Three summers after Bet had told him to keep watching—and keep walking—he’d ended up out on the flatlands for the first time. Rico had brought him, and at first Caegan wondered if he’d been the problem after all. Bet could leave him in the middle of nowhere, and no one would see him again.
The desert wasn’t as empty as he’d thought it would be. Not full of golden dunes and Sahara wind. Instead the ground was parched and hard-packed, full of rock scrags and cactus stands. The wind stirred up dust devils instead of full-blown storms, but mostly it was the engines.
Fifty miles of highway cut through to the mountains in the west. The four lanes were deserted, eight or nine months out of the year. Come summer, there were races any given weekend and someone practicing for their next win most evenings. No, the desert wasn’t empty at all. Rico let Scott along, after Caegan told him about it. Just to watch, Rico had said.
But Caegan had copped a win in a quarter mile drag that summer. Most people said it was a fluke since he was only ten, but he was a regular by the time he was thirteen. And he could fix up a motor as well as he could fight where it mattered—on the streets. Bet had lost three grand on that first race. He’d more than made up for it since, putting the odds against Rico about as often as putting them on Caegan.
The past two summers, Skylar was out in the sand almost as much as he was. Sometimes he would take the Yellow to her place, spend an hour, then ride out to the desert. She liked to keep the grit in the grill of her Jeep, she said—and she pulled wins in her own races. She’d also sweet-talked her way into more than one ride on the Dare—cruising the twenty or so miles of switchbacks, drop-offs, and s-curves hugging their way up to the Valley.
Caegan had driven the curves himself half a dozen times or more, handling custom cars that cost as much as Skylar’s house, if not double. Lamborghinis. Aston Martins. A Ferrari f12 Berlinetta, once, while Skylar tailed him in a sleek ’65 Stingray. Devil’s Dare was high-stakes in the daytime, haunted asphalt at night. Sometimes good drivers caught bad luck even in broad daylight, which only made Cemetery Valley’s name more fitting. Like the mountains demanded a sacrifice for the town’s existence.
Nobody knew or remembered the mountain town’s real name. Only that they made almost every tombstone in the state, plus put out the occasional sculpture. Legend had it that anyone left in the Valley after dark wouldn’t make it back out. Bodies had a way of going missing. Caegan guessed there was a reason for that, and although it probably had something to do with people in the Valley, he didn’t think the reasons were half as wild as the stories.
Scott and Gabriel showed up at Singer’s a quarter after ten. Caegan had finished another cigarette, needing something to do with his hands while he waited, when he heard a swift slink-and-scratch. Metal and paws. Growls, sharp barks, and then busy mouths. Blister and Battle gobbled up their second dinner, stuffing themselves with the steaks Scott had slung their way.
The Kid made it to him first, not wanting to risk being too close to the fence even if the dogs had their mouths full. Scott and Gabriel’s winded laughter pitched high with adrenaline, and the night hadn’t even started yet. He almost asked what took them so long, but they each lugged ten-gallon cans. The Kid had made good on his promise. Caegan slapped them both fives. His cheeks bunched up as he imitated Marshall’s friendly-uncle pitch.
“The first step is showing up.”
“Ready to learn a few tricks, Gabe?”
“No, actually.” Gabriel stepped into Scott’s face. “I’m going to teach you a few.”
“Bring it!”
Scott leaned forward, almost a full head taller. The Kid was still grinning, even on his tip-toes.
“Save it.” Caegan pushed them away from each other. “Find something worth wiring. And don’t be so loud, for fuck’s sake, or I will sic those mutts on your asses myself.”
Singer kept his prized possessions near the back of the lot, which was right on the edge of the desert. They could have inched their way through the scrub, trying to find the highway, but it wasn’t worth the risk of bottoming out in a drainage ditch. Taking the streets out of the city wasn’t just safer. It was smarter.
Caegan led them into the junkyard, picking his way past carcasses of cheap sedans and nineties minivans. It was slow going, with scrap metal and rusted out parts strewn between the aisles. A few times, he yanked Scott’s shirt to keep him upright. The Kid kept bumping the gas container against dented car doors and fenders. The slosh and thud left a petroleum scent in the air that reminded Caegan of summer. If it weren’t for the can’s cap, Gabriel would have spilled half the gas on the way here.
