Page 35 of Vile Bastards
Even though I know I’m fine from a logical standpoint, my body reacts to the stimuli.
My palms are sweating so profusely that my riding gloves feel wet, and I’m sucking in these deep, gasping breaths. Hyperventilating, that’s what I’m doing. I can’t breathe, and I can’t see straight through the white splotches in my vision.
That’s when Widow blasts past me, overtaking me on the outside of the track and gaining a strong lead. Meanwhile, there I am, losing my goddamn mind over the thing I love most in the world.
If I can’t race, if I can’t win, if I can’t—
Calm yourself, Scar. You’re okay. You lived through the night, you’re still here, the boys you like are still here.
Yet, I know that Lemon isn’t. Lemon didn’t wake up after that horrifying ordeal. She disappeared through death’s doorway to the other side. She’s gone, and I was right there that night, and I could’ve saved her.
I almost stop the car right then and there.
The Pantera’s speed drops drastically as I release the gas, allowing the car to slow without pressing the brake. I’m still more or less in control of it, but I’m not making any efforts to catch up to Widow.
It gets even more difficult to breathe, and I realize I have two choices: I can either force my muscles to relax and suck in some oxygen or I can pass out. It’s like that feeling at the top of a rollercoaster, right before the car goes rolling down the ride’s steepest incline. Don’t do this; you’re not supposed to be here; this is a bad idea. Those emotions circle through the mind, but logically, you know there’s nothing you can do, nowhere you can go.
The drop, and the adrenaline, they’re inevitable.
With a scream like I’m at the top of a fucking rollercoaster, I hit the throttle and the Pantera lunges forward, hugging the inside of the track in an effort to make up for lost time. I’m slipping and sliding, and I realize that under normal circumstances, I’d slow down, but not today.
Today, I need to let the rollercoaster drop. It’s an inevitability that I’m going to race. I can’t run away from it.
I smoke Widow, and end the race with a dramatic flourish, leaving the winner’s circle and heading for the hill where he once jumped the Stingray and damn near killed us both. As soon as I catch air, everything goes still, and I’m able to take one, single, cleansing breath.
Once I hit the ground, I’m having another panic attack, but that’s okay. If I pushed through it before, I can do it again. I’ll do it as many times as it takes to cleanse myself of death’s frigid grip.
Emma Jean Thompson is as pretty and perky as she ever is.
“Makes me tired just lookin’ at her,” I murmur under my breath as Bohnes looks around the coffee shop we’ve just entered like a bat might examine a fluorescent-lit gymnasium that he accidentally flew into.
He’s actively hunched in his sweater, hood up, hands tucked. His blue eyes take in the smattering of high school and college aged students with their laptops out, sitting in uncomfortable chairs in the industrial chic space.
There’s a wall of ‘reclaimed’ wood, and some random exotic plants, but the rest of the place is made up of concrete floors, white walls, and Edison bulbs fucking everywhere. What is it with city people and friggin’ Edison bulbs? Give me a cheap-ass strand of white Christmas lights and we’re set from December to December. Damn straight. Most people in Prescott don’t take theirs down until a year or two after the last lightbulb goes out.
Sometimes, they don’t take them down at all and just sort of tack new strands over the top. Welcome to the Southside, my friends.
“What is this place?” Bohnes hisses, lifting his lip at a student that turns to stare at him. “What are these … things?” He reaches out and pinches the shoulder of some girl’s baggy sweatshirt.
She lets out a yelp as I carefully pry Bohnes’ hand off of her.
“Sorry, he forgot to take his meds,” I say, and she blanches, snatching up her laptop and moving to the live-edge wood counter against the wall of windows. Yikes. We’ve entered some sort of young yuppies convention.
No Strong Community Without Strong, Courageous Youth.
That’s what the sign on the wall says, and I see that everyone working in the coffee shop is an, um, youth? I can tell by the absolutely stellar service.
“Bus your own table?” Widow asks, staring at the sign on his left. “The fuck? People pay to come to restaurants and then still have to clean their own table? I thought that was the point of going out to eat?” He watches as a waiter passes by with a tray of deconstructed chai. That is, there’s some tea in a small pot, the milk is separate, the spices are in tiny jars. You have to mix it yourself. It’s … yeah, it’s interesting.
