Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
The screen doesn’t feature any numbers, only a button that says BLOW IT UP. I press it, and as the screen counts down from five, I pick up the microwave and throw it into a swimming pool.
The heavy appliance sinks to the bottom and promptly explodes. All the pressure inside it dissipates into calming ripples that shoot through the pool in all directions, and I feel a pure rush of relief that I swear is better than an orgasm.
I’m not sure this is what my high school therapist had in mind when she encouraged visualization, but it works for me, and that’s all that matters. I feel considerably lighter as I near the end of my ninety-minute drive.
It’s so eerie coming here at night. Driving up in the dark, the first thing I always see is the towering floodlights that loom over the grandstand, their glow visible from a distance. They cast a ghostly light over the building, illuminating the edges of the track and the empty parking lots that stretch out like dark, open fields. My headlights cast long shadows across the asphalt as I pull in at the entrance, which is marked by a huge, weathered sign with fading paint from years of exposure to the elements.
AMATO RACING
The name is emblazoned in bold letters. Below the sign, a chain-link fence surrounds the perimeter, lined with a few security lights.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I park next to a familiar pickup truck. Dante’s.
For a moment, I experience the usual flicker of trepidation about being here alone so late at night. But I’m as careful as I can be. I text Dante to let him know I’m here, then stay in the car with the doors locked until I see him exit the building. He always comes outside to escort me in.
Hopefully, any murderers lurking nearby will take one look at Dante and be smart enough not to mess with him. He might not have the height, but he’s got the bulk, the tats, and the nasty scowl. If I didn’t know what a soft teddy bear he is on the inside, the sight of him would definitely make me cross to the other side of the street.
I get out of the car and step into the cool night air that carries the faint scent of gasoline and rubber.
“Hey, princess,” Dante says, slinging one bulky arm around me. “How was the drive?”
“Uneventful.” I lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“Missed you,” he tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “But you chose a good night to stop in. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Anticipation tickles my stomach. Dante’s surprises are the best kind of surprises.
I take his hand and practically drag him toward the entrance, eliciting a rumble of laughter from him. Every time Dante laughs, it sounds like it’s coming from deep in his chest.
We make our way through the main building and emerge out the back. The grandstand is partially lit by the floodlights, with most areas plunged into deep shadow, and the empty seats look so creepy in the darkness. To the left of the main track is the smaller go-kart track, its winding curves barely visible in the night.
Dante and I bypass both tracks and head to a well-lit area on the right.
AKA my personal heaven.
Dante’s family doesn’t just own a racetrack—they also run a side business that provides a luxury experience for customers who dream of driving high-end sports cars. I’m talking Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porsches. Dante told me this service makes up nearly half of the track’s income.
And he lets me take advantage of it for free.
If he weren’t the owner’s son, he would totally get fired for this.
“How’s your week been?” he asks.
“Busy.”
I complain about midterms for a few minutes, and he indulges me, because he’s that kind of friend, the one who will show enthusiasm in your interests even if they bore him to death, just because he knows they mean something to you.
We met at a pool party in Boston when I was a sophomore. I went with a few girls from class, but they wanted to leave early, so I stuck around, activated Charlie mode, and flirted with a cute guy on the front porch. Cute Guy was midsentence when Dante pulled up in an Alfa Romeo like a fucking boss. I ditched the boy and went to admire the car. Dante asked if I wanted to go for a ride, and the rest is history. I left Boston that night with an adrenaline high and a gay best friend whose family owns an honest-to-God racetrack.
The first time Dante invited me here after hours, he was so paranoid it was almost comical. He sat in the passenger side of the white McLaren convertible, fists of anxiety clenched against his thighs. He refused to let me drive faster than thirty miles an hour until he decided whether I was worthy of second gear. With each visit, he increased my speed limit, and these days, he has no qualms about letting me zoom—solo—around the track.