“Another winter or two and your mom’s Honda is going to end up here, Kid.”
“Yeah, and in a few years, I can do this legally,” Gabriel said.
“You don’t want that—” Scott shook his head. “You get shit like this on your driving record and it screws up your chances later.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
Caegan snatched Scott’s shirt, pulling him up short as he reached for Gabriel.
“Settle it on the streets.”
At the look on Scott’s face, Caegan tightened his grip. Scott had been touchy at the park, but if he wanted to settle a score, it wasn’t going to be in a fist fight. Besides, it wasn’t the Kid that Scott was riled about. Scott deflated some, and Caegan let him go.
Scott hugged his elbows, shoulders hunching as the wind pushed through the heaps in the yard. The Kid had been smart enough to wear a pullover, but Scott’s short-sleeved tee was useless in this weather. Caegan shoved his keys and the Tic-tac container into his pockets and tossed Scott his hoodie. Scott shrugged into it while it was still warm, tugging the zipper all the way up.
There wasn’t much chance of getting busted on The 50—unless you were racing a stolen wagon. But the cops didn’t patrol out there much in the off-season, and they never clocked in the middle of the night. No one would show up uninvited. They’d have the streets to themselves.
“You know how to wire?”
Gabriel reddened and shook his head. Caegan hadn’t expected him to say yes.
“Don’t try it on your own or you’ll fry your brains out,” Caegan said. “Call when you find a car, but keep it quiet.”
Although he didn’t need the sleeves at night, wearing them was habit. The breeze dancing along his skin almost felt foreign. It reminded him of something else—a dizzying touch—but he shoved the thought away.
Other than the distant hush of traffic back towards Mesner, the night was quiet. He could hear the wind ruffling the stubborn patches of grass that managed to force their way through the oil-stained ground. If that wasn’t what living on the streets was like, he didn’t know what was.
A clatter and a string of muffled curses snapped him back to the present. Scott had stumbled over a fender that yawned off the back of an old Nissan Altima, landing him in the dirt face-first. Caegan helped him up.
“That damn thing came out of nowhere. I was trying to get to that Camaro. Think we can wire it?”
“I got it. You twitch the wrong way with the wires and we’ll get busted.”
Scott flinched at the words, as if to prove Caegan’s point. The Kid might be thirteen, but Caegan would teach Gabriel how to wire a care before letting Scott near live electricity. Caegan flashed Scott a smile and gave him a good-natured punch in the shoulder. Scott flipped him off—but at least he was smiling.
“You wish, baby. Come on, let’s get this done before the Kid tries to experiment with crossing the red and blue.”
“You told him not to.”
“And his mom told him not to hang in the streets. You’re allowed to play with fire if you can take the heat.”
The Camaro Scott had spotted was a 1975, two years newer than the Mustang he would have preferred. Caegan slid his fingers under the dash. Like slipping a hand underneath a skirt. He fingered a tangle of wires, twirling them free and working quickly. The Kid managed to spot a BMW M5, which fit back roads racing better than a Jag. Scott reminded him it was still a far cry from true red, white, and blue, but a few races might prove differently.
Caegan sparked up his engine of choice: the ’69 Challenger was all brawn and still a beauty. He’d raced nearly every set of wheels in Singer’s collection over the summers, but nothing rode like the Challenger. Singer had made hints, but Caegan didn’t want the man to sell it to him—for the same reason he didn’t want Gabriel hanging around more than he should. A little trouble could go a long way, but sometimes looking like you were going to start shit was more trouble than it was worth. Besides, Caegan didn’t have anything to prove on the blocks.
There was always a chance that one of the engines would cough. The cold weather didn’t help, but driving through the city would warm them up. They passed the gas cans back and forth, getting the tanks at least half full. It should get them out to the 50 and back, with enough left over for speed. If not, he could always call Rico for a lift. Bet and Singer could sort out the details later. He’d even called Regis once or twice.
