Page 16 of Until You're Breathless

When I walk in, I see Kayla Hartman bent over the toilet bowl, doing much the same as I feel like I’m going to be doing in a minute. Her face is solemn, like she’d give anything to take the moment back, to not be so stupid, and most of all, to not feel so horrible. “I need to puke but it won’t come up.”

“Yeah, I’m there, too.”

“Were you playing quarters?”

“Yeah.”

“Here. I’ll take the sink. I only had soup for dinner. And the other bathroom up here is too far.”

“Thanks.”

She barely makes it to the sink and tosses her cookies. Seeing and hearing her sets me off and I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. We puke in unison for a couple of minutes when she lifts her head and walks, with effort, to the door. “I need to lie down.”

I crawl to the door. She climbs, limb by limb, up the bed, and then sticks her hand out to help me. My head hits the pillow of the unmade bed. “It’s so loud.” She whines.

I pull the covers over her. “Here. Maybe this will help.”

“Thanks.” She breathes, almost whimpering, she feels so sick.

We’re both breathing into each other’s faces with our eyes closed. She smells like a toilet, and I wager I do, too. That’s when the back door opens and the brightest fucking light in the world shines in, and I see the biggest asshole on the planet on the other side of it. I’d rather puke than see him again, but then I see Bowie coming in from the bathroom. I try to tell her that I’m sick and to bring me some water, but she just gasps and runs away. Probably because I smell like a trucker. But who knows. About three seconds later the world turns black...

I don’t see Bowie again for ten years...

“Hey, my man. How’s it hangin’?” Axl says, sitting on his front porch, drinking coffee. “Why, I can’t tell you, but I knew I’d see you this morning.”

After I shake his hand, I sit down next to him. “You’re so full of shit. You know exactly why I’m here.”

“You found out about Kruger, didn’t you.” He surmises.

“Yeah.”

“You want coffee?”

“Na. I’ll have a cup with Rush when I go there next.” I look at him. “Do you ever sleep?”

“I could askyouthe same thing. And, no, I don’t. Too much to do and too little time to do it in...that’s my problem.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s the same old story, my friend. Engines that don’t cut the mustard. I believe you sent me one a long time ago, but we never did much with it.”

“I told you, buddy, I can’t do business with you.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. The sun is coming up at the horizon, which is a perfect view from his porch. He’s got trees lining either side of his mansion, but the center pathway is clear, and it’s a perfect view to the small launching pad he has at the marina from there as well. In his spare time, Axl loves to boat, since, like me, he was born and raised in North Carolina. “Tell me again why that is?”

“Because you can’t keep your goddamn nose clean, that’s why.” I chuckle.

He waves. “Ah, bullshit. A few indiscretions here and there never hurt.”

I lift my brows. “A few? Shit, you have no filter, Axl. The only time you keep your mouth shut and stay out of trouble is when you’re behind the wheel.”

He chuckles. “I get bored when I’m not racing. Look at all the fucking money I have. I’m not hungry anymore. Except for making the perfect race car. And don’t ask me to work with that asshole Boston Kruger, because comments like that will have you out on your ass.”

“Sopracticeracing.”

“I’ve got a fucking track in the back, and goddamn raceways here. Shit, North Carolina is the NASCAR capital, my friend.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Axl. I was born here, too.”

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