Junkie(8)

It was going to be a good one.

I felt the eyes of the crowd watching, and I knew they were confused. So I lifted my arm, held out my hand, and pointed at the sleek black car, undefeated tonight.

I hadn’t seen that Camaro here before; this driver wasn’t a regular.

That meant he was new to the scene or just passing through. Either way, I was going to make use of the chance to race someone new.

The people watching nearby all started cheering and yelling, clearly entertained by my challenge. Drag races at this track on a night like tonight weren’t like this. It was get in line, wait your turn, and race the guy beside you.

The driver didn’t pick his opponent. He raced who was there. Our times got written on the window in white, and we all tried to beat each other’s times.

Well, mainly, I just tried to beat my time.

I was very competitive with myself.

Then later, on more planned-out nights, the drivers with the best times would come back and race, sort of like the best racing the best.

I glanced at the man regulating the line to see if he would object, but he seemed rather amused I called out someone the way I had.

I dropped my arm and stared at the Camaro. It slowed, and I could feel the eyes of the driver. I watched him; he hesitated. I was surprised.

Wasn’t he here to race?

The outline of his head and shoulders twisted around like he was looking over his shoulder for something or someone.

I looked beyond his car, beyond the crowd. There were a ton of cars parked around. There was no way for me to know what he was looking for.

Just as quickly as he turned around, he came back. The Camaro changed direction and cut across the median between the road and the drag strip.

Everyone cheered.

I grinned and turned back to the Mustang.

As the Camaro rumbled past, I waved to the car I was supposed to race, still back at the holding line. I gave them a mock salute to thank them for letting this guy cut the line.

Before strapping into my ‘Stang, I turned to look over my shoulder, spotting Trent, who was standing nearby. There was a backward black baseball hat on his head, his arms crossed over his chest, and he was grinning.

I laughed and climbed in.

A few moments later, both our cars were checked to make sure they were at the same place at the starting line, and then some chick with a tiny spandex skirt, a crop top, and sky-high heels stepped up between us. In her hand was a checkered flag.

She pointed first at the driver behind the wheel of the Camaro.

In response, his engine gunned loudly, but it was a smooth and powerful sound. Then the flag girl pointed at me. The Mustang growled in response.

I gripped the steering wheel as a surge of excitement peppered my insides.

This was what it was all about.

The woman held up both her hands. The flag fluttered off to the right with the wind.

I slipped the pair of sunglasses propped on my head down over my eyes. Yeah, it was night and it wasn’t sunny. But the sunglasses gave me an edge.

It darkened everything around me just a little. To anyone else, that might have been an inconvenience.

The fact was wearing shades to race helped my reaction time. Yeah, I know. I sound like some superstitious old granny touting the benefits of sleeping with garlic in your sock drawer or some shit.

But this was for real.

It’s actually a proven fact that wearing sunglasses can help a driver with their reaction time. The human eye catches light better in the dark. Meaning the very second I was signaled to go, I could see it. There would be no precious seconds lost while I waited for my mind to catch up.

Knowing we were both ready to fly, the flag girl pointed to a stop light nearby, the one that would signal the second we could take off.

Once the track was clear, I took a breath and gripped the wheel, letting the familiar surge of adrenaline rush my limbs.

The light switched to green, and I tore off the starting line immediately. I held the wheel steady to keep the Mustang straight and drove right in the path of the tire marks from past races tonight.

Rubber sticks to rubber.

Meaning my tires would get better traction and grip the road better if I drove along them. It was sort of like following someone in a snowstorm. It was easier to walk in their footsteps rather than create your own.

The driver of the Camaro was quick to act, too. The smell of burning tires and the squeal of two cars taking off was heady.

I punched the gas, but not all the way to the floor.

I’d seen this car race several times tonight. I didn’t need to put the V8 in my Mustang to absolute power because I could beat this guy without it.

It was another one of my tricks. Never show them everything you had; keep a little in reserve until it was absolutely needed. He didn’t need to know my top speed. I just needed to be a second faster.

One second was all it took.