Scott pulled out of the alley first and crept onto the main road. Gabriel lurched forward and slammed on the brakes a few times before he got the hang of the custom pedals. Caegan brought up the rear and herded them out to the 50. Gabriel hovered at Scott’s flank, weaving on either side of the double yellow. Over-correcting, when he saw he was getting too close to Scott’s bumper.
Caegan sped around them, wheels chugging gravel on the opposite shoulder before skinning the blacktop again. He gave them plenty of room to brake to a stop. He swung open the door and stepped out of the car. The air was colder out in the flatlands. Quieter, but just as mean. He breathed deep. His hands didn’t twitch. He clenched one into a fist, fingertips cold against the hot heartbeat in his palm.
“Ready to show us what you got, Kid?”
“Ready to leave you in the dust? Totally.”
Gabriel’s drooping shoulders had squared up since the park. Gabriel wasn’t bad behind the wheel. No one had let him race over the summer, but he’d talked his way into taking one or two rides. Rico had complained—and Bet had his eyes—but nothing went down.
Caegan gave him a half nod. Anything more and he would be tipping scales. They’d talked shit long enough. It was time to drive. He kept his expression neutral for Scott’s sake as much as Gabriel’s. Scott usually managed to smooth out, given enough time and a good distraction. If he got himself worked up though, he’d wreck.
“I’ll drive out a quarter mile and flash my lights twice,” Caegan said. “Third time, I’ll leave them on. That’s your cue.”
“Get ready to eat dirt, Sweetie.”
“I’m going to run you and your motor-mouth off the fucking road.”
“Sticks and stones, right Butterscotch?”
“Shoved up your ass, if you keep calling me—”
“Quit.” Caegan shoved them away from each other again, looking at Gabriel. “If you want to brag, do it after you win.”
“That’s if you win, you little shit.”
Scott knew well enough to keep to straight rules and play fair unless he was up against someone who could handle it. Someone like Caegan, who shot him a look. They could tear up the road once Gabriel learned his lesson. Caegan wanted to see what the Kid would do after losing a few races.
Caegan got back into the Challenger. Heaved the door shut. He revved the engine once before pulling away, keeping an eye on the odometer. Just past the mark, he turned the car around, parking it on the double yellow with the hood as the marker for the finish line. The Kid never backed down from a challenge, but Scott would win out simply because the Camaro was all muscle. He flashed his lights once, then waited a five-count to make sure he had their attention.
The Camaro’s engine revved, spitting smoke from dual exhaust pipes. When Caegan flashed them a second time, the Beamer managed a thin echo of the Camaro’s roar. The third time, the Camaro’s lights rose as Scott floored the gas and the hood jumped. Weight dropped on the rear tires like a dog settling into its haunches before launching itself into the fray. A streak of rubber peeled off the tires and the Camaro shot forward.
Even with an automatic, the Kid was slow off the line. The M5 fishtailed and Gabriel immediately let up off the gas, trying to get a handle on the wheel. The Camaro coughed out dust as Scott shifted into second, putting more pavement between them. The Kid punched the accelerator again, impatient at the thought of falling behind.
Scott cruised into third and the Kid finally got his hands steady. He gunned it and the M5 came to life. The M5 regained ground, its hood inching towards the Camaro’s flank. Scott used the manual transmission to his advantage, shifting to fourth and slamming the pedal home. The Camaro shot ahead, blitzing past Caegan in a swirl of dust and steam.
The Kid stayed on the gas until he saw Scott take the win. Caegan could already see his shoulders slumping behind the wheel, the frown on his face. Scott braked, pulled a U-turn, and pulled up to the Challenger’s side just as Gabriel limped up.
“How’s it taste, baby-Gabey? You like the dust?”
“It’s better than your mom.”
“Sticks and stones, right?” Scott grinned when the Kid flipped him off. “You sure you don’t want to go home while you still can?”
Caegan moved in front of the driver’s door, blocking Gabriel’s view of Scott.
“Don’t blow yourself like that on one race. You act pissy the first time you lose, and who’s going to believe you’re worth beating?”
“So you’re saying I should be happy I lost?”
