Lennox (10 page)

Lennox. My heart twists. I haven’t seen or heard from him since
I patched him up that night after the race, but he’s been
constantly on my mind. “I know just what you mean, Cy. I miss
it, too.”

*

I pull into the old by-the-hour rally raceway at the northern edge of
our high mountain desert just as the sun is starting to fade. The old
Camaro was in better shape than I remembered. It took a few cheap,
quick fixes to get its engine purring. They won’t hold up for
long, but I want to get it out onto the open road to see what it can
do. Then I’ll know what permanent fixes to make. See where I
need to focus my efforts if I really want to whip it into shape.

Uncle Drazic seemed thrilled that I wanted to make something out of
this poor old car. Granted, if the shop’s finances don’t
pick up sometime soon, we’ll probably have to sell it as soon
as I get it running nicely and cleaned up. It should fetch a nice
bundle on the refurbished classics auction block. For a short while,
though, I can pretend that this car is mine. That I can drive it to
the edge of the earth and back, all on my own.

I check in with the raceway’s owner and pay my fees, then creep
toward the entrance to the tracks. Someone’s practicing their
pacing on the straightaways. They’re maneuvering clean, at
least to my untrained eyes, but their style is crimped by their
choice of vehicle—a nondescript Nissan, some mediocre commuter
sedan. Strange pick, but they’re driving well. In any case, I
should have no problems avoiding them on the track.

The Camaro grumbles in protest as I test its acceleration. Yikes.
This one’s going to need more work than I thought. Probably a
complete engine rebuild, some transmission upgrades . . .
All pricy components the shop can’t really absorb the costs for
just now. I’m just grateful, for now, that it runs at all.

I check its turning on the roundabout, then one of the hairpins, then
circle around for another lap. When I spot the Nissan revving up,
then slowing down, I pull over to an overlook to give them room to
whiz past unperturbed. It’s a good resting point, anyway. Gives
me a chance to pop the hood and see what’s causing that
agonizing creaking sound every time I try to make a hard turn toward
the left.

To my surprise, though, the Nissan slows down and sidles onto the
overlook beside me. My heart leaps when I see why.

It’s Lennox in the driver’s seat.

He grins, hesitant but warm, as he climbs out of the driver’s
seat. That grin is like a fresh blast of sunshine on my skin. I want
to soak it all up. I’ve been trying so hard to forget about the
moment we shared at his grandmother’s house while I cleaned him
up from his fight with Nash. But it’s damned near impossible.
It was everything younger Elena would have craved—his nearness,
his gentleness, his soft eyes and firm abs . . .

Dammit. I’ve got to stop. Even though Nash and I are on a
break, shouldn’t I be pining for the day we reunite? Yet I’ve
barely thought about Nash since our argument. It’s been a
relief not to feel responsible for him. I thought I’d miss him
more than I do. But I don’t feel anything except for a cold
emptiness, after what an asshole he’s been.

“Elena.”

Lennox steps toward me. For a second, I think he’s going to
reach for me, plant his hands on either side of my hips. Then I’m
disappointed when he doesn’t. Shit. I’ve got to get a
grip. No matter what happened between Nash and me, I can’t
forget what Lennox is: a murderer. A threat to the crew, and the
delicate balance we’ve struck since he left.

“Looks like your cuts healed up nicely,” I tell him.

“I had a good nurse.” He props his fists at his sides as
he surveys my Camaro. “And here I thought you didn’t want
to be a driver.”

“Yeah, well.” I lean against the Camaro’s side and
cross my arms with a grin of my own. “I had a good teacher.”

Lennox’s grin widens. He knows I mean him. “He can’t
be that great, if he’s letting you limp along with that crappy
engine whine.”

“Yeah? You hear that?” I ask. “I only just started
tinkering with this rust bucket a few hours ago. I’m lucky it
runs at all.”

“Looks like you handled it pretty well, then.”

He finishes circling around the Camaro and comes to a stop before me,
unusually close. My body tingles at his nearness. An overwhelming
urge fills me to wrap my arms around him. Rest my head against his
chest and bury myself in his warmth. I don’t know if it’s
a need for comfort or lust that’s drawing me toward
him—probably a bit of both—but it’s threatening to
pull me under.

