Jett spent the next few days working on his car, making sure it was where he wanted it. Part of that process was figuring out the steps needed to enhance the car, and fortunately he knew his math and science enough to figure it out on his own. In the interim, he would attend other races. Luis was kind enough to introduce Jett to some other participants, as well as regular hangers-on.
The fourth race he attended, Luis pointed out the movers and shakers, specifically, The Asphalt Saints— mainly Nightmare Hana, next to a sleek Dodge Charger, with a blue neon underglow; and Spark Plug, next to what looked like a hodgepodge Frankenstein of a vehicle that shouldn’t exist, let alone run.
Both wore black leather vests rather than jackets in the desert heat, emblazoned with a flaming skeletal saint clutching a steering wheel. Upon further inspection, they both wore neon rosary beads— as did a few others that were present. A definite sign of belonging together, he felt. There was a sense of community among this group, as well as the other racers, and he could feel it. He was on the fringes, yes, but soon, with any luck, he would belong. It was something he needed, after so long spent solitary, with only Marcus as any real company, and it was unwanted at that.
Speaking of Marcus, the task given to him had fallen to the wayside since he’d discovered the racing, and he no longer cared about Marcus, or much else. Besides, she hadn’t called him. Hell, she may have never received his number. Oh well. He just didn’t care anymore. If she called, he’d relay the message. But he wasn’t about to delve any deeper into the loca Kindred scene if he could help it. He wanted to lie low as far as that was concerned— as much as could be managed, at least.
The city after midnight, especially in this area, smelled like hot rubber, dust, and old concrete that had spent the day being punished by the sun. Streetlights hummed softly, throwing pools of light across the cracked asphalt, almost giving it the semblance of dried skin. Somewhere far off, a train sounded, groaning slowly, tiredly across its tracks.
Cars idled in a loose crescent in a large warehouse parking lot, angled outward, ready to vanish in an instant if the need arose. Hoods were propped open, steam emanating from radiators that hadn’t fully forgiven the day. Music was loud and pumping, bass-heavy and emitting from someone’s trunks peakers.
There was talking and laughter as people meaning. The Asphalt Saints leaned against fenders. Others leaned against the building, or the fence; even each other. A guy with grease-staind hands wiped them on his jeans, eyes flicking down the road periodically. A girl sat on a tailgate, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone while pretending she wasn’t counting patrol cars on an app.
Headlights cut across the group as another car rolled in late, then took its place in the crescent. A lookout down the road raised an arm, bringing a phone to his ear, as he communicated with someone in the parking lot that things were all clear.
Engines revved, echoing around the parking lot. The sound wasn’t just noise— it was tension, coiled tight, looking for release. A pretty young woman, clad in tight clothes stood at the entrance to the parking lot as cars continued to rev their engines. She raised her arms, and it was as though the night stood still for those three seconds it took for her to drop her arms, heavy with anticipation.
Tires screamed. For half a second, nothing existed but motion and sound and the raw violence of acceleration. The cars tore down the straightaway, taillights shrinking fast, swallowed by darkness and distance.
Everyone held their breath without realizing it. Before long that was loud cheering and encouragement, as reports came in from the end of the course about who was placing where, when all of a sudden it was over, and cars were doing U-turns to head back. Nightmare Hana had won.
Someone in a truck pulled out some coolers, passing around some beers when the racers came back. Everyone laughing and congratulating Nightmare Hana. Jett decided to be one of those who approached her.
“Great race.” he smiled, holding a hand out to her.
She studied him a moment before smiling back. “Pure talent.” she responded.
“I can tell.” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“I noticed you hanging around. You plan to race or just linger?” she asked.
“As soon as I scare up the funds.” he admitted.
“Hopefully soon. Would love to see what you’ve got under your hood.” she smirked.
“I guess we’ll find out.” he grinned, and walked away so as not to take time from her admirers.
Then the word came. “Cops!” someone shouted. Everyone scrambled for their cars. Engines flared to life as vehicles peeled off in different directions, rehearsed chaos turning into muscle memory. Within mere moments, the parking lot was empty, and the taillights of the stragglers disappeared around a corner, just as the cops turned the corner.
It was exhilarating. When he arrived home, he checked over the Camaro briefly before closing up the garage. Making his way inside, he stopped at the fridge for a drink, and thought to himself. He needed some new pieces, and he needed the entry fee. It was no longer a question of how long he could wait. He needed to race. He needed that adrenaline rush.
