Page 46 of The Charlie Method

The name is emblazoned in bold letters. Below the sign, a chain-link fence surrounds the perimeter, lined with a few security lights.

Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I park next to a familiar pickup truck. Dante’s.

For a moment, I experience the usual flicker of trepidation about being here alone so late at night. But I’m as careful as I can be. I text Dante to let him know I’m here, then stay in the car with the doors locked until I see him exit the building. He always comes outside to escort me in.

Hopefully, any murderers lurking nearby will take one look at Dante and be smart enough not to mess with him. He might not have the height, but he’s got the bulk, the tats, and the nasty scowl. If I didn’t know what a soft teddy bear he is on the inside, the sight of him would definitely make me cross to the other side of the street.

I get out of the car and step into the cool night air that carries the faint scent of gasoline and rubber.

“Hey, princess,” Dante says, slinging one bulky arm around me. “How was the drive?”

“Uneventful.” I lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

“Missed you,” he tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “But you chose a good night to stop in. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Anticipation tickles my stomach. Dante’s surprises are the best kind of surprises.

I take his hand and practically drag him toward the entrance, eliciting a rumble of laughter from him. Every time Dante laughs, it sounds like it’s coming from deep in his chest.

We make our way through the main building and emerge out the back. The grandstand is partially lit by the floodlights, with most areas plunged into deep shadow, and the empty seats look so creepy in the darkness. To the left of the main track is the smaller go-kart track, its winding curves barely visible in the night.

Dante and I bypass both tracks and head to a well-lit area on the right.

AKA my personal heaven.

Dante’s family doesn’t just own a racetrack—they also run a side business that provides a luxury experience for customers who dream of driving high-end sports cars. I’m talking Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porsches. Dante told me this service makes up nearly half of the track’s income.

And he lets me take advantage of it for free.

If he weren’t the owner’s son, he would totally get fired for this.

“How’s your week been?” he asks.

“Busy.”

I complain about midterms for a few minutes, and he indulges me, because he’s that kind of friend, the one who will show enthusiasm in your interests even if they bore him to death, just because he knows they mean something to you.

We met at a pool party in Boston when I was a sophomore. I went with a few girls from class, but they wanted to leave early, so I stuck around, activated Charlie mode, and flirted with a cute guy on the front porch. Cute Guy was midsentence when Dante pulled up in an Alfa Romeo like a fucking boss. I ditched the boy and went to admire the car. Dante asked if I wanted to go for a ride, and the rest is history. I left Boston that night with an adrenaline high and a gay best friend whose family owns an honest-to-God racetrack.

The first time Dante invited me here after hours, he was so paranoid it was almost comical. He sat in the passenger side of the white McLaren convertible, fists of anxiety clenched against his thighs. He refused to let me drive faster than thirty miles an hour until he decided whether I was worthy of second gear. With each visit, he increased my speed limit, and these days, he has no qualms about letting me zoom—solo—around the track.

My parents would kill me if they knew I was racing cars in an empty racetrack at midnight, but I’m a safe driver. I never go faster than I can handle, and Dante insists we wear helmets even though we technically don’t have to.

“I’m so stressed,” I sigh, my griping session finally coming to an end.

“Well, I’m about to make you forget all that nonsense for a while.” Dante grins. “Come on. You’re gonna love this.”

He leads me down the row of luxury cars in the lot, their sleek, polished bodies gleaming under the lights.

Excitement bubbles up inside me when we stop in front of a car I’ve never seen here before. A cherry-red Corvette Stingray that looks like it was designed to break every speed limit in existence.

I moan out loud.

Dante shudders. “Jesus Christ, princess. I’mgay, and that sex moan just made my dick twitch.”

“I want to marry this car.” My voice barely contains my thrill. “She’s the one I want to drive tonight.”

“Figured you’d say that. Just don’t go too crazy, all right?”

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