“He means you have to still believe you can beat someone after they’ve beaten you.” Scott rested his elbow on Caegan’s shoulder, grinning. “Or else what’s the point in them racing you anymore?”
Gabriel gave him a sidelong glance, pushing past them both and muttering something that sounded like bullshit. Caegan shrugged Scott off and followed the Kid, turning him around by the shoulder.
“Best driver wins,” Caegan said. “You going to drive better or you going to waste the rest of the night bitching?”
“I could’ve had him!” Gabriel yelled. “If I had just a few more seconds, I would have beaten him for sure.”
Caegan folded his arms. The breeze snaked across the flatlands again, stirring the Kid’s curls that never combed straight. He watched the shadows pass over Gabriel’s face. Mad, of course. But convinced. Gabriel believed he could still beat Scott, and that was what mattered.
“You think so? You want to drive like I do?”
“You’re no match for me, Riley!” Scott yelled. “I told you I was unbeatable.”
“The trick is to drive smart.” Caegan kept his eyes on Gabriel. “Besides the fact that you’ve got the wrong machine, you’ve gotta learn how to listen, coax a win out of her. You could have the best set of wheels in the whole damn race and still end up last.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“Learn.”
“That’s right Gabe. Take good notes, cause you got a long way to go before getting first place.”
“I can’t wait for the day I get to steal it from you. I’m just warming up. You have no idea what’s coming next.”
“This is street racing, Kid, not baseball.” Caegan slipped Gabriel a wink. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
“What do you mean?”
Caegan steered him back over to the M5.
“Drive out a mile. Same rules as before.”
Gabriel glanced in Scott’s direction before getting back in the BMW and driving off. The first race had taken some of the edge off for Scott, but Caegan didn’t want him taking his mood out on Gabriel. It wasn’t like Scott, anyway, to have much bite in him.
Scott glanced after the BMW, trying to judge the distance. Caegan stood at his shoulder, arms crossed. Scott shifted. Not quite leaning into him.
“What’d you tell him?”
Caegan elbowed Scott’s side. Whatever he was amped about, he could let it rest. A few races, a bit of fun, and everything would be alright. Besides, they had three more days of weekend after this.
“Someone has to show him how it’s done.”
“The mile?”
Caegan flashed a grin when Scott turned toward him. It was a sly move, but if Scott wanted to brag about winning, he’d have to earn it. Caegan slid behind the wheel. He flexed his hands into fists. Fingers tight against the grooves in the underside of the steering wheel. Thinking about how much speed a little speed might give him. Not that he needed it.
He revved up the engine once, twice. The smell of gasoline curled through the window. Hooked under his nose. Nothing in the world like the taste of exhaust spat out from old pipes, burnt oil acrid on his tongue. He eased off the gas, anticipating the stink of burnt rubber. In the high summer heat, it was like sniffing blood. Depending on who lost what, sometimes that’s how it shook out.
Scott scrambled back into the Camaro just as the Kid gave the first flash. Caegan relaxed his fingers around the wheel, its leather smoothed to a sheen. He keeps one foot firmly on the brake, the other hovering over the gas. No need to rev up now. Building torque would be good in a quarter or the half, but you had to drive the mile if you wanted to win it.
Gabriel flashes the lights again and Caegan primes the engine, pumping the gas. Every now and then, Scott jumped the gun on a race. Passing it off as nerves—which worked, since he was slow off the line just as often as he gunned it.
Caegan didn’t care. A race wasn’t over until it was won.
Silk-smooth blacktop. The moon high and whole overhead.
White dashes. Yellow lines.
Waiting for the signal.
Underneath the rumble of the Challenger and the Camaro, a tangle of wind from the western mountains.
Ghosts coming down from their town to watch an off-season race.
The city behind him.
The desert all around.
One mile.
On cue, he punches into first. Burning as little rubber as possible.
The wind carries the exhaust with him. Fog sending him on his way.
Hands steady at three and nine. Those first five seconds held like a breath.
Weightless.
Shifting into second. Cruising. Letting Scott get to third before he did.
The needle dips red.
The engine strains for seventy.
Caegan shifts again.
The needle drops and the engine breathes.
