Page 59 of Fighting Jacob

Chapter Thirty

Jacob

Several hours later than planned, I’m heading home from Mavericks. I hadn’t intended to stay so long, but it took more beer to get me out of my funk than I thought. I could blame Lola, but what’s the use? My decisions are mine to make, just as her decisions are hers.

My prolonged visit to Mavs wasn’t all bad. I was talking to Flynn, the lead singer of the band that plays at Mavs each Saturday night. His group, Wanting Wombats, originated from Australia. They flew here nine months ago with the hope of making it big. He wasn’t fazed when I said he’ll need a better band name before that ever happens. The one they have is fucking hideous.

“It is what it is, mate,” he said in his deep Australian accent.

I’ll have to arrange a time to watch them one night when I’m not fighting because Flynn and his bandmates seem like a good group of guys.

When I stop at a red traffic light, a dark blue sedan pulls up next to me. The revs of his engine gain my attention, much less the illegal tint on his windows. It’s so dark, I can’t see any of the occupants inside. I don't need to see him to understand his request, though. Street racing was huge in Ravenshoe a few years back. Its long straight roads were perfect for rev-heads wanting to disperse some testosterone.

With my veins still thick with adrenaline, I flatten my foot to the floor, accepting his challenge for a race. I’ve always loved the thrill of pushing my car to its absolute limit. It's why Noah and I traveled these streets many times during our youth. Noah never participated in drag races, but he was more than happy to support me.

As soon as the light turns green, I flatten my accelerator before completing a quick shift change into second gear. The blue sedan and I stay neck to neck as we speed through the desolate streets of Ravenshoe. When my gauge hits seven thousand RPMs, I shift gears again, my car surging in front of my rivals.

With victory within my grasp, I glance back at the blackened windows of my competitor. I've got a good twelve or so inches on him. He can't come back from this. I give him a playful wink before pushing my car to its absolute limit. She gives me everything she has, only stumbling when her ass end slides out.

What the fuck?

I glance over my shoulder, my heart rate picking up. My tires didn’t lose traction because of the furious speed. My competitor rammed me.

My grip on my steering wheel tightens when his bull bar veers toward the back-quarter panel of my car for the second time. This time, he hits me with enough force, my tires aren’t the only thing that loses traction with the road, my whole fucking car does.

As my car cartwheels down the street, I flatten my palms on the roof lining. My pride and joy crunching against the pavement is unlike anything I’ve heard before. It's nearly deafening, equally frightening and awe-inspiring. I didn't realize how tough she was until she became the only thing between me and death.

I don’t know how many flips we do before I spot a telephone pole in the corner of my eye. I brace for impact, sure I'm seconds from death. My passenger side door impacting with the pole immediately halts my car's cartwheeling action. It whiplashes back before teetering on its side for several seconds.

I pop open my eyes, surprised I haven’t been seriously injured. “Holy shit.”

When I detect the scent of gasoline, I yank on my door handle. It refuses to budge. I’m trapped in a mangled wreckage that’s leaking gas. This isn’t good.

Using my fists, I smash through the glass of the driver’s side window. Glass splinters my knuckles, but it could be ten times worse if the pole I’ve smashed into has an exposed wire. As I clamber out of my car, I notice the street is empty. The blue sedan I was racing is nowhere in sight.

Once I’m at a safe distance, I glance back at my car. Not one panel remains in its original condition. It’s completely totaled. After scanning the street to ensure I’m alone, I grab my phone and dial a recently called number.

Noah answers a few rings later. “Hey, Jake.”

“Hey, can I ask a favor?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

I try to think of a better way to explain my situation. When I fail to come up with anything, I keep it simple. “Can you come pick me up... and bring the car trailer with you?”

I’m only six months into my two-year probation period, so the last thing I want is a street racing charge added to my record.

The next morning, my dad comes barreling into my room, scaring the living daylights out of me. “What the hell happened to your car!” He smacks me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper. “Get out of bed, young man; you have some explaining to do.”

“Alright, alright, settle down!” I scamper out of bed, still half-asleep. When my dad’s eyes snap to my crotch, I cover my half-masted cock with my hands. I don’t know why he’s shocked. I’ve slept naked since I was fifteen. This is his punishment for kicking me out of bed so early.

When I hear chuckling, I peer past my dad’s shoulder. Noah is propped against my doorframe. His arms are crossed in front of his shirtless torso, and he’s smirking like a smug fuck.

He’s not so smug when my dad grumbles, “If I find out you and Noah are competing in illegal street racing again, you won’t know what hit you.”

I balk, but my ripple is barely felt through Noah’s shock. He bolts down the hallway so fast, Mexico just recorded an earthquake. My plan to give him hell for his cowardly ways flies out the window when my dad devotes his attention back to me.

“Did you think I didn’t know?”

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