Instead, I clear my throat. “I’m uh . . .
I just thought I’d bring it out here, and . . .
and see where I should focus my work.” I grin. “So far,
pretty much everything needs fixed.”

Lennox waves his hand toward the driver’s door I’m
leaning against. “Do you mind if I give it a spin?”

“I’d be honored.”

He hops back into the Nissan and I follow him in the Camaro back to
the waiting area for all of the tracks. After he parks the Nissan, I
slide the driver’s seat back and scoot over toward the
passenger’s side. “Passenger door is jammed. I can’t
raise or lower the window, either,” I explain, pointing to the
half-up pane of glass.

Lennox laughs as he slides into the driver’s seat and buckles
up. “Like you said. At least it runs.”

He coasts us, nice and easy, toward the entrance to the rally track.
The sky is deep blue now, with only the faintest edging of green and
orange along the western mountain range. The track’s lights
bathe us in a soft golden glow. In this light, Lennox looks every bit
the god I always imagined he was when I was younger: smooth and
smiling and at peace with the universe. He bears none of the sadness
from before now that he’s behind the wheel. None of the scars.
It’s just us and the road before us.

I wish it could always be that way.

“Hang tight,” he tells me.

I grip both sides of my mildewed bucket seat, but I’d much
rather be grabbing onto Lennox.

The starting light quavers at yellow, then switches to green.

Lennox easily maneuvers over the first set of easy curves, then jumps
us up the overpass ramp. He makes it look effortless, though I can
hear the car straining to keep up with his cues. We wind around the
switchback and he has to slow down for the slalom when the steering
wheel catches and hesitates on every sharp turn.

“It sticks a little shifting from second to third,”
Lennox points out, as we swing around for a second lap.

“Yeah, I noticed that, too. I’ll probably have to rebuild
the entire transmission.”

He nods. “Fights me when I try to pull to the right, as well.
You topped up the steering column fluid?”

“As much as I could, though it’s probably leaking
somewhere.”

“Sounds about right.” He squares his shoulders and
readies for another pass.

I watch him instead of the road this time—the way his lean
muscles flex against his arms as he shifts and turns the stubborn
steering wheel. God, he’s still so gorgeous. His face used to
be the last thought I’d conjure up in my head before falling
asleep, once upon a time. But he always seemed so much older than me,
and he was almost always Amber’s man, too. He was always just
out of reach.

We finish our third loop and he pulls in, nice and easy, next to his
Nissan. The moment he downshifts, the engine groans and dies. “Shit.”

“Great.” I run my fingers through my hair.

Lennox looks at me, sheepish, then turns the key. It protests for
several seconds, but then the engine finally grumbles and restarts,
like a cantankerous old man.

We laugh again. Lennox leans towards me, eyes dazzling in the dome
light, and I’m overcome with a sudden desire to lean over and
kiss his cheek. Nothing aggressive, just that comfortable display of
affection, of closeness that we once shared. My hand slips over the
gearshift, toward his thigh. From the way he’s looking me, I
can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling the same thing. Or
maybe even something more.

Lennox breaks the gaze, though, and shifts away from me. “So,
uh.” He tugs at the leather bracelets stacked on his right
wrist. “I guess you’re with Nash now, right?”

My heart sinks. “Actually, we’re . . .
we’re kind of taking a break.”

Lennox’s jaw loosens, though he doesn’t say anything.

“Nash lost it when you got out of prison. It was bad, Len. Real
bad. It was all I could do to convince him not to hunt you down,
okay? But I—” I choke on my own words. “I wasn’t
enough to calm him down.”

“That’s not your job. You shouldn’t have to.”
He works his jaw from side to side, thinking. “But that’s
fair of him, I guess. I—I can see why he’d feel that
way.” Finally, he risks another glance toward me. “Maybe
a break will do you both some good.”

I’m not sure how to answer that, so instead I say, “We’re
going to have a memorial service next week. For Troy. Nash didn’t,
um . . . he didn’t really get to appreciate the
funeral.”

“I’ll say.” Lennox rubs his palms on the thighs of
his jeans. “That sounds good. Maybe that’ll give him the
closure he needs.”

