Page 134 of Crash Course

Shay

There’s nowhere better to be alone with your thoughts than a garage. The focus, the repetition, the physicality.

I’m bent over an engine, socket wrench in hand, when Keane comes by.

“Surprised to see you here tonight.” He wipes his hands on a rag in his belt.

“Dad wasn’t feeling well, so I offered to fill in.”

Keane shakes his head. “He’s lucky to have you. I don’t know anyone else who could’ve done school and everything else.”

I straighten, rolling my shoulders. “The first half of the semester, I was running on fumes.” That and guilt, but I don’t say that part.

“Doing great things takes a big effort. You need to be a little tireless, a little insane.” He jerks his chin toward the other end of the garage. “Let me show you something.” Keane walks toward the restricted part of the garage and swipes a key card. The door unlocks with a soft beep.

I follow him into the second part of the building.

Inside is the F1 car for next year, crouched low like a wildcat ready to spring. Millions of dollars of engineering. Exposed carbon and relentless efficiency, ready to wreak havoc on the track.

“One person looks at this, he sees metal and parts. What do you see?”

I step closer and run a hand over the smooth bodywork, my breath catching.

Freedom, I would have said last summer.

“Possibility,” I say instead.

Keane nods. “Why do people push themselves that hard? For me, it’s doing things together we can’t do ourselves.” He taps his chest. “I can’t build this car. But we—” He gestures back toward the bays. “We can build something faster than the wind. And for me, that’s the point of it all.”

“Pummeling nature into submission with technology and engineering?” I ask.

He laughs. “Doing something that’s never been done before with people who’re just crazy enough to think we can.”

My body thrums with his words. The spark deep in my chest flares, but this time it’s not only the possibility of winning.

Maybe Keane’s right. There’s more to this than any one person.

Luca can’t make ARI, and he can’t break it, either.

After my shift, I drive the Mustang across town in the dark to the Ashfords’ complex. It’s nearly midnight, but when I texted Jameson, he answered right away.

I hit the buzzer and realize it’s the first time I’ve asked to get in.

The gates swing wide.

Beyond, the driveway is illuminated by lanterns. I pull to a stop outside the garage.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask when I step inside.

Jameson’s bent over the Stingray, his shoulders straining against the black T-shirt.

He rounds the car, going to the workbench to rifle through the drawers. “I need to be better tomorrow. Better than I ever have been.”

“You will be.” I cross to him, put my hand on his arm. “You’re Jameson Ashford. No one drives like you.”

“It’s the only thing I’m good for.”

He pulls away and turns his back to me.