Heart hammering in his chest, he checked his bank balance and sighed. He had a job, but it didn’t pay the greatest, and it would take forever to save, even if he didn’t have bills to pay. Knowing he was going to regret it, he picked up the phone.
“Jett, what a pleasant surprise.” Marcus answered.
“Let’s cut this short, okay?” he began.
“What is it you need?” Marcus’ voice was a light, pleased tone.
Jett sighed. Marcus was always especially happy when Jett called him for a change. “My allowance.”
“After all this time, you finally want it?” he teased.
“Marcus please. I don’t have the energy to fight you on it. I just want what you claim you’ve set aside for me.” Jett setting, swallowing his pride a little.
“Of course. I’d never deny you a necessity, or even an indulgence.” he responded.
“But?” Jett asked apprehensively.
“I want a night. Just one.” he promised.
Jett pinched the bridge of his nose hard. He didn’t want to. But it was just one night. One night, and he wouldn’t be struggling anymore. Just one night. How bad would it be, really? Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, to steady himself, and keep his emotions at bay.
“Alright.” he breathed. “You can have your night.”
“Excellent! Now, about to that other matter…have you contacted Octavia?” he asked, his mood now jovial.
“I gave contact information to her ghoul recently. Nothing more yet. I’ll give it some time yet before tracking her down.” he explained.
“Good. I’ll transfer you the funds as soon as we hang up. And Jett?” Marcus replied.
“Yea?” he sighed.
“I love you.”
“Okay.” was all he could think to say, and hung up. True to his word, Marcus transferred a significant amount of money to Jett’s account.
After Jett checked his account, he put his head in his hands, and worked on grounded meditation so he didn’t break down. He had what he needed to fulfill his desire to race. But was the price worth it?
~
By the sixth race, he was ready. He handed over his entrance fee to a man everyone called Spliff. He tossed the roll of hundred dollar bills into an empty cooler with the other fees, and even a pink slip or two. The crowd was a friendly as usual, with a party atmosphere, and the every present lookout. The lookout often changed, and tonight there was a guy he didn’t recognize on the receiving end of the lookout’s call, the same girl scanning an app for police activity.
Jett was parked on the edge of the gathering, nose angled out. Old habit. Good habit. He stayed in the car a moment longer than necessary, hands resting lightly on the wheel. The smell of hot asphalt and fuel hit him like memory instead of scent. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until now—the hum beneath everything, the quiet math of speed and risk constantly running in his head.
Before he knew it, the call was out, and drivers were lining up for the race. He took the hint and lined up with them, noting Nightmare Hana and Spark Plug near the end; Luis next to him. The warehouse was to the left of them, and empty road ahead. Jett eased the Camaro into position, rolling the clutch like he was settling into a familiar chair. Heartbeat steady. Thoughts sharp.
The signal dropped.
Jett launched clean— no wheel spin, no drama. The Camaro surged forward with brutal, elegant force, supercharger whining like it had been waiting all night for this moment. First gear vanished. Second slammed home. He stayed smooth while the road blurred into light and shadow.
Spark Plug jumped ahead early, aggressive and fearless. Hana followed like a ghost, perfectly placed, perfectly patient.
Jett didn’t chase.
He calculated.
By mid-run, he reeled in the pack. Not enough to overtake Hana—she was in her element, threading speed through the night like she owned it—but enough to make his presence undeniable. The Camaro’s torque sang on the straight, and he let it, pushing just shy of reckless.
Heat climbed. Tires bit. The road rushed to meet him.
The finish came fast.
Spark Plug crossed first, engine screaming triumph and threat in equal measure. Hana slid in just behind, smooth as silk, a whisper of inevitability. Jett crossed moments later—third, clean, strong, undeniable.
He lifted off, heart pounding now, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
When they pulled off and scattered, the looks came. Not loud praise. Something better.
Interest.
Nightmare Hana glanced his way as she passed, eyes sharp, assessing. Spark Plug gave him a quick nod, half-smile, respect earned, not given.
Jett shut the Camaro down and sat there, engine ticking as it cooled, night settling back into place.
Second or third. Didn’t matter.
He was back.
And Phoenix had noticed.