He doesn’t answer on the first ring—probably because he’s on the Harley. But he calls me back less than a minute later.
“Talk to me, baby,” he says, making my stomach muscles tighten in appreciation of that rumbling voice.
“We need to untangle a mare’s nest,” I say carefully, unsure as to how much I should say here. There are plenty of ways for someone to pick up on our phone conversation if they really wanted to. “And we need to do it before we get home.” I’m hoping he catches the meaning in my words as I lick my lips. They still taste like Aaron, like cherry cola and teenage fucking dreams. “Anything you need from the store before we get there?”
“Ah,” Vic says with a deep chuckle. It vibrates my body, even over the phone and separated as we are. “Tell Aaron he should take you mudding. Makes for a fun date. I’ll see you when you get here. Stay safe, princess.”
He hangs up before I can metaphorically bite his dick off for calling me princess again.
“He says you should take me mudding,” I tell Aaron, my voice clearly showing that I have no idea what this backup plan means. Aaron smiles tightly and nods, pulling into an empty parking lot to turn around. Within two minutes, Sara Young is behind us again.
“I can’t wait for you to see this,” Aaron tells me, taking us through some seedy back areas of South Prescott—by seedy, I mean like prostitutes on every corner and people passed out with needles in their arms—and over to the racetrack. It hasn’t been in proper use since the late fifties, but the local kids keep it up and running all on their own. Sometimes Prescott guys come here to race classic cars.
The most famous racer of all of them though is Scarlett Force, a girl who graduated just a year before the guys and I started at Prescott High. She’s made a legend of herself, as famous for her cars and her racing prowess as she was for seriously dating three men all at once.
You go, girl.
“Okay, this I can’t wait to see,” I say as Aaron flashes a grin that in any other school in the state would grant him the title King of the Cocky Assholes.
“Put that seatbelt on, Bern, and I’ll fucking show you.” Aaron hits the gas, sending the Bronco through the gate (that’s really just an opening as the actual gate has been missing for years) and onto the property. There’s a small driveway to the right that cuts through what used to be the stands for the crowd.
We blast through that and skid onto the track. Since it’s December, and it’s rainy as fuck in Oregon, the dirt track is filled with potholes and mud puddles. We don’t make it five seconds before we hit the first one and the windshield is spattered in mud.
I lean forward and put my hands on the dash as Aaron takes us around the track, hitting every bump and sending the Bronco flying. My stomach ends up with wings, fluttering into my throat as we hop up and crash down like we’re on a rollercoaster. Aaron lets out a whoop and turns the music up; “Tears Don’t Fall” by Bullet For My Valentine is playing now, like a soundtrack for our quickie date.
On the far side of the track, Aaron slows slightly and rolls down my window.
“Do you see her?” he asks, the sharp sound of his words cutting through the music. This part of the racetrack dips much lower than the starting line where the stands are. It’s easy to see the parking lot from here, and to note that Sara Young’s car is, in fact, there with the lights off.
“Yep,” I reply, wetting my suddenly dry lips. We need to lose her without, you know, letting her know that’s what we’re doing. Obviously, I’m sure she could find out where Aaron lived if she really wanted to, but she doesn’t need to know that I’m there tonight. Or that Vic’s there. Or that the other Havoc Boys aren’t.
Best to just leave the cops with as little information as possible.
“Fucking fantastic,” Aaron says, accelerating again and shooting us off the side of the track and into the woods. There’s a cleared path here, one that’s obviously been around for a long time. I’ve never been into the racing scene at Prescott High, so I didn’t know