by Claire Adams
We all turn around to look.
My attention was so directed toward Jax and his goon that I didn’t even see Kate’s mom standing behind me.
“Yeah,” Kate says. “I kind of had my mom on standby for tonight.”
I look from Kate to her mom and then back at Kate. “How?”
“Mick snuck her into the office a couple hours ago,” Kate says. “She was going to follow us out to wherever the race was going to be, but after you got that phone call-”
“Mick stayed behind,” I say, finishing the sentence.
“Yeah,” Kate says.
While we’ve been talking, Kate’s mom has pushed her way past me and all the way to Jax. I grab Kate’s hand and we follow.
“What do you want?” Jax asks Kate’s mom.
“I want to live in a world where idiots don’t cheat their way to victory,” she says and pulls out her phone. She turns toward the crowd, calling, “I’ve got the end of the race right here!”
“What is she doing?” I ask Kate.
“She’s saving your car.”
“Lady, the race has been called,” Jax says. “The only thing that remains is for that punk to give me what’s mine.”
My mouth is open and I’m ready to jump in, but Kate’s mom beats me to it.
“I understand some people are so incredibly insecure, they need to win everything or they get scared that everyone’s going to find out how insignificant their genitalia is,” Kate’s mom snaps. “But that’s not you, right?”
“You better watch your mouth,” Jax says, and I step between him and Kate’s mom.
“What are you scared of?” I ask him. “If you won, the video’s going to show it.”
“This is not a democracy, and it certainly isn’t A/V club,” Jax says. “Now give me my keys and the pink slip to my Chevelle before I have my man here give you a few new holes.”
Kate’s mom doesn’t say anything more, she simply holds up her phone and presses play on the video.
It runs for a few seconds before Jax and I come around that last corner. In the background, someone’s saying, “It’s going to be close,” and in quick response, the shot pans over to the finish line.
Jax knocks the phone out of Kate’s mom’s hand, but not before both he and I see my car cross the line first.
I move to block Jax completely from getting to Kate’s mom, but he doesn’t make a move. For what seems like almost a minute, he just stands there gritting his teeth.
Jax nudges his nearest goon and while the latter is pushing his way through the crowd, Jax continues to stand there, staring me down.
I don’t move. For a decent amount of time, I don’t even blink.
The lackey comes back through the crowd after a minute. He’s carrying a duffel bag.
Jax snatches the bag out of the man’s hands and I’m not sure if I’m about to get paid or shot.
“You have three days to leave town,” he says. “After that, I see your face again, I’m going to put in a skylight in it.”
He more pushes me with the bag than hands it to me and he turns around, gets back in his Zonda, and leaves.
“Weren’t you supposed to get his car if you won?” Kate asks.
“I don’t know about you,” I tell her, “but I don’t really feel like going after him about that.”
I turn around to face Kate’s mother.
“So, you won yourself a little bit of money, have you?” she asks.
“Looks that way,” I tell her. “Why did you come? You and I never really had the best rapport.”
Kate’s mom motions toward her daughter. “This one wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to give the man she loves a second chance,” she says.
“That’s great,” I say, “but why tonight, though? Why the race?”
“Uh, Eli?” Kate jumps in.
I look around and nobody except for Jax and his people have even moved from their place. Now all I have to do is make it through the crowd of over twenty people, each and every one of whom knows exactly what’s in the bag in my arms.
I mutter, “Maybe we should talk about this later.”
Epilogue
Kate
It’s been two years since Eli won his quarter-million, but it hardly feels like any time has passed at all.
I’d managed to convince my mom to come down to the race after we got into a phone argument over whether or not racing was a matter of skill or stupidity. We argued about almost anything back then.
It wasn’t until I called my dad and talked him into badgering her about how great Eli is that she finally relented.
That particular honeymoon didn’t last too long, though.
It wasn’t Eli’s fault. Really, it wasn’t. I was the one who first approached him about racing.
I don’t know if my dad told her or what, but after we had to leave town, Eli gave up racing to start working on an engineering degree, while I took his place on the road. I don’t mean to brag, but it turns out I’m pretty good.
For the first year or so, Eli let me take his Chevelle, but once I had enough money, I gave up the muscle for my dream car: a dark purple Porsche 911 Turbo S. Eli helped me pick out the mods.
It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the Chevelle, but after racing it around the people of our new hometown of Carlsberg for a few months, I got sick of all the extra weight. Also, it’s kind of nice racing something I don’t have to hide in a junkyard.
Right now, I’m pulling up to the stoplight, holding up my pink slip up so the guy in the Koenigsegg Agera RS next to me will hold up his.
I love it when people bring their untouched supercars out of the garage. They never expect a modded car to come out and wipe the floor with them.
Usually, I would never even consider putting my pristine purple Porsche on the block, but this race is going to be special. I’m going to give Eli that Agera as a present for our wedding next month.
He finally wore me down.
