Funny how in a matter of minutes it can all turn to shit. I had hoped I was winning her over, but because of a race, I’ve blown it. At least, I have a chance of winning The Gauntlet. But the chances of winning Leigh Storm’s heart are slim.
Chapter Thirteen
On Saturday night, I meet Ryder in the lot behind our apartment and follow him to the farm where the race starts. Midnight on Saturday night and the road is deserted and pitch black; the thick trees lining both sides make it darker.
Although Ryder and I had ridden along the roads that make up the Gauntlet, it is totally different doing it at night. For the first time that I can remember, I am nervous before a race. I am used to races on familiar city streets, the routes well lit by streetlamps and cars lining parts of the route. This is a whole different level.
The other difference, which heightens my growing unease, is the atmosphere. It is totally different from the atmosphere on the quarter mile, which is much friendlier and social. Here, the tension in the air is palpable and I don’t spend time acquainting myself with the other racers; I have a feeling this isn’t a race I want to repeat, even if I do win. The guys racing are older, harder, and look more aggressive.
Ryder and I approach a heavyset guy with long, dark hair pulled back off his face. He looks us up and down; his hard eyes glint with distrust. To him, we’re the outsiders; the rest of the racers and spectators all know each other and cast sneers in our direction. I make sure not to look at anyone the wrong way. I’ve always been able to hold my own, but even I find them intimidating.
“Gus.” Ryder holds out his hand and the heavyset guy shakes it with a curt nod.
“Ryder.” He drops his hand and turns to me, offering his hand, which I take. “And Max?”
“Yeah.” I nod and he claps us both on the shoulder, harder than necessary, but neither of us gives an inch.
“Everyone’s here, so let’s race.” He smiles and beckons the other two racers over.
Once we are all gathered, Gus calls for attention and the crowd grows silent, watching him expectantly.
“Welcome to the Gauntlet,” Gus announces dramatically, throwing his arms wide with a wide grin on his face and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It all adds to the anticipation, I guess. “These are our four racers. You know the route. Anything goes.” He laughs, sounding a bit crazy, but the crowd seems to go for it and joins in cheering. “Line ‘em up,” he shouts and all four of us head to our cars and position them behind the spray-painted white line.
There’s a guy in a Mustang, Ryder in his Chevelle, an older BMW, and me in my Subaru. It will be a fight to get through the gates in first place, so I need to make a clean getaway and be quicker off the mark than the others. . After I give the other guys a quick once-over, I glance at Ryder and manage a tight smile. His eyes give nothing away and he returns it with a swift nod.
A tall redhead in a short jean skirt and shirt tied under her bust stands in front of us. Holding two hands in the air, she counts down from five, and when she shouts ‘go,’ her hands drop and the race is on. I pull away first, quicker than the others do, and make it through the stone posts, closely followed by the Mustang. Ryder is somewhere behind me along with the BMW. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark and the shadows cast by my bright headlights. The road narrows, and three sets of headlights weave behind me. It is a race for first place between the guy in the Mustang and me. Meanwhile, Ryder fights for third place with the BMW. The Mustang is trying to find the smallest opening, any chance to overtake me. I give up trying to remember the route in my head or when there is a turn coming up. It’s futile, so I rely on instinct. Everything looks different anyway, and the darkness hides any landmarks I’d noticed on the drive over.
The headlights on my tail inch closer but the sets belonging to Ryder and the BMW have disappeared altogether. Bright lights shine in my side mirror as the Mustang pulls to the side. I jerk forward when he clips my back bumper and grip the wheel tighter, pressing down harder on the accelerator. The 2.0-liter turbocharged engine of the Subaru growls and pushes forward. Headlights illuminate the road as it starts to bend; I drop down a gear and slide into the turn before straightening the wheel. It is impossible to shake the Mustang still riding my bumper. As the road grows steeper, I drop down a gear and floor the accelerator moving through the gears as I climb. The engine screams as I push it harder. The climb is short but steep with a tight turn at the top. This is one of the only bits I do remember; the barrier at the top with a sheer drop on one side was scary enough in the daylight when I could see where I was going, but now, it’s pitch black and scary as hell. I drift into the turn, too close to the barrier for my liking. Forcing my eyes to the front, I don’t look over the side as the road drops away into the darkness.