Need for Speed by Brian Kelleher

hours but the crew was still talking about it, reliving it turn by turn. Joe Peck and Finn were especially excited when telling their version of events, as seen through the Gran Torino’s bumper cam. As they talked while the Budweiser flowed, it was almost as if they’d been behind the wheel instead of Tobey.
    Tobey and Little Pete listened to it all with good humor. They were standing side by side, as was usually the case. Tobey was Pete’s idol, and Pete really
was
like a little brother to him.
    â€œI thought you were going to catch Jimmy for sure,” Tobey told Pete as he counted his five-thousand-dollar winnings again, one wrinkled bill at a time.
    â€œI had him in the turns, but he’s a hell of a driver,” Little Pete replied, draining a beer. “And so are you. But I’ll get you both next time.”
    It went on like this for a while. But Tobey was waiting for the right moment to steal away. Finally, he told the others he had to take a leak.
    He walked to the far corner of the garage and looked up into the night. He was finally breathing normally again, his heart rate back where it should be. He’d been in street races before, but nothing as intense as this one. Maybe it was because there had been so much at stake this time.
    The five thousand dollars would help. But he knew it was just a Band-Aid—a way to keep the wolves away from his door, but only for a short while.
    Then what?
    The bills would not stop. The bank would still want its money. And he couldn’t expect his crew to work for free. He had to think of some other way to get income, or the garage would be history.
    He was a good driver, but he was stuck in the minor leagues. Five-thousand-dollar box races were rare in his area. If he wanted to get in on others, he’d have to go to Chicago, Miami, or LA—hotbeds for these types of things. But the costs of traveling around so much would take away a big chunk of whatever he won. And maybe he wouldn’t win all the time. Or at all. And how would the garage stay running if he was gone for long periods of time?
    There was only one solution he could think of. He had to move up to the major leagues somehow. Play with the big boys—the guys who were getting slots in Monarch’s De Leon. Trouble was, he couldn’t do that in his Gran Torino. He would need to have a real supercar, or at least drive for someone who owned one.
    He knew Monarch had been right on the money earlier that evening. If he got ahold of a good car, maybe the De Leon wasn’t so out of the question.
    But until then, he was stuck down here in the bushes.
    He looked out over the town’s skyline. All was quiet again in Mount Kisco. He could just barely see the outline of Pride Rock against the starry sky. He wondered how many happy, drunk kids were still up there, stumbling around in the dark, as he had done many times in the past. He hadn’t been up there in years. Like it or not, it was a place that belonged in the memories of his early youth.
    Besides, he could never think about it without thinking of Anita. She’d looked so beautiful earlier at the drive-in. He missed her terribly. They were two different people, on different trajectories, different paths. But, damn, he loved being with her.
    He’d always carried a quiet confidence about him, a trait inherited from his father. And while he knew his decisions might not have always been right, at least he knew that he thought carefully about anything important before he proceeded.
    Except when it came to Anita.
    The more that time went on, the more he’d become convinced that he might have really blown that one.
    * * *
    He walked back to the garage, grabbed another beer from the cooler, and fell back into the never-ending bullshit session about the race.
    But suddenly, a noise from outside distracted them.
    Finn got up and looked out the window.
    â€œYou’ve got to be shitting me,” he said.