by Kim Karr
Set the Pace
Copyright © 2016 by Kim Karr
ISBN-10: 0–9889419–6-1
ISBN-13: 978–0-9889419–6-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Editor:
Mary-Theresa Hussey, Good Stories Told Well
Interior design and formatting:
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Cover model:
Matt Poeschl
Photographer:
Scott Hoover, Scott Hoover Photography
Cover designer:
Hang Le, By Hang Le
Table of Contents
Set the Pace
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Author Note
Also by New York Times bestselling author Kim Karr
About the Author
The heart of this novel is based on the age-old nursery rhyme:
Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails—that’s what little boys are made of.
Sugar and spice and all things nice—that’s what little girls are made of.
Dedicated to little girls who like to play with little boys . . .
and mothers who let them.
This is me when I was three years old and my best friend—Chrissy (Christopher),
who is the inspiration behind the friendship in this story.
A TEST DRIVE
Jasper
NO WORDS CAN properly describe the feeling.
Adrenaline races through my veins. My heart thumps in my chest. My pulse is out of control. The anticipation is almost as good as the experience. Almost. I pump a little harder. Align my body. Move my hips. Steady my gaze. Take a deep breath. And then plunge.
My foot slams down on the clutch and my hand grips the gearshift. Just like that, the engine screams to life. I stomp on the gas and my tires start to spin. Immediately, the car takes off and the speedometer reads 10, 20, 30, 40.
Not fast enough.
I engage the clutch again and put her in second gear.
The speedometer reads 50, 60, 70.
Easing around the first turn, the throaty horsepower comes alive from under the hood and the tires squeal as if on the edge of adhesion.
Still not fast enough.
Clutch.
Third gear.
The speedometer reads 80, 90.
Clutch.
Fourth gear.
Finally, I reach 100, and I still have so much grip on the track that I can barely contain my enthusiasm. Now that I’m at the speed I want to be, I can properly assess my position. I’m in last place.
Fuck!
But Will is only a couple of lengths ahead of me and I’m gaining on him.
“Speed it up,” I tell him, talking into the helmet microphone.
“She won’t go any faster!” Will is yelling.
“No passing. Max was clear on that—he said no passing,” Jake whines.
I don’t say another word as I fire past Will and then Jake.
“What the fuck?” It’s Jake again, and he’s not happy that I just slid in front of him.
I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Sorry, Pretty Boy, but since when do I listen to Max?”
Drew’s moving fast and showing no signs of slowing down.
Faster. I have to move faster.
Pushing it as far as I can, I quickly creep up on Drew’s bumper but can’t get the upper hand. We’re approaching the second bend. Jake is right behind me. Now he’s passing me. I swear he just flipped me the bird.
“Hey, Pretty Boy, that wasn’t nice,” I laugh.
“I’m not in a nice mood,” he grumbles.
“Guys, that’s enough.” It’s Max.
We’re all ignoring him. I stare straight ahead and son of a bitch, I see the tiniest, slimmest crack between Drew and Jake. No right-minded person would risk it. Only a suicidal maniac. Luckily, I have big balls and I go for it.
Maneuvering my way in, I slam on the brakes when I get a little too close to Drew on the turn. My car doesn’t slow in the way I’d like her to, but I ignore that fact for now. Max can fix the issue later. I wait to cover the turn and then push her to her limits, leaving Jake in the dust.
Soon enough I’m awash in that exhilarating sensation when the tires feel like they’re gripping nothing at all, and I go flying past Drew into first place.
“This isn’t a race, boys,” Max’s agitated voice booms in my ears.
“What the fuck are you doing, Jasper? I’m the pace car!” Drew’s voice crackles through my speaker with frustration.
Pace car.
Race car.
None of them are driving the Storm.
Only me.
“Just having a little fun.”
A throat clears. “Jasper, let’s try not to spin out today, okay?” Max warns me.
Hands gripping the leather around the wheel so tight my fingers are numb, I grin and say, “I’ll do my best.”
“Hey asshole, you do know that’s what happens when you engage both the brake and the steering wheel at the same time while going more than one hundred miles per hour?” This time it’s Will showing me the love. Usually he’s the cautious one, the calm one, the one who is reasonable at every turn. Today he’s in rare form, and his sarcasm only makes my grin wider.
Again, I laugh. “Yeah, I think I know that by now.”
The four of us aren’t really racecar drivers, we’re best friends who just so happen to share a love of cars. A ragtag mix of marketing major, accountant, business major, and automotive engineer, Will Fleming, Jake Crown, Drew Kates, and myself have wanted to quit our day jobs since we started them and build an automotive company from the ground up that would be able to compete with the likes of GM, Ford, and Dodge.