The $250,000 Eli got off of Jax has been great, but the fact Eli didn’t exactly win it legally means we can never spend too much of it at any given time. Still, it has come in handy for buying aftermarket parts for Pandora—yeah, I named my car.
Pandora’s rarely the fastest car in the race, but between my natural love of going really, really fast and Eli’s patient instruction, it’s a rare event that I don’t come in first.
The Agera revs its engine as the light for the cross street turns yellow, and I grip the wheel, my eyes on the light a quarter mile down the road: our finish line.
It may seem like a bad idea to pit a 911 against an Agera, especially when slips are on the line, but I’ve got a good feeling about today.
Our light turns green and we take off.
The Agera gets a slightly better start off the line, but I creep up beside it before very long.
I make up some more time on the gear change, and I start to pull ahead.
Leaving town was probably harder on Mick than it was on Eli or me, but he’s more than made up for it with his frequent and usually unannounced visits. When the “I dos” are done, we’re going to have to start talking boundaries.
What I’ve found most interesting over the last couple of years is that Desi and I have slowly become something almost akin to friends. We hardly ever see each other, but when we do it’s actually a lot of fun.
The one thing I wish I hadn’t agreed to in this race was the no nitrous rule. I’m still edging him out, but the line’s coming up pretty quick and the Agera’s right on top of me.
Paz and I had already started drifting apart by the time I left the hospital, so when Eli and I left the city, that was more or less the end for us. There have been a few scattered phone calls, but our conversations never last very long.
We pass the halfway point in the quarter mile drag and the Agera is holding position, its front bumper only a matter of inches farther back than mine.
“Come on, Pandora,” I urge the roaring monster beneath me as I try to push the gas p
edal through the floor.
I know Eli’s somewhere down there at the finish, just waiting for me to bring this thing home, but the Agera keeps inching up on me until we’re dead even.
The wedding’s going to be a pretty small affair, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I may have overcome my general shyness, but the thought of standing up in front of a hundred people I haven’t seen in years and likely won’t see again makes me throw up a little in my mouth.
My dad offered to go online and be ordained a minister so he could do the honors of marrying us, but I’d rather have him walk me down the aisle. Also, my dad has a tendency to cry at weddings…profusely.
I just manage to retake the lead when I have to shift gears. I don’t lose much, but it’s enough for the Agera to pull out in front again.
This is bad. Oh, this is so very, very bad.
The Agera crosses the line, beating me by what can’t be more than a tenth of a car length, but that’s not going to matter. I lost.
I can’t believe I lost.
“Oh, Pandora,” I say as I take my foot off the gas and run my fingers over the steering wheel.
I love this car. I love this car so much, in fact, that I put my foot back on the gas a second. Sadly, as I just learned the hard way, the Agera can obviously catch me, so I give it up and take my foot off of the throttle.
By the time I get back to the finish line, I’m just trying to focus on keeping my eyes dry. But as I get out and Eli rushes over, throwing his arms around me, I can’t help it anymore.
It’s embarrassing, I know, but I’ve dreamed of owning a Porsche since I was a little girl. I’ve only had it for a year and now after some stupid quarter mile drag race, it’s gone.
Those thoughts help quite a bit as the other driver pulls up and gets out of his car to find me sobbing in my fiancé’s arms.
“Kate,” Eli says quietly, “he’s waiting for you.”
I sniff loudly and wipe my eyes, saying, “Here are the keys. The pink slip’s on the seat.”
As soon as the word “seat” has left my lips, I break down into another fit of sobbing. This continues until the guy tells me to “forget about it,” gets back in his Koenigsegg, and drives off into the night.
I can’t keep a straight face for a second longer.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but if you’ve developed the ability to cry at will, you’ve got an edge in just about every situation.
Looking up at Eli, I wipe my eyes, saying, “Thank God, I was worried I was actually going to lose it that time.”
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PULSE BOX SET
The Complete Series
By Alycia Taylor
Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.
PULSE #1
CHAPTER ONE
The only good thing about this week was that it was finally coming to an end. Absolutely every work-out outfit I owned was dirty because the washer had been broken since the previous Friday and I couldn’t afford to get it fixed until the beginning of the following week. I worked late every day this week so my brilliant plan was to get up early this morning and go to the laundromat and wash at least one load of clothes so I had something clean to wear to work. Go figure it would be the one stinking night that I’d forget to charge my phone, so while I was sleeping, it died and the alarm never went off.
I woke up in a complete panic. I could tell by the amount of light sneaking in through the blinds that it was a lot later than I’d planned on getting up. I’d thrown back the covers, cussed a lot and ran out to the living room in my underwear—the last clean pair I had. Thank God I lived alone and I’d at least showered before I put them on last night. It was already seven thirty a.m. and my first session was scheduled for eight o’clock. The gym was a ten-minute drive if I obeyed the speed laws, five if I didn’t and I got lucky and all the cops were at Starbucks. I realized that as I stood there in my underwear thinking all of that, I was wasting precious minutes. I ran to the bathroom, stripped out of the underwear I was going to put back on while the water in the shower heated up and then took a two-minute shower. After I dried off, I pulled on a pair of compression pants and a wrinkled tank that I fished out of the hamper. I did sniff them first to make sure they weren’t completely disgusting. I grabbed my gym bag that had my deodorant and body spray in it which I could slap on when I got there and then I pulled on yesterday’s socks and my Nikes and ran out the door.
