No Calvin Hall.
No Daytona. Just me and the car—a fleeting escape.
But no drive lasted forever, and as the darkened streets of New Orleans came into view, reality came racing back in. Thecity lights flickered like distant stars, a bittersweet reminder of both home and the pressures that came with it. I found myself turning instinctively toward Bourbon Street. Gator’s place had always been a refuge when life veered off course, a place where the whiskey flowed as freely as the advice.
The parking lot behind The Bourbon Bar was nearly empty as I pulled in, the familiar neon sign casting its warm glow over the brick façade. I killed the engine, took a deep breath, and stepped out, letting the humid air wrap around me like an old, heavy coat. Inside, the muffled sound of music and laughter reached my ears, drawing me toward the one place where I might find some clarity—or at least a cold drink.
“Well, lookee what the cat dragged in.” My cousin Gator smiled from behind the bar. For as long as I could remember, The Bourbon Bar had been in Gator’s family. A staple on Bourbon Street, the bar took in many tourists throughout the year. With good food, good music and the whiskey flowing, The Bourbon Bar was the place to be.
Walking over, I sat on a stool, and my cousin handed me a cold beer.
“Thought you’d be at the track gettin’ ready for your next race.”
“Not medically cleared yet,” I muttered, taking a swig of the cold brew.
Gator leaned over, wiping down the bar as he gave me a knowing look. “Heard through the grapevine that Ansel’s bringing in some heavy heat.”
I exhaled sharply, my fingers tightening around the bottle. “Word travels fast.”
“You’re a local legend, C.C.,” Gator said with a grin. “Every soul from here to Talladega’s got their ears perked for your next move. But Calvin Hall? That’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”
“Yeah, well, some ghosts you just can’t shake,” I replied.
Gator nodded thoughtfully, setting the rag aside. “Just don’t let it eat you alive, cousin. Racing’s tough enough without carrying grudges around the track.”
I studied the amber liquid in my bottle, the words swirling in my mind but refusing to settle. The roar of engines was my church, my sanctuary, and the thought of Calvin Hall standing in my pit threatened to shatter that fragile peace.
“Gator, what’s the fastest way to forget?” I asked finally, tipping my beer toward him.
Gator’s laughter boomed through the bar, catching the attention of the handful of patrons scattered around. “Same as always, C.C. Music, drinks, and maybe findin’ some trouble to get into. But if it’s real forgiveness you’re after, well, that’s a whole other ballgame.”
I let his words hang in the air, the faint strains of jazz filtering in from the street outside. For now, this cold beer and the familiar hum of Bourbon Street would have to do. Tomorrow was another day, and whether I liked it or not, Calvin Hall was barreling toward my life like a car with no brakes.
Chapter Three
Trip
Rosewood, Virginia...
Sitting at a table in the Rosewood Country Club, I twirled the brandy snifter in my hand as I waited for Ansel to arrive. I didn’t want to be here, and I sure as hell didn’t want to see my former friend.
The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation filled the room as I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket, a vain attempt to keep my restlessness at bay. Rosewood was a far cry from the grit and grind of the racetrack, but it carried its own kind of tension—a polished, suffocating weight that settled over me like a too-tight collar.
When Ansel finally appeared, his stride was as confident and calculating as I remembered. He was dressed to the nines, his bespoke suit a stark contrast to the grease-stained denim of our glory days. He slid into the chair opposite me with the ease of someone who’d never once felt out of place here.
“Calvin,” he greeted smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he leaned back, surveying me with that same unreadable smirk. “You look... well.”
I didn’t bother returning the compliment. “Let’s get to it, Ansel. What do you want?”
He chuckled, swirling his own glass of amber liquid before lifting it in a mock toast. “Always straight to business. Some things never change.”
“No,” I said, my gaze steady. “Some things don’t.”
The air between us thickened, heavy with the weight of unspoken grievances and years of silence. Ansel’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of the man I used to trust—the one who used to have my back before ambition got in the way.
“Alright,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft thud. “I need you back on my team.”
The words hung there, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the layers of polished civility like a knife. I stared at him, a dozen retorts flashing through my mind, each angrier than the last. But all I managed was a disbelieving laugh, low and bitter.