And today is day one of that dream becoming a reality. With the sale of the part I named “Pulse” to a large retail automotive parts chain, I am now in the position to fund this venture.
The Pulse is a really simple piece of metal that to gearheads will change their lives. It’s a very small supercharger that when attached to the engine block pressurizes air intake to above normal levels, hence allowing the car to move faster. It’s something I designed during college and have been perfecting ever since. I never planned on selling it as an aftermarket part. My plan was to use it on my own concept car, the Storm, but it was a
means to getting Lightning Motors off the ground, so I went for it.
Max, my old boss and now our chief spec designer and engineer, is on the sidelines today. He has helped me over the past two years assemble my dream—a car of thrilling contradictions. A car that will be every man’s dream. The Storm is just one of the fleet of prototypes I have in mind to launch. It’s a sports car that moves fast like a car on the track, but doesn’t make the consumer compromise on comfort and roadworthy traits.
Uniting thrilling contradictions to create something better, stronger, and faster has been my dream since I was fifteen. And the Storm does just this. It is all soft curves and hard edges—unique and unmistakable. Fast and can stop on a dime. And with the start of Lightning Motors, it’s almost ready for the assembly line.
“I think it’s time to bring it in, boys,” Max says.
I can’t do that.
Not yet.
I ignore his suggestion and go faster. Faster still.
The other guys are pulling off the track like good little boys listening to Daddy.
“You need to bring it in.” It’s Max again and he’s talking to me. If I could see him, I’m sure he’d be running his hand through his gray hair.
But I can’t pull off. I need to see what she can do. That’s why I’m here. So why not push her? See how far she’ll take me.
“That’s enough, Jasper. We’ve got all the data we need for today.” Now Max sounds really annoyed.
I should listen to him.
Instead, I press farther down on the pedal.
Still not fast enough.
Screw it! I’m going to mash the throttle.
“Slow down, Jasper! Something isn’t right!” Max yells.
Feeling the exhilaration of the moment, I can’t stop, and I go around the next curve like vengeance itself. Again, I’m not slowing as I should, and somehow I slide off the track entirely, but manage to get back on it. That’s the beauty of the Storm—control that is made for both the track and the street.
Now I’m going even faster but when my car starts drifting, I can’t seem to get control over the wheel. I yank it to the left, and finally I rein it in.
When I hit the last curve, a bobby pin at 15—the sharpest turn on the course—I slam on my brakes, yanking the wheel to make the turn, but nothing happens. The brakes don’t engage and I can’t change gears. Before I know it, I start to spin and spin and spin.
A dizzying sensation consumes me.
I close my eyes.
Open them.
Look twice.
The words DETROIT AUTO RACEWAY written on the wall appear to be upside down. No, it’s me. I’m fucking upside down and I’m doing more than spinning out. I’m flipping. I’m completely out of control.
Everything is a blur as I’m rotating on the track, walls coming in and out of view. My body is bumping and grinding. My hands are clamping vise-tight around the wheel. My foot is on the brake and I’m completely touching the floorboard. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.
I’m spinning.
Weaving.
Rotating.
Suddenly, my view is blocked by an airbag, and in what feels like a fraction of a second later I’m no longer moving.
Disoriented, I try to look around. I’m secure in my seat but hanging upside down. Hood on the ground. Wheels in the air. Belly up.
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck!
There’s yelling. A lot of it. My body doesn’t feel right.
My head pounds.
My legs throb.
My blood feels like it’s burning through my veins, trying to find a way out.
I can’t move my left arm.
My ribs are screaming.
It’s dark. It’s light.
Someone is unbuckling me.
It’s dark. It’s light.
“Something isn’t right!” I hear Max yell.
“We need to get him to the hospital.” It’s Will, and he’s dragging me out of the car. “I think his arm is broken. Maybe his leg, too.”
“I already called 911.” Drew sounds alarmed. That’s not good. He’s never alarmed.
I’m in and out of consciousness, catching only snippets of what’s being said. Someone is taking my helmet off. “Jasper, you with me, man?” It’s Jake.
I try to talk but can’t seem to find the words.
“There’s brake fluid all over the track.” Max again.
Forcing myself to open my eyes, I ignore the pain flaming through my body. When I see Max pacing around me, I have to ask. “What’s wrong?”
Jake is holding my helmet and his hands are red. “You’re pretty messed up, JJ.”
I try to shake my head but can’t. “Not with me, the car. What’s wrong with the car?”
Jake starts talking to Will. A bunch of mumbo jumbo I can’t make out.
Feeling myself losing consciousness, I focus on the still pacing feet. “Max,” I call.
