15 tracks

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Jem

THE SKY TURNS TO CRUSHED BLUE VELVET as we near the tracks. The roads only get worse until we’re in the middle of a barren wasteland, dry and flat, stretching for miles into the dimly lit horizon.

I’ve made this trip around a dozen times, but that desperate, gnawing feeling that usually follows me the entire trip isn’t there this time. I have to drive torturously slow to avoid potholes, and a few people behind me got pissed, so I veer over and let them overtake. Honestly, I would drive a lot faster if it weren’t for Indigo.

She drifted off to sleep a half hour ago, and since it was getting colder, I hiked the windows up and lowered the music. When she still shivers, I had little choice but to haul my jacket from the back and throw it over her.

I’d never really been a demanding child. That’s what my mom says, anyway. She’d take me to the toy store and tell me to pick anything I wanted, anything at all, and I never knew what I wanted, or how to make up my mind. I grew up being the same person. Nothing has ever motivated me enough to want it that badly. But . . .

I turn to give Indie a quick glance. Even though she’s asleep, she’s somehow got a death grip on the empty soda cup that now houses her purple flowers—which she refused to set down since she rescued them from the side of the road, by the way.

She’s curled into herself now, and with her lashes splayed across her freckled cheeks, she looks even more angelic when she’s asleep. I have to clear my throat and force my eyes away from her.

She’s not yours, I remind myself. Yeah, she isn’t. Which is why this was the stupidest fucking idea I’ve had in a while. There’s this gaping hole in the center of my chest, and I hate it. I hate it.

This isn’t me. I don’t get attached this fast. I don’t want things.

We should’ve just remained strangers. At least that way, I’d be able to live in ignorance ­—without knowing that better things existed. And ignorance is bliss, right? I shake my head to myself. All the stupid shit people say to make themselves feel better when things go wrong.

Exhaling, I kill the engine, and as if on cue, Indie stirs. She makes a soft, disgruntled sound and blinks hard, pulling my jacket higher up. “Why did we stop?”

Her voice is still heavy with sleep, and I—fuck.

“We’re here,” I grunt, and because I need to get out of this damn car before I combust, I push my door open and step out. I don’t mean to slam the door shut, but it happens, and when I catch Indigo flinching in my periphery, I feel worse.

Sighing, I shove my hands deep into my pockets and take a few deep breathes. I need to refocus. I came here for the prize, and I’m leaving with it. I have no other choices left. Every second that rushes by is another second with the hospital bill racking up, and there’s not long to go before they stop tolerating my lack of payments.

We’re early, so the stands are pretty barren, and there are only a few stray people roaming the tracks, probably still busy setting up.

When I turn back to the car, I figure I really shouldn’t have, because I get a glance of Indie in the rear-view mirror— she’s pulling a green argyle sweater over her head. Her yellow floral dress from before is gone, which means I also get a pretty veritable view of her upper body . . . only in a white-lace bra.

At that precise moment, she looks up, and I don’t look away in time, so our gazes lock. Worse—she freezes, so instead of covering up, I get another agonizing second of watching her cleavage swell as her breathing quickens.

Hissing, I look away. This has got to be some form of punishment for some heinous shit I did in one of my past lives because—fuck. Concentrate. Focus. She must pull down the sweater lightning fast, because a second later, I hear the soft click of the door closing, and she takes tentative steps toward me.

I feel her presence at my side, but I don’t acknowledge it. There’s a subtle warmth that comes with it, along with the soft scent of coconut. Indie lingers at my side for a few awkward seconds before breaking the silence.

“Are you mad at me, or something?” she asks.

I swallow.

And when I turn to face her, I have to gather every ounce of control I have not to picture her back in the car, just in her bra, chest swelling, heavy breathing, my hands roaming her bare skin as I unclasp it while I lick up her throat, her head tilting all the way back —

“No,” I cough, expelling the image. “Just needed to stretch my legs out. Get some fresh air.”

A moment’s worth of hesitation marks her features, but it dissolves quickly, and she nods. “Are you ready?”

Clenching my jaw, I watch as more cars pull in, sending dust rising in the air as their tyres dig into the dirt path leading to the tracks. There’s a good forty minutes left until the big race, and there’ll be a good show of people today. The draft is promising. I’m in it, after all.

“Yeah.” I give her a reassuring glance. “I am.”

Then, there’s harsh revving as an impossibly shiny silver GT-R pulls in, bringing a slew of other cars tailing behind it. Monroe and his crew. After a whole minute of revving and kicking up more dust than necessary, Monroe finally kills his engine and his cohort slide into their own spaces next to him.

