Piper’s Lane is like a one-stop-shop for all things that make me hard. Fast cars, hot women, and flying fists.
“Bry!” Tucker, my quasi track mechanic, stands under the hood of my 1967 Chevrolet Camaro, but pokes his head to the side so I see his eyes. “Give it a go. I think I fixed it.”
I sit in the front seat with one foot inside the car, the other on the dirt track outside, while music plays through my stereo, getting drowned out every minute or so by racing cars. At Tuck’s command, I turn the keys in the ignition, wait for the engine to fire up, and when the sound of air being guzzled becomes ear-splitting, I sit back and grin.
“Nailed it.” I slam a palm to my steering wheel and laugh as he lowers the hood.
I switch my engine off and push out of the car. “You fuckin’ nailed it, man.” I reach into my back pocket and take out a couple fifties, then I press my hand to his, transfer the cash to an oil-smudged palm, and clap his back in thanks. “Air intake?”
He steps back and pockets the money so fast that no one could ever prove it was there a moment ago. “There was too much dirt and shit in there. Cleaned it out, opened it up, gave it room to breathe. You need to get this in for a proper clean soon. Your oil is filthy, your plugs are filthy, the whole fuckin’ engine needs a good clean. That’s why it’s misfiring.”
“It’s this place, man.” I cast an eye over the two cars that roll up to the line now. Their engines roar, the cars rock on the chassis as their drivers rev, and the girl that stands between them, she flirts, touches herself, and sends them quietly insane just moments before they’re set to fly more than a hundred miles per hour in under ten seconds. “This place is terrible for our cars.”
Tucker steps back to lean against my hood as the flag girl lifts a slip of fabric into the air. She wears itty bitty little Daisy Dukes, a white tank tied in a knot between her breasts, and long hair tied up in a high ponytail. Tuck doesn’t speak, because once the girl lifts her arms, we know we’ll be cut off in three… two…
She drops her arm, and the two cars take off with an ear-splitting roar.
As soon as they hit the bend and brand-new clouds of dust lift in the air, Tucker turns to me with a goofy grin. This place is adrenaline on tap for him, just like it is for me.
“It’s Piper’s Lane, Bry. It’s literally all dirt. There’s no point bitchin’ about the dust in your engine. We come here every weekend, we do it on purpose, and we’ll continue to come back until we’re old or dead.”
“Dibs on being old.”
I lean against the hood and cross my arms as the cars come sliding around the last bend. The green Mustang inches ahead of the Mazda, but only by a nose, and when they cross the finish line, I bring a hand up to cover my laughing mouth when the Mazda skids out of control and fishtails toward the watching crowd.
He’s not gonna hurt them, he won’t hurt himself either, but watching the crowd scatter like bugs in a newly lit room always makes me smile.
“Dude just lost his zip-about.”
“That’s a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car,” Tuck groans. “That’s gonna sting.”
“Not my car, not my problem.” I push off mine and swing my keys between my fingers as I make my way back to the front seat. “Thanks for the fix. I’ll bring it in this week for a good clean out.”
“You should ask your sister to bring it in.” He smirks when I bring my eyes back to his. “She’s so fuckin’ pretty.”
I stop by the door and point. “Eyes to yourself, fuckstick. My sister ain’t for sale.”
“I’d pay.” He skips out of the way when I surge forward to wipe away his smile. “Come on, Bry! Sharing is caring and all that.”
“My sister is a mommy now.” I swing away and head back to the driver’s side door. I know he’s joking. I know he’s poking purely to get a reaction. “And even if she wasn’t already practically married, I still wouldn’t give her to you. She’s better than that. A grease monkey is below her pay grade.”
“You wound me.” He presses a hand to his heart, laughs as I drop into my seat and switch the engine on until its roar draws eyes. “We could be brothers, Bry! You know I’m a sucker for long legs.”
“You’ll be the sucker with no legs if you don’t shut your mouth.” I slam my door, rev my smoothly running engine, and flash my middle finger when he stands at the hood and smiles. “Move or die,” I warn him. “You’ve gotta race in a bit; you wanna risk it?”
Laughing, he steps aside with raised hands, only to stop at his bike and throw a leg over. He wears jeans just like me, a shirt, but where I wear a baseball cap pulled on backward, he brings a red helmet over his dark hair and fastens the clasps.
I swing my hat around while I wait for him, fix it low over my eyes to keep the glare of the spotlights out of my peripherals, and when he pushes his bike in line with my open window, I bump his knuckles when he offers them, and shake my head when he shoots off, dirt and gravel spitting from his back wheel.
“Hothead.”
I slide my Camaro into first gear, turn up my stereo, and roll toward the lineup of cars as I wait my turn. I’m not racing for pink slips, like so many others do. I’d rather lay down cash, because finding the right car, making sure it runs right, knowing how it feels under my hands, and testing its power until I push the limits of what’s possible… that’s not something easily bought.
When you find the right car, you don’t risk it.
Tucker winds his way around the outside of the track, like a victory lap, despite the fact he’s yet to race, then comes up the side of the line of cars, ambles past me, and flips me off when he pulls into a space in front of me. He’s cutting line, but then a second bike, his competitor, joins him and declares it so.
I’ll be racing in six or so cars’ time… after the bikes.
I cut my engine when I’m in place, pocket my keys, and climb out again to check in. These race nights are held in a similar way to how my family run their Stacked Deck fighting tournament. We check in, we weigh in – or, in car terms, we place our bets – we wait our turn, and once we race, the winner moves on to the next round, and the loser… loses. His car, his girl, his cash, his shirt. Whatever he was cocky enough to lay down, he walks away without.
Each fighter – each racer – advances to the next round, and we keep going until we have an overall winner, and at the end of the night, the victor takes all.
I’m the proud owner of dozens and dozens of cars, but I don’t want them. I don’t drive them. I keep my Camaro, offer back the cars to the losers in exchange for cash, and if they don’t have it, I sell it to whoever wants it, and smile when men fight over who wants it more.
Buying another man’s car at a reduced price is almost… insulting. Kinda like taking his girl, I suppose.
“Hey there, Bry.”
At five feet and a smidge more tall, Manda is sort of considered our administrator. She takes bets, handles disputes, hands keys to victors, and talks the losers down when they’re readying to lose their shit. She keeps our race weekends alive and running on good time, so we all go home again at a reasonable hour – and by reasonable, I mean before the sun comes up the next day.