Racing Forward

A/N: There isn't sex in this section, sorry. This story (not necessarily this chapter) will have themes of violence, reluctance/coercion, a relationship you're not sure you want to root for, and rough sex. I know the criminal aspect isn't fully explored in this first section... that's in the upcoming sections. As per usual this was written in one fell swoop in an insomniatic burst so there wasn't editing. Also (clearly) I don't have experience running in these worlds so if some things ring false I beg you to overlook it and read on. I reserve all of my copyright. Love, Artie

*****

The tires were only half on the ground. The car might have been flying; I definitely was. High on only adrenaline, I wouldn't dare hurt my baby by racing high, I slid around the corner. I fingered the red button below my finger, it would dangerous to press it. Dangerous but not illegal. Well, street racing was always illegal but in this sport there were only three main rules: don't die, don't get arrested, and don't lose. I was 3/3 on that front and I would rather die than lose.

I was half a car behind, and I could see the manic expression on Sid's face in his rearview. He had talked a big game before the race. It was the final one of the night. The other races had just been a preamble to this one. Their races had been about them making money, or settling petty shit. This race was about everyone making money. In hushed tones all over the city for the past week in auto shops and tattoo parlors and dive bars it could be heard that Roman and Sid were finally going to race.

We had been dancing around each other for months, I was the new kid in town who was sweeping races and he was the grizzled veteran who hated to lose. It was a fated race of sorts. I'd like to pretend that racing didn't have racial overtones but it did. Sid's choice for the race was typical of his white as fuck upbringing. Don't get me wrong, I would have lost a testicle to have that car but white guys only wanted muscle cars. His car was a beauty though: Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat 707 ponies, supercharged and intercooled 6.2L of the Gen 3 Hemi. In the preview I had seen that he had modified it, gone was the 8 speed auto in was the 6 speed manual out of the Viper. I almost wished we were racing for rights.

I went for the imported, the super imported really. Asians and Hispanics are known for using imported cars and I was just following and delivering upon that stereotype. Although, I guess I was just half Cuban so it makes sense that I modified the shit out of my car. My car didn't come in candy apple red like Sid's. It didn't have racing stripes or a particularly impressive body. For the people who came for flash and opulence, my car wasn't for them. What comes to mind when you think of a Nissan? Safe? Reliable? Wrong.

This was no car you gave to a beginning driver. The Nissan Skyline R34 GT-R isn't even sold in the US. I had to get it shipped part by fucking part and put it together with the mods. I wasn't going to buy the bitchy version from the US. Showroom. The bitch version put out a measly 276 horsepower at 6,800 rpm but now that number was up to 617 horsepower and an ability to turn and slide like you wouldn't believe. My car was also so much lighter and smaller, I didn't have to prove myself worthy by the shine.

I did have to prove myself on the track though. I turned my head back to the race. I still had a nitrous canister. The key is not to go too early and eat through it only to have him catch back up and pass me. We were approaching the final big turn and I saw my opportunity. The Charger had to swing out wide to accommodate its long frame. I gunned it not for a moment easing off the throttle and boxed him out. Our cars were centimeters away from colliding and on the other side I was a hair width from the building's edge. Touching either would be a costly and probably deadly mistake. A mistake I didn't make. I eased by him and hit the nitrous as I saw him do moments after me. My chest burned as the pressure increased as we throttled down the street. In our wake rubber burned and left marks of victory across the government's painted lines.

I could see the people, indistinct and unimportant. Some of them had bet on me the others would be disappointed they hadn't. It might seem like chaos to the untrained eye the people, the masses, but this was a finely hewn symphony of flaggers, timekeepers and lookouts as well as the general milieu of spectators, racers, and groupies. People might think we're just in it for the speed, but that's not it. Speed, money, respect: the three things we're all out here chasing. Some guys seem to think it's about tail, but they lose every time and the tail always chases the winner.

I kept my foot flat against the base as I became the winner. For a brief moment, I wanted to keep it down, to keep that feeling going forever. Invincible and indomitable. But I couldn't. Not only would I not be able to be congratulated, I would hurt my car. Sacrilege. I eased off and let my engine cool slightly before turning around. Sid was already idling back to the group. His personal crew was gesturing him over but he was getting a lot glares... typical because he just lost people a lot money. They didn't glare at me, in this sport you blamed the person who lost not the victor.