We’re silent for a moment, enveloped in the rumble of the
Camaro’s cab. I’m used to comfortable silences around
Lennox—hours lost working side by side in the shop, or gazing
up at the mountain stars. But this feels different. Laden. It needs
to be broken, but I’m not sure I have the nerve to break it.

Thankfully, Lennox does it for me. “Listen, El . . .”

My heart flutters as I look toward him. “Yeah?”

“I, uh . . .” He exhales through his nose
and stares down. Shakes his head to himself. “Anyway, I need to
get back to work, but . . . I’ll see you around,
won’t I? At the races, if nothing else.”

And there goes that hope, racing away from me at max acceleration.
“Yeah. Of course.” I take a deep breath. “I’d
like that a lot.”

He gets out, then holds a hand out to me to help me ease my way out
through the driver’s side after him. His skin is warm and soft
around my wrist. For just one moment, I let myself imagine him
running those hands through my hair. Down my neck. I imagine him
lowering his lips to mine as he presses me against the side of the
car. His hips sinking against me, his arms enveloping me . . .

But then he lets go and heads toward the Nissan.

I exhale and shake off my ridiculous fantasy. It’s not worth
it—the hurt it would cause the crew. My uncle. And possibly me.
“What’re you doing with that boring little point to point
car, anyway?” I ask.

He glances back up at me. “Oh. It’s just for a job.
Nothing exciting.”

But everything about Lennox is exciting to me. I bite my lower lip in
frustration as he unlocks the car and opens the door. “Take
care of yourself, Lennox. Don’t be a stranger.”

He smiles sadly at me. “Yeah. You too.”

Elena

Ridgecrest’s cemetery isn’t big, but it has one of the
best views in town, poking out from the face of the mountain slope.
Mountain breezes, a wide sky overhead, and the dazzling high desert
spread out below it—it offers all the peace and serenity our
memorial service needs. There are even picnic tables and shelters set
up at the cemetery trail intersections, perfect for mourners to
gather and reminisce on better days.

We pick the shelter closest to Troy’s grave for our memorial
service. Uncle Drazic’s not big on flowers, but I helped him
pick a few tasteful wreaths in colors that I don’t think would
have offended Troy’s masculine sensibilities. We printed out a
few of our favorite photographs of Troy with the rest of the crew,
and we’re all clustered around the picnic table, swapping
stories and drinking Troy’s favorite brew—New
Belgium—while soft white clouds roll by overhead.

Drazic goes first. After a long pull of water—he’s the DD
for this afternoon—he cracks his knuckles and clears his
throat. “Well, you all know what a smartass Troy was.”

“He comes by it honest,” Nash says, seated beside me. I
glance toward him. We’ve only said a few words to each other,
but it isn’t as awkward as I’d feared. He’s family,
after all.

Drazic nods and grins. “Yes, he does that. Well, he
hated
when he couldn’t get in the last word.”

“Which also runs in the family,” Cyrus says, with a nod
toward Nash.

We laugh, and Jagger and Cyrus clink beers.

“My favorite time, though . . .” Drazic
tips his head back, remembering. “My god. It was when he
mouthed off to the head of the upstate crew about his shit taste in
music. Do you all remember that?”

We lean forward.

“Son of a bitch had just come in second to them in a circuit,
and they were gloating, like always. And Troy says, ‘Well,
hell, of course the rest of us lost, havin’ to hear your asses
crankin’ that garbage all the way around the bend.’”

Jagger snickers.

“Oh, but it got better,” Drazic says. “Tank Al
wasn’t having any of it. He walked straight up to Troy and
socked him square in the jaw.
Pop.
And Troy just grinned.
‘What the hell,’ Tank Al asked him, ‘didn’t
that hurt?’ And Troy says, ‘Nothing hurts as much as
listening to your fucking Eagles soundtrack!’”

Chuckles all around; I grab a refill of my beer and slide back onto
the picnic bench beside Nash. He presses his palm to the small of my
back, and I freeze. I don’t think he did it intentionally—he’s
still focused on the rest of the guys—but I don’t know
what to do. I don’t think I want this anymore, feeling like I’m
linked to Nash because that’s the way it’s always been,
like he’s a TV show I watch out of habit even though it lost
its charm. But this is Nash’s day—his and his brother’s.
I want to be strong for him.

I manage a weak smile his way before turning my attention toward
Jagger.