Page 6 of Trip

The engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that reverberated through the garage and sent shivers down my spine. It wasn’t just the sound of a car; it was a declaration, a call to arms. It dared me to confront the shadows of my past and the specter of Ansel that lingered on the horizon.

Before I could second-guess myself, I eased the Cobra out of the garage, catching sight of all my brothers running out of the clubhouse just as I maneuvered my car onto the deserted road. The night air was cool, the stars scattered across the sky like bystanders waiting for the show. Pressing down on the gas, I felt a rush of adrenaline as the car responded obediently, effortlessly.

But as the miles blurred beneath the tires and the wind whipped through the open cockpit, one thought kept gnawing at me: Could this machine, this piece of my history, really carry me back into a world I had tried so hard to leave behind? Or should I return her to the garage and walk away, leaving the past dead and buried?

Chapter Two

C.C.

New Orleans, Louisiana, that same day...

“This is bullshit, Crane, and you fucking know it,” I shouted, storming out of the garage. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter!”

“C.C., you are reckless, and you crashed the last three cars. I’m sorry, honey. You don’t listen to anyone. Mitch is down. You gave the guy fucking ulcers, and you never listen to the crew. You do whatever you fucking want! We all know you want the cup, C.C., but not if it means your life. Ansel is only trying to help.”

“I told you I heard something funny in the engine.”

“And the guys are going over it with a fine-tooth comb. If they find that someone tampered with the engine, then they will be the first to notify the circuit and start an investigation, but, C.C., this can’t go on. You haven’t been the same since the accident. It’s like you’re trying to prove something, but, honey, you’ve got nothing to prove. We’ve got the first clash heat of the season in two months, and three weeks after that is opening day at Daytona. Girl, we need your head in the game.”

“I know.” Sighing, I kicked a trash can and asked, “Who the fuck is he bringing in?”

“Calvin Hall.”

I froze. Calvin Hall. The name hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. It had been years since I’d heard that name spoken aloud, but the memories of that fateful crash came rushing back, sharp and unrelenting. The last time I saw him, he was walkingaway from the circuit, his helmet tucked under one arm, his gaze as cold as the steel beneath his boots. Calvin wasn’t just another racer; he was a legend, a man who lived and breathed the track—a man who knew how to win, and how to tear you apart while doing it.

“Calvin Hall?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. “Ansel’s bringing in Calvin Hall to babysit me?”

“Not babysit,” Crane clarified, his tone softening, but his eyes didn’t waver. “To mentor. To coach. To keep you alive, C.C.”

I opened my mouth to fire back a retort, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I felt a deep, simmering anger bubbling beneath the surface. Calvin Hall wasn’t just a mentor; he was a relic of everything I’d fought against. The idea of him watching, judging, critiquing every move I made—it was unbearable. Yet, something in the pit of my stomach twisted with a mix of anger and dread.

“When does he get here?” I finally asked, my voice clipped.

“Tomorrow,” Crane said, almost apologetically. “That’s if Ansel can get him to agree. Those two didn’t end on a friendly note. Not after how Ansel left him hanging in the wind after the accident.”

“I remember it well,” I muttered. “I was barely twelve and watched it all play out on television with Rome. The investigation went on for weeks. I’d never seen anything like it before. The circuit lost two good people that day.”

“Three, because Calvin never got behind the wheel again. After the circuit cleared him of all wrongdoing, he disappeared. No one has heard from him or seen him since.”

“Then why is Ansel bringing him back?”

“Because he designed the engine, C.C. Ain’t no one around who knows that engine better than Calvin Hall.”

“I don’t care if he built the whole damn thing with his bare hands. I don’t want him here.”

“Well, you better get used to the idea. Ansel is supposed to be speaking with him today, and if he agrees, Calvin will be on the next flight down here.”

I clenched my fists, my pulse racing as if I’d just stepped out of the car after a hundred laps. The idea of Calvin Hall walking into my garage felt like a betrayal, like inviting the enemy into the heart of my fortress. But the truth was, Crane was right. Calvin knew the engine like no one else. That knowledge could mean the difference between a winning car and a disaster waiting to happen.

“Don’t think I’ll play nice,” I said through gritted teeth, my voice raw.

Crane sighed and placed a hand on my shoulder, his tone softening. “C.C., we need every edge we can get this season. Let him do his job—he might surprise you. And who knows? Maybe this will be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

I shook his hand off, unwilling to concede even an inch. But as I stood there in the dimly lit garage, the smell of oil and rubber hanging thick in the air, I realized I’d have to make peace with the idea sooner or later. Daytona wasn’t waiting for anyone, least of all me.

Needing to get out of there, I jumped in my car and drove. I didn’t know where I was going, but I just needed to be behind the wheel.

The highway stretched out before me, a winding ribbon of possibility under the setting sun. As the engine purred and the tires hummed against the pavement, the tension began to drain from my chest. For a brief moment, I could pretend the world didn’t exist beyond the road ahead.

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