My own crew was small, less of a testament to my time in game than to my own distrust of people. My crew was one girl who everyone called Dora due to her short stature and brown bob hair cut and incessant cheeriness. We might have been tighter than family but we didn't even know each others real name. It's all hushed secrecy. I pulled my car alongside the crowd ready to receive my accolades.

I got them in spades. The crowd's roar was invigorating: the primal scream of people getting paid and laid tonight. It would surely bring cops. I wasn't worried. My car would outstrip anything they had.

Out of the corner of my I saw him, them. Behind the dyed-haired, ratty shirted youths that populated our circles was a dark aberration. He didn't fit in. He wasn't some lanky mechanic; this was a man with gravitas. It was easy to tell he wasn't an undercover cop. An officer would have been trying to blend in for all he was worth. This man didn't give a damn who saw him and strangely I only felt more drawn to him.

I was distracted when Dora bounced up to me giving me the tightest hug that she could manage which almost damaged my insides. Dora had the look of a cartoon character but she wasn't someone you wanted to mess with. Her rings combined with her impressive strength had broken more than a few noses when people didn't pay their debts to her.

"You did great!" She said bouncing up on her toes and kissing my cheek. I'm sure some would think that we dated. Nope. For one I only liked cock and the other Dora had a massively scary boyfriend. I had only met him once and it was the closest I had ever come to pissing myself. He was at least 6'4" and built like a shithouse. I've been in fights before but I knew instinctively I wouldn't win one against him. He had merely shaken my hand and stared me down until I dropped my eyes, not something I do lightly. I was glad Dora didn't bring him to the races often.

"Thanks Dora."

Her joyous smile shifted into a disapproving grimace as she punched my arm. "What were you thinking with that box out?"

"That I wanted to win."

"Fucking dangerous," there was a slight bit of pride in her eyes even as she chastised me.

I nodded to Sid as he slid by, some congratulations on the race. No need to be a bad sport.

I stood around and shot the shit with a few of the car guys. I wasn't about to tell them everything but just enough to keep the betting sweet on me. I glanced around and found the main bookie of the event. Jasper was a sketchy character but he knew how to keep the talented ones happy. He would get the money to me by the next race or there wouldn't be a next race. He was also the third party of most betting. He profited on all the action.

Dora pulled on my arm, "So Roman, I have someone I want you to meet."

She correctly interpreted my forbidding expression, "Look I know you don't want to meet anyone, and you're fine being Mr. Aloof. But he might have a job for you, a big one."

I didn't say anything. There were few people I actively wanted to know and I didn't have need for money. My day job consisted of me fixing up rich people's cars all alone in my own building: perfect according to me.

Dora spoke even quieter and cast her eyes to the ground, "Look, he's not someone you can really afford to insult." Fucking great, just what I wanted.

I nodded and she got in my car. "Where?" I asked trying to restrain my anger through I wanted to throttle her for making me meet someone apparently threatening enough to make refusal unthinkable.

"Your shop."

I almost wrecked my car. Rage boiled so purely through me that I had to take a few moments before I could steer and see.

"You told him where my shop is?" My voice was no louder than a whisper. I kept my eyes straight ahead so she wouldn't see my murderous intent, but I could feel her body tense.

"No. No, Roman. I don't even know where it is. He does though. He did it so you would be comfortable, your own turf and everything." Yeah. Not fucking likely. This was a breach of my home, my sanctum. If he touched anything of mine... well, at least the number of people knowing the location to my shop wouldn't increase.

I got to my shop, from the outside it looked like an empty warehouse scribbled over it were various tags and gang symbols all artfully done by my own hand to keep away suspicious eyes. It of course was not a run down warehouse at all. It was a bunker of sorts with six security cameras keeping my shit locked down. And that was just incase the several layers of locks didn't do the job. I didn't want the rich dudes' cars getting stolen but I sure as shit didn't want my stuff getting stolen.

