Page 108 of Vile Bastards
“What do you want, Chet Jr. Cody Archer?” I ask, purposefully flinging his full name at his face and causing Bohnes to chuckle.
“I was hoping we could race, actually.” He gestures back at the Pontiac, which is clearly no match for the Pantera, but again, Ash did promise he was bringing a rich idiot to the track for me. Wish granted. I need about twenty-five K out of this guy to be comfortable, so here goes nothing.
“What do you want?” I ask, crossing my arms and gesturing at him with my chin. Our grand marshal for the night—it’s one of my own crew, ADHD Juana, as she calls herself—bounces on her toes and drums her fingers against the clipboard’s surface, as if she’s been summoned by the promise of one, last race.
All the other slots for tonight have already been claimed. Even now, I hear the distinct growl of engines down at the track, a sea of expensive but poorly tuned Oak Valley Prep cars gearing up to race a rachet-looking but undoubtedly impressive ‘69 Chevy Impala SS.
It belongs to one of my girls, stolen from a junkyard in the middle of the night. It was a frame with no wheels, no glass, no class. Now, it’s a powerhouse that crushes middle-class brats, wealthy heiresses, and cocky rich boys into the mud.
During the late sixties, car buyers—previously drunk on full-size cars with big-block power—began a love affair with less weighty, tricked-out muscle cars with enough power to bang gears and still flip a finger at the National Hot Rod Association. That’s this car, the Impala, sporting four-hundred-twenty-five horsepower and a redline around six-thousand RPM.
Beautiful.
Kick some ass, Shirley, I think as Cody pretends to hedge and muse on the subject.
“A date,” he offers out, and my brow twitches. “No sex.” He laughs and holds up both hands, palms out. “Just you, me, the classic car show in Junction City, and some greasy hot dogs from a roadside cart.”
“My girl’s got enough fuckboys as it is,” Bastian interrupts. “Are you blind? Did you not just see her get engaged? Go home to your douchebag developer daddy.” I offer Basti a warning look, and he goes silent.
I turn back to Cody.
“You got money?” I ask him, because really, the Pontiac Trans Am he’s just rolled up in is only worth a fraction of either the Miura or the Cobra. I’m guessing around … two hundred K, thereabouts. Thing is, only six-hundred and ninety-seven of these cars were ever built, and it feels terribly wasted on a guy named Chet Jr. Cody Archer (yeah, I’m not gonna stop with the name jokes, sorry). “Put a hundred grand on the line, and we’ve got a deal.”
So, I only need twenty-five, but it’s never the wrong day to hustle a trust fund brat. My girls titter and shuffle as Cody struggles to keep up the All-American Boy act.
“A hundred? Aw, man.” He scratches at the back of his head and laughs. Be careful with this one, Scar, I warn myself, because while Aspen slithered around like a black mamba, a clear and obvious threat, Cody is terrifyingly adept at pretending to be human. “My dad’s sorta pissed over my grades this year.” He laughs softly. “He had to build an entire new wing at Bornstead University to get me in, ya know? I’m just home for winter break.”
He turns his blue-eyed gaze over to the crowd, and I see several of my girls wink and wet their lips. Hard nipples galore abound behind slutty tops, and I know I’ve got a problem here. If Cody makes his rounds in Prescott, I’ll have even more trouble on my hands.
And I’ve got enough to deal with, ya know what I mean?
“Sorry, no deal then.” I move to turn away when Cody calls out to me.
“Twenty?” he asks, smirking, as if he thinks I’m so easily bought.
“Aspen paid fifty for the privilege,” I throw over my shoulder, walking off through the icy mud in my boots. True is here, along with her crew of loyal girls. She shrinks away from me as I pass by, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m truly the one shrinking away from her. That is, the real-life and very convenient metaphor that she represents.
“Yeah, but Aspen was racing for pussy.” Cody is smiling when I look back at him, as if he’s not twistin’ my nip here. I narrow my eyes on him. I’m going to eat you and your pretty Pontiac for breakfast, bitch. “All I want is a date. Two hours, tops. How about we race for twenty and call it done?”
“Make it thirty and you’ve got a deal.” I turn around, putting my hands on my hips and waiting for the inevitable acceptance of fate.
Cody knows he can’t keep haggling without looking like a cheap ass. His smile cracks a little, like broken glass.
