Page 15 of Trip

“Since when do you believe in God?” Enigma asked.

“I believe!”

“And I’m Fabio,” Gator groaned. “Not my fault if ya don’ keep my sister happy.”

“She’s not your sister!” Scribe yelled as all three bickering men walked into the garage.

Grinning, I stood with my arms crossed over my chest and said, “Looks like all of you are getting along.”

“Asshole better keep that annoying puff-pastry eating boy-toy away from Henley, or I’m calling Athena to come visit.”

“Ya need a phone?” Gator scoffed. “Would have thought ya had yer own broom to fuck around on? How about ya just send her a telepathic message, or better yet, wave a magic wand?”

“Keep it up, Gator.” Scribe grinned wickedly. “Cameron’s gonna be here tomorrow. Would hate to have my little buddy learn that some Cajun is trying to horn in on his princess. Cameron’s real particular with who belongs to him. Hate to have him cook up something to teach you boys a lesson.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Jumping in between the two, Enigma looked at Scribe and glared, before turning to Gator, the president of the Bourbon Kings, and whispering, “What Gator means is he will do his best to keep Donut away from Henley. Isn’t that right, Wade? ’Cause if you don’t, I’ll bring the moms in.”

“Ain’t scared of dat kid,” Gator huffed.

“Scared of who?” Romeo asked, walking in late to the party.

“Cameron,” Enigma and Scribe both said at once.

“The place is just as you left it,” Mitch said as I walked around the living room, looking at all the photos, trophies, and awards from a life I left behind. It was like walking into a time capsule. From my first stock car race to me holding the checkered flag at Daytona. It was all there, every drop of blood, sweat, and tears I put into a life that was taken away from me.

“You should have thrown all this shit out.”

“You want it trashed, boy, then you do it,” Mitch stated.

“Is this when you took the lead from Walter Smitz at Talladega?” Scribe asked, looking at one of the many photos.

“Nah, that’s when shithead rammed his car into Andy Cruze because the fucker clipped his ass on the last lap at the Indianapolis Speedway.” Mitch chuckled. “Could have taken the flag, but good ol’ Trip refused to let it go.”

“Trip’s temper was legendary,” Romeo remarked as he picked up a framed photo showing a younger me and Mitchhoisting a trophy together. “They still talk about that mess at Indy, you know.”

“Legendary is one way to put it,” Scribe said with a chuckle, tracing his finger over a dusty plaque. “But I’d call it stubborn as hell.”

“I heard Walter Smitz never got over losing that race at Talladega,” Enigma chimed in, pulling up a chair. “Said Trip’s the only guy who could outmaneuver him on a rain-slick track.”

“Walter’s still salty about it, too,” Mitch grunted. “No surprise there. He’s always been a sore loser.”

“True,” Gator muttered. “But the old days were something, weren’t they? Back when it wasn’t just about skill but guts.”

“Are we just gonna sit around and reminisce or are we going to talk about the real reason I’m here?” I asked, looking at a photo of me and my dad before turning to look at Mitch. “’Cause my gut’s telling me it’s more than a few bad engines and a reckless driver.”

All eyes turned to Mitch, who slowly shook his head. “Never could put one past you, boy.”

“What has Ansel gotten himself into?” I asked flatly, standing my ground.

“Ansel wants to consolidate everything. He wants to move to Formula One, but he can’t do that with both feet in the circuit.”

“Why not have two teams?” I asked. “It’s not unheard of.”

“He can’t afford it.”

“And the engines?”

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