I groaned when I saw attention already being drawn to the area. There was a large dark 2016 Cadillac Escalade ESV parked next to my studio. What a fucking waste of money. 100k for a clunky car: weak. It's all amenities that don't mean jack shit and bullet proof glass which might have not been as unnecessary. I didn't go for the door opener. Instead I shut off my car and locked it behind me. The doors don't open from the inside when the key is outside. Dora was staying put.

As I approached, the dark glass lowered on the passenger's side. Staring back at me was a man who looked like a gorilla, with just the most monolithic forehead I'd ever seen and stringy hair. I really was hoping this was a lackey because I couldn't commit to respecting the ape.

"You guys aren't coming into my workshop so let's just get this over with." I was trying to out up a fierce air but I could see their Sig Sauer guns. I had a knife but that would be pretty ineffective if they decided to make this difficult for me.

"Mr. Waugh doesn't like meetings out in the open. They're bad for business," the ape in the front said in a strange guttural noise.

"I don't like having people in my workshop. I don't like people knowing about my shop. It's bad for business."

The driver leaned over, his face catching the light. Holy shit he was gorgeous, ethnically ambiguous with a slight scar bisecting his eyebrow and one under a sharp cheekbone. "Final offer, just you and I have a conversation in your workshop. Everyone else stays outside. It's a compromise." He had a slight accent and an air that didn't suggest people said no to him often. I might have been biased but I liked that the illustrious "Mr. Waugh" drove himself around. I could see the goons didn't like the plan one bit. Clearly Waugh did too because he actually chuckled, "You don't think I could take him, Rodriguez?"

Even the goon chuckled while I felt more than a little offended. I wasn't the biggest but I wasn't some kid who couldn't defend himself. At twenty-four, I had been in my fair share of tussles and won most of them. The driver's door opened, I could see why he wasn't afraid. The man was a monster. He was the man from before. I could see that clear as day, the aberration at the track, the man who didn't fit in.

Sculpted to his chest was a black t-shirt and caressing his thighs was a pair of black jeans. They might have looked simple but this was a man with clearly designer tastes. Waugh's hair was cut precisely, the sides cut short and long on top. It was moussed up and every strand was in place as if they didn't dare to misbehave. I felt similarly.

"Dora needs to be in the car with your men and then we will drive my car into my shop. I'm not about to leave it out here." Waugh merely gestured with a long fingered hand.

It felt wrong turning my back on a predator. But I had to. Dora wasn't pleased about being locked in my car. I ignored her irritation. Waugh generously held the door open for her to clamber out of and she walked to the large SUV.

Waugh got in, a sensuous slide that I couldn't help feel a little jealous of. My sense of gracefulness only was in my hand-eye coordination and through mechanisms. Only half opening the garage port, I eased in my car and then quickly closed it.

Waugh was out of the car before I could insist that the meeting take place inside. I didn't need nor want him seeing my things or worse leaving his prints around. I caught up to him as I saw his enterprising eyes taking stock of the shop. Fencing the parts and cars would be worth millions and my reputation. While his back was still turned, I felt for the knife strapped to my ankle and came up with it.

"Take off your shirt."

He stopped cold and turned around. "Excuse me?" He asked incredulously.

I pointed my knife at him, it wasn't large but the threat was steady, "Take off your shirt so I know this isn't recorded. I don't know you. So take it off."

He stared at me for a moment before grabbing the back of his t-shirt and pulling it over his head. His chest was a masterpiece, two olive-toned nipples sat pert in the middle of impressive pecs. He worked out but I sensed he wasn't merely a weight lifter.

"Happy?" He asked quirking the broken eyebrow at me.

"Turn around." This was more for my amusement. His back was a beautiful expanse rippling ridges of the strong corded muscles gleamed under the florescent lighting. There wasn't a wire but at the base of his back was a sleek black gun. I've never been a big fan of guns, too loud, too messy, too able to riddle my cars with holes.

He completed his 360. "You know I could have a tap in my pants too. Want me to take them off?" Yes. I did. But I didn't say that, just stared at him with dispassionate eyes. He pulled his shirt back on and I missed his skin.

"So Roman, thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"I didn't have much of a choice."

