Living

85.

86.

98…

100.

120…

Raylan’s engine roared.

The steering wheel quivered beneath his sweaty palms, every vibration traveling through his fingers and up his arms. The road ahead whizzed by in a blur of motion and darkened pavement. Streetlights became streaks of yellow. Buildings disappeared almost as soon as he registered them.

The night itself seemed to tear away as his headlights cut through the darkness.

Behind him, another motor snarled and screeched.

For a few seconds, it was close enough that Raylan could hear it over his own engine.

Then it grew more and more distant as he pulled ahead.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

These races were only ever a few minutes. The people watching would say they felt like seconds. They’d stand around afterward with their phones still held up, talking about how fast it happened. How they blinked and suddenly the cars were already halfway down the road.

But to Raylan, everything went still.

For those few minutes, it was just him and his Mustang.

The vibration of the wheel. The pressure of the gas pedal beneath his foot. The engine answering every movement he made like the car already knew what he wanted before he asked it.

Him and that powerhouse of a car became one.

One with one another and one with the road.

Raylan knew every sound it made.

Every shake.

Every rattle.

He knew when something wasn’t right from a noise most people wouldn’t have even heard. He knew exactly how hard he could push it before the engine started begging him not to.

Most importantly, he knew how much farther he could push it after that.

It’d been that way since Raylan had gotten the car on his sixteenth birthday.

Not from his parents—who were both too busy drowning their own sorrows in booze his whole life to remember things like birthdays—but from his friend, Flash.

Though friend was a funny word for a thirty-something-year-old guy who notices you know some car lingo when you talk to him on the bus to the bad part of town one day, and then shows up at your house a few days later with a Mustang.

Though, who’s complaining?

Raylan still remembered seeing it parked outside.

He’d thought Flash had come to show it off.

Would’ve been exactly the kind of thing he’d do.

The car wasn’t new. It had miles on it, scratches if you knew where to look, and enough questionable history that Raylan had learned pretty quickly not to ask too many questions.

But it was beautiful.

At sixteen, it was the most beautiful thing Raylan had ever seen.

He’d walked around it twice before Flash finally laughed.

“You gonna keep staring at it or drive it?”

Raylan had looked at him.

Then at the car.

Then back at him.

“What?”

Flash held out the keys.

Raylan stared at them.

“You race,” Flash had said, slapping the keys into Raylan’s hands like they were signing a contract. “I like your spirit, kid. Your drive…” He looked Raylan over for a second. “I wanna cash in on it before some bum does.”

Raylan took the keys, nodding slowly.

He stared at the man in the unnaturally clean suit standing outside one of the crappiest apartment buildings in the city.

Kinda thought premium bum was a good word for what he was looking at.

But the Mustang was sitting right there.

And the keys were in his hand.

So Raylan kept his mouth shut.

He kept his word, too.

He raced for Flash every time he was called upon.

The first few times, hardly anyone knew his name.

He was Flash’s skinny sixteen-year-old project. The kid people looked at and laughed about until he got behind the wheel.

Then they stopped laughing.

Raylan was surprised by how quickly he went from a nobody street kid to a crowd favorite.

People started recognizing his car before they recognized him.

Then they started recognizing both.

He’d pull up and hear people shouting his name from somewhere in the crowd.

Raylan!

Sometimes people slapped the roof of the Mustang as he rolled through.

Girls smiled at him.

Guys twice his age wanted to race him.

Money changed hands before he ever stepped out of the car.

And it turned out that paid well.

Really well.

By eighteen, Raylan moved out of his parents’ house and into his own apartment.

With a pool and all that good junk.

The first night there, he’d slept on a mattress on the floor because he’d spent money on a new set of tires before he bought a couch.

Priorities.

Turned out, too, Flash was right.

Whatever he saw in Raylan that day on the bus must have been his inner fire for speed.

Because Raylan loved racing.

No.

Loved wasn’t right.

Raylan needed racing.

He lived for the feeling of the open road and the power of his car. For that split second when his stomach dropped as the speedometer climbed and every normal instinct in his body told him to slow down.

And he didn’t.