Scott is a full car-length ahead of him, doing ninety.
Caegan opens the throttle.
Creeping in close.
Hovering in the Camaro’s blind spot.
The Challenger hums with an appetite.
Hungry.
Scott slips into fourth, stuttering with the shift. The Challenger’s lights are almost at the Camaro’s door before Scott lurches ahead.
Despite giving it more gas, Scott doesn’t gain as much ground as he wished.
Caegan’s not directly behind Scott anymore, but the Challenger still takes in the drift at the Camaro’s flank.
Steady.
Inching toward one-ten. A quarter mile out, Caegan punches the accelerator.
Shifts straight through fourth.
Into fifth.
Full throttle.
Supercharging the engine.
Letting it loose.
Sliding past the Camaro.
He starts at ten and goes backward.
9
8
7
The Camaro sniffs up his side as Scott shifts into sixth. 6
Smoother this time. 5
Caegan is quicker, hitting the pocket right before the red. 4
He wins on three, topping out at one-thirty.
The Challenger a screaming black shadow.
Shrieking through the night.
Cradled in the wind.
Soaring.
Caegan floats in it, the Challenger’s weighty steel frame somehow both nonexistent and its own anchor.
Engine-roar echoes across the desert and the voice is his own.
After riding out another few miles, he brakes and doubles back. Scott circles around and they pull up to the M5.
“Holy—how did you—”
“Gabe fucking ducked!”
When Scott slaps Caegan on the shoulder, his ears pop. He feels each stray piece of gravel poking through the soles of his shoes. The wind sneaking around his ankles and elbows. He works his jaw in something like a smirk, relieving the rest of the pressure in his head.
“One second he was standing there watching and the next he’s on the pavement. Stop-drop-and-roll all over again.”
Scott doubles over with laughter, still hanging off his shoulder. Caegan gives him a half-hearted elbow in the ribs.
“I knew you could drive—” The Kid is still bug-eyed, despite Scott’s cackling. “I mean, I didn’t think you were shitting me, but—”
“You sure you didn’t shit yourself?” Scott had nearly laughed himself out of breath. “Need to check for any skid marks?”
“You never said you could drive like that!” Gabriel shook his head. “Damn…”
The Kid had watched a few summer races, sure. It was different now that he was trying to win his own.
“Not all grandpas are old and slow.” Caegan cracked a smile, slipping his hands into his pockets. “When you’re good, you let the driving do the talking.”
“Don’t worry Gabe,” Scott said, tagging the Kid’s shoulder. “A few years and you might get half as good as Cae. Maybe almost as good as me, if you’re a lucky duck.”
“You’re a dick.”
“You wanna suck it?”
“You wanted a few more seconds,” Caegan cut in. “Half-mile—and try not to squeal.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re too excited, like a schoolgirl.” Scott was back to his sweet side, smiling without any meanness. “Stay cool.”
“Of course I’m cool!”
“Keep thinking you’re the shit,” Caegan winked. “But don’t say it so much.”
Caegan drove out to mark the distance. Gabriel took two losses, but each race was closer than the last. When they do a three-quarter, the M5 inches past the Camaro’s headlights at the last second. The sort of thing that’s a fluke, when a race isn’t forced.
“You’re getting somewhere, Kid.”
“I told you I could beat him! I told you—I just needed more time.”
“How’s the gauge?”
“Still got more than a quarter tank.”
“Good. You ready to have some real fun?”
“You mean race off the streets?”
“Bet started a new rig last summer—five drivers, three winners.”
“Duck Duck Ghost?” Scott gave Caegan a look. “We only got the three of us—and no offense, but Gabe isn’t going to stand a chance between you and me.”
“Why are there only three winners?”
“You wanna brag about being in fourth place?”
Gabriel shot Scott a look.
“The short version is this—three racers pick their rides and bet they’ll get first, second, or third. The Goose tries to fuck it up for ‘em, gets in their way to see if they can actually place like they said.”
“The Ghost is the wild card,” Scott said. “If they knock you out of your spot, they get your bet money—and if you don’t place in the top three at all, they get double.”
“Oh shit—so you’re going to be the Ghost?”
