Page 1 of Whispers and Wildfire

CHAPTER 1

Luke

Anticipation thrummed through me,a hint of life returning to my body. I could feel the pulse in my neck, tension rippling through my shoulders and back. The scent of gasoline, rubber, and dust filled the air, and the rumble of engines vibrated through me, heightening the sense of expectation.

It was the middle of the night, but the not-exactly-legal races still drew a crowd. Drivers, car enthusiasts, and groupies milled around, and street cars shined their headlights, illuminating the old racetrack. It was about an hour outside my hometown—not in the jurisdiction of the Tilikum Sheriff’s Department. An important detail when your brother was a sheriff’s deputy, and your nosy family didn’t know you still raced.

“How you feeling tonight?” Kyle, a guy about my age who’d been part of my unofficial pit crew for years, handed me my helmet. He wasn’t asking because he cared. He was deciding how much money to put on me to win.

I took the helmet, my eyes never leaving the track. “Good. Focused.”

He clapped me on the back. “That’s what I like to hear.”

For most spectators, the race was only part of the draw. They were there to gamble. Thousands of dollars—all cash—would change hands before the night was over.

I didn’t care about any of that—the crowd, the groupies, the money. I was there for one thing and one thing only.

The rush.

Outside the track, in the normal routine of daily life, things were fine. I had no reason to complain. My custom auto shop was thriving. I owned my house, had money in the bank. Had my pick of badass cars to drive. I came from a good family—who thought I’d outgrown this particular habit. I was single, but I liked to think of it as being available. Open to possibilities.

So why was I so empty?

Not there. Not with the excited energy of the growing crowd, the rivalries with other drivers, the intense competition.

When I was on the track, I felt alive.

There was probably something wrong with me. Racing was dangerous—especially the way we did it. Not many rules. Certainly no organizational oversight. Just a bunch of guys with minimally modified cars in our backwoods version of showroom stock racing.

I’d started racing as a teenager and somehow managed to get by with only minor injuries, easily explained away. Every few years, I’d quit—for a while. But something about it always drew me back in. My day-to-day existence would get too gray. Too monotone.

Too boring.

Dangerous or not—stupid or not—I was there, my body beginning to buzz with adrenaline.

Breathing deeply of the exhaust-tinged air, I savored the sensation. The way my heart started to beat harder, the wave of anticipation that swept through me.

A girl in a black crop top and shorts that were hardly morethan bikini bottoms walked by, eyeing me as she passed. Her blond hair reached her lower back, and she somehow managed to walk in high heels on the uneven ground. She gave me a sultry smile. I tipped my chin to her.

The race on tap was the classics division, loosely defined as nothing newer than 1975. The cars were beasts—heavy and lacking a modern suspension. But that was what made it fun. Top speeds weren’t what you’d get out of smaller, newer vehicles. But there was something about making an old school muscle car obey your commands that set a guy’s blood on fire.

I loved it.

Drivers started getting in, so I went to my car—a 1966 Ford Mustang—got in and put on my helmet. That helmet and roll cage were the only real nods to my nocturnal activities in that car. No bright-colored racing jumpsuit with a sponsor’s logo on the back. Just an old T-shirt and faded jeans. Some drivers wore gloves, but I liked my hands on the wheel with no barriers.

Dimly, I was aware of the roar of the engines as the other drivers started up. The crowd moving off the track. It was an irregular shape, modified from its original oval sometime after it closed, giving it a series of S-curves just after the first turn. Part dirt, part pavement. On a hot summer night, the dust cloud would be intense.

I turned on the engine and revved it. The throaty roar and low vibration rippled through me. It took another moment to get everyone out of the way, and my patience was wearing thin. I needed this. Needed the speed. The danger. The thrill.

Finally, a guy with a reflective vest climbed the ladder set up on the side of the track. A hush settled over the crowd, and it seemed as if we all drew a collective breath. He raised a gun into the air and fired a blank.

The shot was barely audible over the roar of engines, but itwas enough. My foot slammed down on the gas, and I was off.

Tires squealed, dust and smoke from burning rubber rose in the air. I shot ahead but didn’t take the lead. Not yet. Rookie drivers liked to do that—get out in front early on, thinking they could hold it. Took me a while to learn that lesson. But I wasn’t a rookie anymore.

The race was five laps. No idea why, it was probably arbitrary. I hugged the first turn, letting a few cars get in front of me. I wasn’t worried. I’d overtake them later. I was more concerned with not letting anyone clip me. A lot of those guys raced dirty.

More spectators were probably camped on the hill above the S-curves, but I ignored them. With intense focus, I drove, flying around the turns as I let the outside world fall away. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, fueling the high I was forever chasing. Bliss was always around the next turn, or the next, just slightly out of reach.

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