That was something so many people took for granted every day—what that metal box they took to McDonald’s and to work was truly capable of.

People bought cars to get places.

Raylan never understood that.

The car was the place.

The Mustang wasn’t something that carried him between the important parts of his life.

It was the important part.

And every time Raylan raced, he went faster and faster.

He never lost.

Maybe that was because he’d begun to push his car and himself beyond what most people were willing to do.

They stopped.

That was the difference.

Something always made them stop before they hit the top.

Raylan had seen it happen dozens of times.

A driver would be beside him, sometimes even ahead of him, and then there’d be that tiny hesitation.

A brake light.

A foot easing off the gas.

Fear taking over.

Maybe it was a romance.

A child.

A parent.

Or just a hope for more.

Something waiting at home.

Something they pictured when the car started shaking and the road got too narrow and their brain finally screamed that winning wasn’t worth dying for.

But something was always holding them back.

Nothing held Raylan back.

And it never had.

His whole life, he’d had nothing truly meaningful to live for.

Not until the car.

And that’s how Raylan knew that one day, that’s where his life would end.

The same place that it had begun.

120.

The Mustang surged forward.

Raylan tightened his grip.

130…

The white lines in the road were barely lines anymore.

135…

The other car slowed.

Raylan didn’t have to look in the mirror to know it.

He could feel when someone gave up.

And if he had looked in his mirror—though at this speed, that wasn’t happening—he knew exactly what he’d see.

The other guy thinking about his reason.

Whatever it was.

Maybe somebody was waiting for him.

Maybe there was a girl whose face flashed through his mind when the speedometer hit 130.

Maybe his mom had told him to be careful before he left.

Maybe he suddenly remembered that tomorrow existed.

Raylan didn’t.

All Raylan could think about was the finish line.

About the glory and the fame.

About the people waiting there.

About Flash counting whatever money he’d made off him tonight.

And then, before this race had even ended, the desire for the next one.

Because there was always another number.

Another car.

Another driver who thought he was faster.

Another chance to find out how close Raylan could get to the edge without going over it.

His engine screamed.

Raylan laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

When his car rumbled beneath him, that was his parents cheering for him—or at least, it felt as good.

Maybe better.

The Mustang had never forgotten his birthday.

Never screamed at him.

Never passed out on the couch while he made himself dinner.

Never promised something and forgotten it the next morning.

It asked one thing from him.

Drive.

And Raylan always did.

Ahead, the finish line came into view.

People stood far enough back from the road to pretend they cared about safety. Headlights, phones, bodies and shadows blurred together in the distance.

Raylan pressed harder.

The engine answered.

This was living.

Not waking up.

Not eating.

Not working.

Not sitting in an apartment waiting for the hours to pass.

This.

His pulse pounding so hard it hurt.

His hands locked around the steering wheel.

His foot against the floor.

His Mustang screaming into the night.

It was what happened to people who had nothing else to keep them here.

The finish line rushed toward him.

For half a second, Raylan wondered if he should let off.

Then he smiled.

Of course not.

Raylan crossed the finish line.

The crowd erupted.

He closed his eyes for just a second.

Then he finally lifted his foot.

The Mustang began to slow.

130.

129.

128.

The roar softened.

The world returned piece by piece.

Streetlights became streetlights again.

Buildings stopped being streaks.

His breathing sounded strangely loud inside the car.

The adrenaline was already beginning to drain from his body, leaving behind that familiar emptiness.

Raylan rolled toward the crowd, people already moving toward the Mustang.

He could see Flash among them.

That ridiculous suit wasn’t hard to spot.

Someone slapped the side of the car.

Another person shouted Raylan’s name.

He’d won.

Again.

Tomorrow, people would talk about it.

Flash would pay him.

Someone would challenge him.

And Raylan would pretend any of that was the reason he kept coming back.

But sitting there with the engine ticking beneath the hood and his heartbeat slowly returning to normal, Raylan already missed the speed.

That was the worst part.

The second the race ended, so did everything else.

Until somebody handed him another set of coordinates.

Until Flash called.

Raylan rested his hands on the steering wheel.

Knowing that his life was paused until the next time.