“This is my fault. I should have done a better job checking out the car before you took it out on the track.” Max sounds more than upset. In fact, he’s almost hysterical.
“Not your fault. Mine,” I manage to tell him.
He’s staring at the fluid on the ground. “No, Jasper, it looks like a brake line might have been cut.”
Sirens in the distance swallow my voice, but somehow I manage to beckon Max over. “What do you think happened?”
“Sabotage,” is the last word I hear before my world goes black.
PIMP MY RIDE
Three Years Later
Jasper
LET’S FACE IT—there’s one thing on every boy’s mind when he turns sixteen, and it quickly becomes a passion. For me, though, it became even more. It became an obsession.
I know where your train of thought has gone.
You’re thinking sex.
Well, you’re not wrong, but that’s not what I’m talking about.
It’s something that at times can be even more satisfying.
Don’t laugh.
It’s true.
It’s the need for speed.
That never-ending quest to make a car go faster, no matter how much of a piece of shit it is, or how magnificent it might be.
I can still remember the first time I lined up with dudes like me at a red light. I stared down the other drivers. I tightened my grip on the wheel. With my car in neutral, I revved my engine. I set my gaze on the road ahead and when that light turned green, I put the pedal to the metal—and got smoked.
That pitiful day I learned a humbling lesson. I learned that zero to sixty doesn’t come easy. I learned that I needed to be prepared before I got behind the wheel of someone else’s car thinking just because I knew how to drive fast, I could win. I learned at sixteen I wasn’t ready for anything like that.
However, from that day forward, my mission in life became crystal clear. I had to make a car that was better, stronger, faster.
Pimp My Ride premiered on MTV when I was seventeen.
My days as a street racer hadn’t quite taken off yet, but I’d had a taste of fast cars and I wanted more. There was this never-ending thirst to try it again and a real need to win the next time.
That show drew me in like a moth to a flame. Maybe it was the poor kid in me who wanted a fast car but couldn’t afford one. Maybe it was the glamour of watching a piece of shit go from nothing to everything.
I don’t know.
All I know is the show had a straightforward premise that was beautiful in its simplicity—take a boy with a beat-up car and orchestrate a massive and ridiculous upgrade.
The theme song explained it all in just a few lines. It went something like, “So you want to be a player, but your wheels aren’t fly. You have to hit us up, to get a pimped-out ride.”
It wasn’t the 24-inch spinner rims or plush leather interiors I cared about, though; it was how they made the cars move faster. What they used. Nitrous tanks. Turbo. How they reconfigured the engine. Valves. Pum
ps.
And at twenty-eight, my attention is still on speed.
Just like I stopped street racing, I stopped watching Pimp My Ride long ago, but that doesn’t mean I stopped wanting to be a player in the speed game.
I still want to be one.
Hell, I am one.
We all are.
It’s hard to believe that four poor boys from the other side of 8 Mile Road are on the rooftop of the super-swanky GM Renaissance Center throwing the party of a lifetime. And that tonight is about us. It’s about moving forward. It’s about Lightning Motors. It’s about finally building a new factory. It’s about the mass production of the Storm.
It’s about a new beginning.
Comerica Park to my right. Ford Field to my left. Joe Louis Arena off in the distance. The river below me. Detroit surrounds me, and she’s never looked so beautiful.
Suddenly, the music erupts. Lights turn from white to red to blue. Freestanding oscillating fans start to whirl to help suppress the midsummer heat. The night is about to begin. Girls dressed in white bikinis with stars on them parade out in sexy high heels, each with a body made to be seen. There are no holds barred tonight. Liquor. Food. Women. And the open sky.
The girls make a show out of walking up onto the stage, and then they take the corners of the blue silk cloth in their hands—the silk that covers the car—and hold tight.
My car.
Our car.
The Storm.
The spotlights anchor it as if it’s a work of art.
It is.
Slowly, my gaze assesses the rest of the stage. Banners with Detroit’s profile on them. vote yes signs. Everything is red, white, and blue. Fourth of July is over, but Detroit’s celebration has only just begun.
Scouting the area, the showman is nowhere to be seen. Everyone is waiting for him. Soon enough, I spot him coming through the door. Tux. Hair slicked back. Straight bow tie. Expensive shoes. The rich boy from Grosse Pointe. You can’t miss him. Although he’s not taller than me, he’s much bigger. Two-forty, I’d say. Football player girth like his father.
The music ceases. He approaches the stage with two sexy girls dressed in red standing on either side of him. Another woman, in a suit, is behind him and stands off to the side with a clipboard in hand. She’s new. I’ve never seen her in his entourage before.