I didn’t even bother warming up my poor little car before pulling out of the driveway but she got a quick warm up as I sat and cursed the garbage man who was blocking the exit. I made good time for a few minutes after that, but it seemed like all the city workers were against me. A city bus came to a dead stop at a green light right in front of me. I had to slam on my brakes to keep from rear-ending it and then wait until it decided to move again before I could go because I couldn’t get over into the other lane. There was a lot more cussing. I finally made it in one piece and left everyone on the road with me that way as well. I parked my car in the lot in front of the Madison Gym where I worked and finally allowed myself to check the time. Damn! It was eight- oh-five! I got out of the car and felt the chill from where my wet hair had lain on my back as I ran into work. I wish I could get a do-over on this day…just this once.
When I got inside I pulled my time card out of my bag and stopped in front of the clock to punch in. The time on the work clock said eight ten, lying bastard. I bent in half and flipped my long wet hair over my head. Using my hands and the elastic band I had around my wrist, I twisted the curly mess up into a bun in the middle of my head. When I stood back up I realized I had attracted attention. Some of the men in the gym had actually stopped working out and were staring at me. Geez, how bad did I look? My face felt as red as my hair as I forced myself across the room through the maze of exercise machines and the curious stares and found my first client of the day waiting for me. Mark Fox was an MMA fighter. He was one of those guys who were born with a six pack and a propensity for sports. He’d never had to try hard to do anything, it always just came naturally. He was quickly finding out that mixed martial arts was a whole different ballgame so to speak. He was taking it good-naturedly for the most part though. I had yet to see him get genuinely upset about anything.
“There she is,” he said with a grin.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I told him. “You wouldn’t believe the week I’m having.”
“No worries,” he said. “I’m not in a hurry today.”
“Good,” I said. “Please just ignore how I look today. My washer is broken and I overslept…” I realized I was talking too much. I talked too much when I was nervous and I had a tendency to say stupid things when I was anxious. I told myself to shut up before I said way too much and embarrassed myself in front of one of my best clients. I was new at this, and since I was only an assistant trainer, he was one of my few personal clients. I liked training Mark. He was a nice guy and he didn’t hit on me throughout the entire session like some of the men I trained did. I took a deep breath and said, “Anyways, let’s get started over here on the steps.”
“I hate this one,” Mark said like an insolent child. I laughed and said,
“Most guys do, but trust me, your feet are the foundation for your entire body. If they’re not functioning top-notch it can throw off your entire kinetic chain.”
“And what is a kinetic chain again?” He knew what a kinetic chain was, he was just stalling. I explained it anyways as if he really didn’t know.
“The fifty-cent definition is that every part of your body, your muscles, your joints, and your nerves have to work together in order to make you move. If just one of those things is off, it will throw everything else off…and that includes your feet. So let’s go, four-way holds.”
He made a face at me but he moved over to the
step. He just stood there, though, acting like he didn’t know what to do. It killed me sometimes how these grown-ass men acted like gigantic babies sometimes.
“One leg heel raises at twelve, three, six, and nine o’clock and hold for thirty seconds.” I looked at my stopwatch and said, “Okay, now.” Mark started the exercises and while he worked I told him, “Good, you’re doing good. You’ll see, this will make your foundation solid and keep you on your feet more.”
Mark grunted out a laugh and said, “Are you suggesting I spend more time on my ass in the cage than I do my feet?”
“I’d have to reserve judgment on that one until I saw one of your bouts,” I told him. I didn’t like fighting. It made me sick to my stomach to watch two men pummel away at each other. I was about to say something else, but when I looked up all thought other than what I saw directly in front of me was completely gone from my brain.
For a second I was sure that I was imagining him. He was looking right at me, watching me, I think. I’d never seen anything or anyone quite like him. He was literally beautiful. He was tall, probably at least six three or four with closely shaved dark hair and the sexiest pale blue eyes I’d ever seen. He didn’t have a shirt on, which was probably the cause of my cotton mouth. I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t as if I’d never seen a half-naked man before. I see them every day, all day long at work. I work with them, next to them, I train them, and I even touch them…a lot. But this guy was different. He looked like he’d been sculpted out of clay and then painted by an artist. He was lightly covered with sweat from working out and it glistened across the colors of the tattoos that ran across his muscular chest and disappeared over one shoulder. I suddenly realized that the entire time I was thinking about how hot he was, he hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Of course that also meant that I’d been staring at him. Slightly unprofessional I was sure. He had to be wondering why someone who was obviously gainfully employed looked like a homeless person with her wrinkly clothes and uncombed hair. I had to force myself to return my attention to my client. He finished his four way holds and I said,