“And Scott’s the Goose.”
“Figures.”
Gabriel smirked, but Scott either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He was eyeing the desert flatlands on either side of the 50, stretching to an invisible horizon. Despite the city being relatively close, the desert was blacker than the asphalt they drove on.
“Remember to listen to her, Kid,” Caegan said out the window before he pulled off the pavement. “Drive smart. See if you can stay close without Scott ramming your ass—unless you want him to.”
“Fuck you, Riley,” Scott said.
Caegan cracked a wide grin.
“You wish.”
Scott had already forgiven him for sticking him with Gabriel the past two weeks. And it wasn’t the Kid that was the problem, really. It was the blocks. It was being on your own. It was not knowing what would come around the corner at any minute.
The Kid did well enough, considering he was still two growth-spurts from being able to drive without a booster seat. They should have put him in front, with the way the dust screened the windshield. Headlights flashed this way and that in the rearview, sometimes jumping up. Gabriel had mostly gotten the hang of the Beamer on the pavement, but off-road was a different story. Never knew what cactus stand or stray coyote would show up on the other side of the windshield. Even smaller wildlife could startle, if you weren’t used to the light reflecting off their eyes.
Caegan pulled ahead after a few chases, speeding back to the blacktop. The dust cleared with the distance. Scott pulled up beside him and got out, Caegan’s hoodie snug on his broad shoulders. Scott fiddled with the zipper, tugging until it was half-way down.
“You should have gone easy on him.”
“Feel free if you want.” Caegan lifted the Challenger’s hood. “If he’s going to keep up, he has to learn on his own.”
Oil and steam pushed into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Old blood and stubborn bones. The idling engine echoed its way to the back of his head. He knew he would always remember this night, and not just for the races. He wondered how long Scott would go on worrying about Gabriel hanging out. There wasn’t anything else they could do though, and Scott knew that. Keeping the Kid with them was their best shot for keeping him out of any serious trouble.
Scott sighed and leaned against the Challenger’s grill. Gabriel was straddling the shoulder. Slipping between blacktop and gravel, trying to get the hang of that fishtail. Gerald had told Caegan once that loose sand was a lot like driving in snow. Don’t panic. Don’t overcorrect. Keep it in stride—stay even, even if the wheels are spinning.
“How much you got, Sweets?”
Caegan nodded at the Camaro when Scott glanced at him. Usually it was other people who called him Sweets.
“Plenty.”
“Show him how to manage, right?”
Scott looked between Caegan and the BMW’s approaching headlights. For several moments, neither of them said anything. Scott tugged at the zipper, yanking it up and down the track of teeth. Caegan stood beside him and waited. Scott finally offered a small nod.
They’d talk about the rest later, if Scott wanted. But sometimes, Scott didn’t want to talk and that was okay. The Beamer’s door slammed, Gabriel bitching about the M5 not responding like he wanted it to.
“You still think European engineering’s the shit?”
Gabriel was too young to know the ads about BMWs being ultimate driving machines—but the trick was you had to drive. Gabriel shoved his fists into the front pouch of his pullover, shoulders up to his ears. Caegan closed the Challenger’s hood and nodded at Scott.
“Think you can make him work to keep up with you?”
“Hell yeah.”
From the shoulder, Caegan watched as Scott and Gabriel took turns trying to run each other off the road. He sat on the warm metal of the Challenger’s hood, feet propped up on the chrome. Singer should keep his treasures under wraps, if he didn’t want them getting dirty—but what use was having wheels like these if they only saw pavement three to five months out of the year?
Caegan leaned back on his elbows, breathing slow, tilting his head back. Heat raced through his joints, across his chest, down his back. The wind tunneled between his body and the hood, moving the warmth away before it could strangle him. He tried to think of the last time he’d seen the stars like this. Generators and spot lights kept out most of them during the summer’s races. He’d spent a few nights out here in the back of Skylar’s Jeep—but the stars hadn’t been on their minds.