He chuckled, the bit of warmth radiated across his skin making him only more appealing, "That's true but I appreciate your time all the same. I want to offer you a job."

I glanced around the workshop. Making sure he saw everything that was around. There were all the major names in high end sports cars. High tech equipment and pristine tools hung from the walls. "Do I seem like I'm in need of a job?"

"No. I'm well aware of your work Roman. You recently modified one of my cars: The Jaguar F. You charged me almost as much as it cost in the first place. Then again, I was very happy with the workmanship." He was right about the job; I had worked magic, but wrong on the pricing. It wasn't near what he paid for the thing. The Jag is flashy, but controlled and this customer had a rather unusual request. He wanted a safe put in but not a regular safe, one that was hidden deep within the seats. It had to be slim enough to work with the design but accessible in a pinch. The safe was damn-near indestructible as well as x-ray proof and vacuum sealed. My opinion of Mr. Waugh solidified: smuggler or some kind of fence. Although, if he wanted to be a good smuggler a fleet of Jag F-types weren't the way to go. Way too flashy, cops would pull you over before you even turned it on. It wasn't my place to tell him how to run his business.

"You could have contacted me the same way as before." I did all of my transactions on the dark web or through a proxy in New York for the more reputable deals.

"It's actually a different sort of job. You're a very good driver Roman, where did you learn?"

I was silent. If he wanted to offer me a job, great. But personal information wasn't going to be given freely. "The DMV."

Mirth filled his eyes, "Sure, Roman. I know for a fact you didn't have a Driver's License until three years ago." There was no way for him to know that, but it was true. Cold fear gripped my heart. He continued, "So Alec, did you learn from your dad or the Jackals?"

I hadn't heard my first name in a long time—four years. There was nothing tying me to that life. I had left it behind. There was no one close to me anymore. The name of the gang I used to run with chilled me. There was a lot of bad blood there. There wasn't voluntary leaving, I had escaped one night and hadn't thought to look back.

"I'm self taught." I don't know why I answered, some reflex. It was the truth; I had taught myself to drive. My history of driving had always been illegal and dangerous.

He nodded before leaning on the hood of one of the rich dude's cars. I couldn't even yell at him. My whole body was still shocked that he was here and what he knew—Not a fence. A spy? "Well, it's all very impressive Alec and though you didn't ask my name is Grant Waugh." He offered me his hand. For a long moment I considered before I finally relented.

My palm was dwarfed in his. I was pleased to note the few callouses. Waugh wasn't the man to only delegate, apparently he did things for himself. My hands were rough, the kind of hands that belong to a man who worked with sweat and sinew.

"I haven't heard of you."

"Well, that's good thing isn't it? I don't know any organization that lasts very long if the general population knows about it." Ostensibly true.

He continued, "I was impressed by your driving and would like you to come and work for me."

I scoffed, "You could pay one of your posse to drive you around Mr. Waugh or hell really anyone." I was playing dumb. He was a man who drove himself to a meeting with a potential employee. He didn't need some glorified uber. He needed a getaway driver, a tracker, or a smuggler. I wasn't really keen to be any of them but I wanted to see if he'd spell out the job.

"Very funny Alec. You and I both know your expertise is going fast and beating everyone else. You like to win, something we have in common. I'd like to pay you to be in charge of some evasive maneuvers."

I scrubbed a hand through my hair long, it was dyed an icy blonde, "I'm never going to accept a job where I don't know what I'm doing, Waugh."

"I'd like to hire you on a long term basis to be a specialist when a situation demands and act as my principal mechanic and engineer when you're not driving." He could see I wasn't caving. "I want you to transport goods without police intervention and drive to evade law enforcement."

"Smuggler and getaway driver. Not really what I do." Technically true. I didn't do that anymore but I sure had in the past. I didn't bother mentioning the mechanical work.

"We both know that's well within your wheelhouse." That stopped me cold. He knew my name, my gang, and my criminal career.

"You seem to know a lot about me Mr. Waugh. How?"

"Our mutual acquaintance spoke very highly of your talent." It wasn't Dora. Dora didn't know any of this shit. "How long has it been since you've seen James?"