Samantha returned from the girls room. She looked around at the crowd, glanced at Frankie, then went to Darren’s side. “What’s happening?”
“Drag race!” someone shouted.
Samantha beamed. “Really? Who’s racing?”
Darren’s reply was low and surly. “Me and Frankie.”
“What’s the prize?” she asked.
Frankie smiled. “You are.”
4
Frankie was first to his machine, a spanking-new, matador-red, two-door, four-speed 1957 Chevy Bel Air hardtop. He’d bought the hot rod six weeks ago—next year’s model, first off the lot—and paid for her out of his royalty jackpot. Then he hired a race mechanic to tune, tighten, and tweak her to within an inch of perfection.
Everyone was jealous.
Frankie’s red-metal demon may not have been the fastest speedster on the open road, but in Frankie’s capable hands she handled like a dream. With that Chevy he could hug a curve like Don Juan at a bordello.
Darren had a different approach to racing. He did his own engine work, and he was one of the best. He’d retrofitted a Red Ram hemi engine into an old three-window Deuce Coupe with the suicide doors.
He knew how to work under a hood like Frankie under a skirt.
The two band mates hadn’t raced each other since Frankie smashed up his old wheels six weeks back. Darren’s lemon-yellow Deuce Coupe was probably faster than Frankie’s Chevy on the straightaways, and Darren had an expert touch on the downshift, but he was far too cautious on the curves. Darren didn’t have the guts to gamble, didn’t have the balls to push his machine hard when the time was right.
There was a reason that this treacherous stretch of highway—from the Last Stop Car Hop to the Devil’s Tunnel—was called “Blood Alley.”
A lot of teenagers had died here.
Darren and Frankie both knew the legends, had heard the ghost stories around an open campfire, beers in hand, girls clutching their guys for warmth and protection.
Frankie laughed at those stories, but Darren never did. The poor sap half-believed the crazy tales. His superstition dogged him on the road.
In a tight turn, Darren was yellower than his car.
Frankie knew better.
There were no phantoms on this road. There was no Highwayman, no ghost car, no army of spectral minions waiting in the darkness beyond the highway’s edge.
Blood Alley was just an urban legend the cops dreamed up to keep the crazy kids from causing trouble.
It was a desert highway, narrow, two lanes of dimly-painted blacktop, nice and straight on the valley floor, but when it reached into the mountains the road wound through the foothills till it plunged into the heart of the Devil’s Tunnel.
A cautious driver slowed into the curves.
The road had no paved shoulder for safety, no shoulder to cry on. If your tires left the road at 90 miles per hour, they’d hit the rough dirt hard and—even money—send your car rolling over sagebrush and cactus until coyotes found your bones.
Darren was cautious by nature. He’d play it safe on the mountain curves.
That was where Frankie would win.
Not just the race, but the girl too.
Frankie saw Samantha jump into the passenger side of Darren’s coupe. She slammed the door and leaned out the open window to blow Frankie a kiss.
“Good luck, Frankie!” She added a wink and a smile.
What a tease.
Frankie zipped up the front of his black leather jacket and buckled himself in. He started his engine, then pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. He settled into the eastbound lane.
Darren pulled his Deuce Coupe right up next to Frankie’s Chevy. The coupe idled in the opposing lane, facing the wrong way, but there was little danger here—theirs were the only two cars on the road for as far as the eye could see.
Side by side, Frankie and Darren stared each other down. They gunned their engines in neutral as teens gathered on both sides of the road, cheering and shouting.
A dark-haired short girl in a cheerleader outfit stepped between the two cars and raised her arms high.
“Ready?” she asked.
I’m always ready.
The cheerleader screamed, “One, two, three!”
She brought her arms down fast.
Frankie floored it and laid some rubber on the road.
With a thunderous roar, his car shot down the lane. The force of the acceleration pressed him hard against his seat and nearly knocked his teeth into his throat.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the cheerleader with her skirts up, blown by the wind from the cars. He caught a glimpse of her white panties.
That’s what it’s all about!
Frankie kicked it from first to second, second to third.
Darren’s car surged ahead of him.
Frankie noted it calmly. He wasn’t worried. The road was straight. That gave Darren the early edge.
Just keep pace, Frankie thought. Don’t give up too much ground, and you can take him on curves.
He shifted into fourth, trying to jump quickly to top speed, but by the time he hit the one mile marker Darren was a full car length ahead.
As Darren changed lanes—pulling directly in front of Frankie—Samantha leaned out the passenger window and waved back at the singer. Frankie kept his eye on the girl. She waved a yellow scarf and let it go.
Frankie saw the scarf flutter in the wind towards him.
He reached out and snatched it from the air. He pulled his hand back into the car, held the yellow scarf to his nose, and sniffed it. A rich, heady perfume. Sexy as hell. The scent drove him wild.
Frankie smiled and let out a holler. “Coming for you, Baby!”
The first curve slid up on them fast.
It veered left.
Darren slowed into it, but Frankie kept his foot pressed hard on the accelerator. His body swayed to the right with the force of the turn, but the tires held the road.
By the time they both came out of the curve and onto the next straightaway, Frankie had tightened the race by a good ten yards.
A light in Frankie’s rearview mirror caught his eye.
He glanced up into the mirror and saw another car behind him. It was far back—just a pair of headlights in the darkness of the desert—but approaching fast.
Real fast.
What the hell?
Darren and Frankie were zooming at top speed, pushing 120 miles per hour, yet the car behind them was closing the gap.
Nothing on the highway moves that fast.
Frankie blinked, and shook it off.
It made no sense. Some kind of illusion, like an oasis. The desert tricked your eyes, played with your mind. Frankie couldn’t afford to lose focus now. If he lost focus, he’d lose the game.
And the girl.
He ignored the headlights behind him and kept his gaze forward. This drag race was between him and Darren.
That’s all that matters, he thought. Just get the girl.
The next curve was made for Frankie—a long sweep, veering right, banked a little, but not enough for this screaming pace.
Darren’s brake lights sparked as he went into the curve. Darren slowed to maybe 80 miles per hour. He cut a wide arc, drifting into the outside lane.
Frankie chuckled to himself. He had no intention of touching his brakes. Not on this ride. Not with that hot little tease, Samantha, waiting for him at the finish line.
As he pushed 100 miles per hour into the curve, he thought of Samantha’s soft, white, smooth flesh, her plump little titties, her silky legs, and what lay between.
He stayed in the inside lane, cut a tight arc, and tried to slip past the Deuce Coupe. Frankie’s right two wheels lifted from the pavement. Threatened to flip.