No Limits (Stacked Deck #5) - Emilia Finn Page 0,9
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.
“Manda.” I step forward when she ushers those ahead of me to the side. I have to fold my six and a half feet stature to place a kiss on her cheek, but it’s what we do.
I ooze charm, allegedly. I play my part, and I remain in her good graces when I know I could get myself booted from the circuit if she decides she doesn’t want me.
I could drive in circles anywhere, anytime. I could race dudes down Main Street to get a charge. I don’t need Piper’s Lane for the payday, so none of this is a necessity for my bank or groceries, like it is for many others.
Most of the folks who come out here work regular jobs that don’t quite cover the bills, then they come down on the weekends and pray they can win and set their families up a little more comfortably.
My grandfather, the first Bryan Kincaid, was one of those people. A win was the difference between feeding his family or not. The car he drove, he won from someone else. His victories, many. He was good behind the wheel of a fast car, and sent that ability down through his blood into mine.