As they step out of their cars, I recognise a few of them from previous races. None of them are as big of a threat to me today as Monroe is, though.

Dark haired, average height and wearing a biker jacket, he steps out of his car and immediately sidles up to a leggy platinum blonde. Then, he grabs handfuls of her ass, and together, they make a big show of mauling each other in front of their crowd, who whistle and cheer like it’s a fucking parade.

A few onlookers watch the scene unfold, too. I’m cringing when I turn to Indie, but she’s staring ahead, wide-eyed.

“Hey,” I say, “I’m sorry about that, it’s not—”

“Are you kidding?” she shrieks, eyes bright as she turns to me, “This is like the stuff you see on TV, except I’m right here, seeing it in real life.” She lifts her hands dramatically. “Oh my god. It’s like WWE.”

 “You watch WWE?” I lift a brow. “And like it?”

Her gaze narrows. “Yes.”

“You do know it’s all—”

“Staged,” she finishes, rolling her eyes, “Yes. Doesn’t make it any less cool.”

I bite my bottom lip for a second and try to keep the smile out of my eyes, but it all ends up in the gutter because I burst out laughing, doubling over. Jesus, is this girl real? Just when I think I’ve figured her out, she pulls . . . this.

She’s clearly offended. The dry desert-like air whips wildly at strands of hair that come loose from her braid, framing the sides of her face. I haven’t even sobered before she huffs, stomping off in the direction of Monroe’s crowd. It’s really not a good idea. There are definitely a few assholes over there, and I don’t want any trouble.

“Hey,” I call after her, quickly catching up. “Hey, slow down. I’m just messing with you. WWE is cool.”

Indie stops, brows furrowed. “Really?”

I snort. “No.”

She clenches her jaw, and gives me a vaguely threatening look, before continuing her march toward the crowd.

“Hey,” I say, “Hey, hey. Can you just stay by my side? Can you do that for me?”

“Can you stop being so annoying?” she throws back.

“Okay, okay. I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all. I didn’t expect you to like—”

“Wrestling,” she says, finally stopping in her tracks.

“Fake wrestling,” I correct gently.

“—Violence,” she continues, “Action.”

“Not-entirely-real violence,” I add, “But yes. I didn’t expect it from you.”

She looks even more offended than before.

I sigh. “C’mon, Gallagher, you made me pull over on a highway to rescue a bunch of flowers on the way here, for fuck’s sake. People make generalisations, all right? It’s natural.”

She rolls her eyes. “I watch real boxing matches too. And I like action movies. The good ones, at least. But unfortunately, the movies aren’t real, Mr Judgemental.”

Too rapt to acknowledge the jab at the end, I ask, “Which are your favorite? Action movies, I mean.”

She doesn’t even pause to think about it before she starts listing them off. “Kill Bill, Die Hard, Casino Royale, Enter the Dragon, John Wick, Men in Black, the OG one though because—why are you looking at me like that?”

I blink. “Like what?”

“Like . . . I don’t know. Never mind. Yeah, those are some of my favorites.”

Those are some of my favorites, too. I find myself clean out of words. There’s got to be some flaw with this girl. There needs to be. I clear my throat. “So, uh, why do you like violence so much?”

Indigo laughs, and I want to bottle the sound so I can listen to it later. Over and over—my favorite broken record. She turns to face me. “Are you really trying to be my therapist right now?”

I shrug. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you need therapy?”

The corners of her mouth lift, and she looks away as she shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says, “Maybe it just fascinates me to see people do these crazy, insane stunts. To see them bleed and break. To see them get hurt again and again . . .” Her gaze meets mine. “And still survive in the end.”

It takes a few seconds for her words to sink in. For someone who’s physically fragile, action movies aren’t just action movies . . . they’re a vicarious experience. It strikes me then — how smart and complex she is, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. The hole in my chest only widens around the edges. If I ever did take a bullet to the chest, I imagine it would feel something like this.

Taking a deep breath to clear my mind, I glance around the area, ambient sounds echoing around the once empty grounds. In the time that we’d been talking, the stands had filled up— Monroe’s crowd, and around fifty or so spectators, probably here for the other racers. Dusk sets in, and the track lights up.

It’s show time.

***

well well well

look who decided to update after two months :)

i was so close to giving up on this story but here we are, 15 chapters in, almost at the halfway mark.

vote and comment, all the good stuff that keeps me motivated to write more.

thank you for tolerating my (extremely) erratic updates.

stay gold,

a tired college student

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