Once, he’d looked at Mesner City from a hotel rooftop, and it was like the night sky had fallen flat on the desert floor. Scott hadn’t shut up about how many lights there were. Even the moon was reflected, mirrored in Brighton’s sculpted fountains. To Brilliance, the plaque on the largest one said. Not that they’d been able to see the plaque from the rooftop, but their class had taken a school trip. Middle of sixth grade.
In order to be great tomorrow, you have to do your best today—and every day.
There is no such thing as I can’t. You either say to yourself, ‘I will’ or ‘I won’t.’
Choose to be the best.
Ms. Hampton’s advice was almost worse than Marshall’s. She didn’t pretend to be nice, but her lectures didn’t always make sense. Skylar had overheard him telling Scott they could sneak off and had demanded to come with. Hard to say no, when they’d been locking eyes all day. She’d kissed him when Scott wasn’t looking. A grown-up type of kiss.
I told myself I would, she’d said with a wink. So I did.
Three minutes later teachers were herding them back onto the buses. Skylar’s mom had pulled up in a Mercedes, as white and big as a boat. Fawn colored leather. Cream-stitched trim. Completely spotless. Skylar stayed with her aunt most of the time, but her mother had picked her up since it was closer to home. Caegan had thought she’d might as well live on the moon, but she said Brighton wasn’t so different from the blocks if you looked hard enough. And Skylar knew how to look.
A half-blur brought his attention back to the motor underneath him. Floating through the desert on an endless night. Caegan blinked the haze from his eyes but it wouldn’t budge. A snarl of wind bit at his shoulders and his eyes refocused. Thin clouds hiding this side of the moon. Two-faced rock, always turning. The cool sensation at his fingertips could have been the wind, or it could have been the moon drawing the heat from him. Stealing his light.
He sat up, slipping a hand into his pocket but deciding against another boost. Back at the duplex he could coast down, nice and easy. Caegan shook his shoulders, rearranging the warmth in his body before getting back into the Challenger. Time to round up and go home.
Devil’s Dare was only twenty miles, but it was blind driving through cliff drops and sharp curves. Scott and Gabriel’s taillights had disappeared, but Caegan had still heard them over the rise. The lower hills weren’t bad—but he was past those now. Still no sign of them.
The deeper he inched through the terrain, the tighter his throat became. Oil and stomach acid scalded the roof of his mouth. He swallowed it back. Sweating out most of what was in his system. The thought of knocking back a handful made him realize he was grinding his teeth, but he wouldn’t take his hands off the wheel. Not until he punched Scott in the face for pulling this kind of shit—and twisted Gabriel’s arm for good measure.
Caegan didn’t believe in making empty threats, but he knew he didn’t always have to be the one to make good on them. Higher cliffs blocked out whatever moonlight would have filtered through the clouds. Even with the high beams, it was like—
The Camaro’s taillights cocked ahead, twin heartbeats in the womb of the valley. The M5 nowhere in sight. He dropped from fifteen miles an hour to five, searching for shapes in the dark. No guarantee he would find anything.
Tires on asphalt.
Don’t lose your grip.
Hands on wheel.
Don’t lose your grip.
Tongue between teeth.
Don’t lose your grip.
As he pulled up beside the Camaro, Scott’s hunched shoulders came into view. Caegan edged the Challenger onto the soft gravel, keeping the back tires on the blacktop.
The steep incline sloped at conflicting angles, shelves of rock and sparse grass working themselves out on its way to the flatlands. Mangled metal and whisps of steam. An oversized cockroach, crushed by some invisible hand. The constant clicks from the Camaro’s flashers followed Caegan as he picked his way through loose stones—the pulse of a half-sick sun.
Impossible to tell what was on the other side of the Beamer, if anything. Caegan guessed it had rolled three times—but whether that was from the curve Scott had stalled on or from a bend further up, he couldn’t tell that, either. Crumpled between the steering wheel and the driver’s seat, the space was finally compact enough for Gabriel to reach the pedals.
Sticky tracks on the Kid’s cheeks made the angles look worse than they were. Even with all the blood, Caegan still knew it was wrong. All wrong.
The shift of his jaw.
The dent in his forehead.
The jacked-up skew of his shoulder.
No, the desert wasn’t empty.
And neither were its threats.
V. H. King's Ink 
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