
“Okay,” Kate says. “Okay, I’ve got this. I can do this.”
I always hate starts like this because it’s never quite clear if the starter’s looking for the flashlight app or whether they’re just checking social media. It’s happened before.
Without any warning, though, the light comes on and we’re off the line. Kate got the better start, but the Charger’s keeping it within a car length.
Kate gets through her first gear shift perfectly and we pull ahead a little.
There’s a crowd at each side of the finish line. We’re already halfway through the race.
“Come on, you hunk of shit, come on!” Kate shouts as she loses a few mph on her next gear change. “Nitrous?” she’s yelling at me. “Do I hit the nitrous?”
She’s never used it, and it’s not the sort of thing you want to get used to on the fly, so I tell her, “No. Just keep on it, you’ve almost got this.”
She makes her final gear change about half a block from the finish, and we’re pulling away from the Charger as we cross the finish line.
“Woo!” Kate’s screaming, and I’m laughing with glee as she eases off the gas.
By the time we get to the finish line to settle up with the Charger, I can see the lights of the flatbed coming down the cross street.
“I won, right?” Kate’s asking me as she shuts off the car after we’ve pulled off to the side of the road, out of the way of the next batch of cars.
“You won,” I tell her and she lets out another cheer. “Not only that,” I tell her, “but did you ever see the first Fast and the Furious movie?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“You just beat Dom’s car,” I tell her.
“I kick ass?” she asks, though she doesn’t wait for an answer. “I kick ass!”
We kiss, and I’m laughing as we get out of the car. “Racing loosens your vocabulary quite a bit, doesn’t it?” I ask Kate.
“Whatever, man,” she says. “I just won my first race. I really don’t care.”
The guy with the Charger walks up to us, money in hand, saying, “You know, I didn’t think that was going to happen with that guy weighing you down, but whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I haven’t lost a race like that in years.”
So the guy didn’t turn out to be a noob at all. Icing, meet cake.
He hands over the money and even manages a respectful nod before he gets back in his car and drives off into the night.
We have to wait for the next two cars to get past, but once they’re out of the way, Kate tosses me the keys and I get behind the wheel of the Chevelle. I get it off the track as quickly as possible, but I take my time getting it up onto the flatbed.
“That was so beautiful,” I tell her. “You were amazing.”
“Did you think I was going to win?” she asks. “Be honest.”
“I was confident,” I tell her. “Things can happen, but you’re a quick study and you’ve got balls like a freaking white whale.”
“I’m going to make a guess and take that as a compliment,” Kate giggles.
Once the car’s safely on the back of the flatbed, Kate and I are quick to get out. Mick tosses us the car cover while he gets the two tire-wide ramps secured onto the truck. We’re on the road less than a minute later.
Kate and I are holding hands and Mick’s going off about how people are going to be talking about that debut for a while and everything’s going spectacularly well as we cautiously make our way back toward the shop on the other side of town.
“I know you were nervous about riding shotgun with me, but I just wanted to thank you for doing that,” Kate says.
“Win or lose, I knew I wanted to be there,” I tell her. “I just didn’t know if my added weight would affect the race.”
“What made you finally decide?” she asks, squeezing my hand.
“Actually, I swung by the strip club Desi works and she helped me put things into perspective,” I start, but I don’t continue.
Oh no.
Mick elbows me fast and hard in the ribs.
Oh my God. What did I just do?
“Desi? While I was down here, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to talk to these people, you were hanging out with your ex-girlfriend?”
“Dude,” Mick says. “That’s just a rookie mistake. You hate to see it.”
Chapter Nineteen
How to Make Friends and Influence Strippers
Kate
I’ve been trying to act like I’m all right with Eli hanging out with his stripper ex-girlfriend, but it’s not working. Every time I say something about it, he’s so quick to assure me that they’re just friends; that whatever feelings they may have had for each other are all in the past.
It sounds like a rationalization.
I’ve really tried to just trust him, but I’ve been ignoring his calls and his texts. He’s stopped by a couple of times, but I’ve just been telling him I’m not feeling too well.
We can’t keep doing this. Either we’re going to find a way to make this work or we’re not. Going back and forth would just be a slow, inevitable death to the relationship.
I’ve tried more times than I can remember to avoid doing what I’m about to do, but I’ve got to know.
The phone’s ringing.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Eli answers. “I was just getting some chicken soup together to bring over to you.”
“Where does she work?” I ask.
“What?” he asks. “Who?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know if Desi would be cool with me telling people where she works, but I can give her your number and have her call you or something,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s not going to do it,” I tell him. “If you don’t tell me, I’m sure Mick will.”
“Kate,” he says, “I know what this must look like from the outside, but there’s really-”
“If I had trouble believing nothing was going on with the two of you the first forty times you told me that, what makes you think forty-one’s going to make any difference?” I interrupt. “You can’t tell me you don’t understand.”
He sighs. “She works at Club Slick,” he says. “I don’t know if she’s working or not, but it’s the only place I know to find her. We haven’t seen each other outside of-”
“Club Slick,” I repeat as I write the words on my hand. “Thanks.”
I hang up the phone.
Sure, I feel a lot like the overbearing girlfriend right now, but if I don’t talk to her, I may as well end t
he relationship right now.
Either he’s telling the truth or he isn’t. I’d much rather have this turn out to be a huge mistake on my half, than just go on like everything’s fine while he’s making it with some stripper.
The only problem is that I have no idea what she looks like. I just hope she’s there.
I get to the club, and I try to ignore the men standing outside smoking as they ogle me as I pass.
Once inside the club, I pay the cover and take a look around. There’s a stage with silent, scantily-clad women dancing on it, there’s a bar and there are a lot of guys trying to live down to the saying, “Men are pigs.” It’s pretty much what I expected.
I walk over to the bar, and I ask the bartender if, “Desi’s working tonight.”
He scrunches his face and cocks his head. “Desi?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s short for Desiree. Is she on tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, “nobody here by that name.”
Yeah, it’s over. I get Eli’s hesitation in telling me where she works, but I can’t live with him lying about it.
Eli’s cheating on me and I had to find out from the bartender at a strip club.
Nice.
I’m turning around, getting ready to leave, only I walk into a pair of outstretched arms, and a woman who’s wearing next to nothing is cooing in my ear, “Kate! I’ve heard so much about you,” the woman says. “It’s so great to finally meet you!”
I squint as if that’s going to make some kind of difference. “Desi?”
She puts her index finger to her bottom lip, saying, “Around here, it’s Judy. Some of the regulars can get a little weird if they find out your real name.”
Okay, that actually makes sense.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, let me buy you a drink,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. I shrug the hand off.
“I need to talk to you about Eli,” I tell her.
“What do you like?” Desi asks me over the deafening music. “Are you into beer, liquor, wine…”
“I’m into talking to you about Eli,” I tell her, this time making sure to lean in close enough and speak loudly enough she can’t pretend she didn’t hear me.
