"If one day the speed kills me, do not cry because I was smiling ."

Hey, so this is probably going to be the hardest fanfiction I've ever written. I'm a huge fan of Paul Walker and the whole series of Fast & Furious. I'm not the biggest car enthusiast, but I appreciate a great car, whether classic American muscle or import. I've seen all 7 movies at least three times, and can recite almost every line. I've been watching these movies since 2001.

I write these fanfiction stories to give the characters the happy ending they never got to have. I find myself getting very emotionally attached to these fictional characters, and when their story doesn't end the right way, creating that way is the only way I can let go.

My first fanfiction is based on Scandal.

My second fanfiction is based on Sons of Anarchy, which has my heart.

And my third fanfiction is brand new, is based on Fast & Furious.

My heart cannot get over Paul's death. His F&F movies have become my favorites, and his acting is just superb. Knowing that he is dead…. I just can't get over it. I balled for at least an hour after seeing Furious 7 for the first time. Paul was such a great guy, it's clear to see that through his costars for Fast & Furious series.

So this fanfiction will be based around him, with occasional POV's from other characters, but it will be his point of view.

There are some characters I'm making up, like Brian's mom & dad, which means I'm making up their names. If their real names are mentioned in the movies, please tell me. Thanks!

This fanfiction will also be dedicated in his loving memory.

FOR PAUL

I've been racing ever since I can remember.

When I was three, I was racing the kid next door on my feet.
When I was five, I was racing the kid next door on my tricycle.
When I was nine, I was racing kids from school on my bike to and from school.
When I was sixteen, I got my first car. And you sure as hell know I started racing that every chance I got. It was a piece of shit 1970 Impala, but that wasn't going to stop me from racing it.
When I became a cop, I started racing my squad car against other cops in my district.

I was addicted to the speed.

I walked out of my bedroom, not expecting to see his bags packed.

I was just a kid then, wondering where my daddy was going.

"You told me he would be napping, Sarah. Damn it." He said to my mom, trying to whisper to prevent me from hearing.

"He deserves a goodbye, Carl."

I remember standing there, teddy bear in hand, wondering why my mom and dad were whispering back and forth while staring at me. I remember he unhappily nodded, and then walked over to me.

"Hey Brian, come here."

"Daddy, are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah buddy, I gotta go."

"Why are you leaving, Daddy? Stay with me and mommy!" I remember pleading with the man. How stupid of me.

"You'll understand why when you're older. I need you to be a good boy for mommy, listen to what she says. Your mom says I'm too addicted to the speed, and she's probably right. I'll tell you about it when I see you again. Bye Brian." He tussled his hand in my hair, picked up his bags, and walked out the door.

Even then I knew he was lying. Even then I knew I would never see him again.

I was two then, and now at 18 I still haven't seen his face since.

Maybe if he hadn't left, I wouldn't be doing this right now. Maybe it's because of him that I have a need for speed. Maybe it's my way of trying to get his attention, if he's even still alive. Maybe it's me trying to be like him.

But right now, I really don't care.

The only thing that matters right now is the street, and the car that races on it.

I don't give a shit about anything else other than the speed.

Screw him.

"Brian, you ready? Let's go, I got a hundred dollars on the line. Let's go!" My buddy said as he tapped his hand on the car, trying to pump me up.

I wasn't concerned about his money, or anything else for that matter. The only thing I was concerned about my foot on the clutch and my right hand on the gears.

I closed my eyes, taking a breath.

This wasn't my first, and sure as hell isn't going to be my last. But, before each race I can't help but think the adrenaline and the rush is going to kill me.

The only thing that matters right now is the street, and the car that races on it.

I opened my eyes to see the hot chick raise the flag, and I hit the gas, never looking back.

My buddy George who I first met in fifth grade, invited me over to his house after school one day. It just so happened that George and his family lived about their garage. On the way to the back staircase, we passed a 1966 Shelby Mustang his dad was working on. I was fascinated. I didn't even play with George that day, I spent the rest of the afternoon with his dad, watching him fix the car. It was beautiful. Ever since that day I've been coming his dad's garage, learning everything I can about cars and how they work.

I came back to his house a few days later and played with George.

"Hey George, what new cars are your dad working on?"

"I don't know. I don't really care about that stuff." Once those words came out of George's mouth, I knew we were never going to be friends forever.

I went over to George's house twice a week; I liked George, I really did, but honestly I only kept going over to his house so I can see the cars.

And I was right. We had a falling out in eighth grade, and ever since, our friendship has never been the same.

But that didn't stop me from going over to his family's garage. Luckily, his dad liked me and he loved that someone was in love with cars as much as him. It was obvious then, that he was disappointed that his son didn't care for cars, I think he was glad that he was able to pass down his love for cars, even if it wasn't his own son. Maybe that's why he kept inviting me over long after George and I had drifted apart.

Once I got mom's old car, Isabel the Impala, the deal was I had to find work. And I didn't mind, that meant I would have my own money to invest in the car.

The first place I wanted to drive, was to the garage, Car Haven & Garage.
I later learned his dad named it so people would know that your cars are safe here, and so was I. Over the years it had become my safe haven, too.

"Hey, look at you! Got yourself a pair of wheels!"

"Meet Isabel, mom's old 1970 Impala."

"Hey man, wheels are wheels. Nice to meet you, Isabel."

"So Jerry, listen. Since I have a car, mom says I need job. And I was hoping I could work—" I was in the middle of asking him for a job, when I was cut off.

"Stop there Brian. I've been waiting for this day for a while now. You're hired, of course. Go grab your work shirt in the back."

Slowly, I started to make enough money to start building up Isabel.

Jerry, George's dad, had taught me well. I slowly, but surely, had built up a small returning customer base, who left good tips.

I started to customize Isabel, so she was really mine. All my money went towards the car.

Mom paid for my insurance, gas and everything else was all up to me.
I had a money jar, where 80 percent of each pay check and 100 percent of all tips went.

Once I had enough money, the first thing I bought was a new engine. I wanted one that was loud, and one that was fast.

I had better speakers installed, exhaust pipes. I had it repainted royal blue, which was way better than the ugly brown it was before hand. I ordered new clutches on the regular; the fast speeds and constant shifting was always causing me to replace it.

Isabel had transformed from an old, rusted out, slow, piece of shit to an almost-new, shiny, fast, thing of beauty.

And as my car improved, so did my driving.

There were tons of empty parking lots in our community due to the economy, which meant I had miles of space to become a better driver. I had to teach myself how to drive shift while going 90 miles per hour, how to drift, how to counter-steer, how to successfully do an E-brake turn, etc. On my days off, which were rare, I drove to some of these empty lots and taught myself how to drive fast. No one was around to teach me, correct me, or guide me, I was improvising; which is what I do best.

That ideology of improvising my driving, carried over into the other aspects of my life.

I decided at a young age to not take life too seriously. I didn't want to end up a bitter man, I wanted to enjoy life for everything it was.

Mom made sure I had the grades to graduate, but we both knew I wasn't going to college. It had nothing to offer me; my passion was cars. I had experienced my first adrenaline rush from driving at a young age, and there was no going back. The dream at 18 years old was to open up my own car garage, just like Jerry.

The only thing I took seriously was my car.

When it came to girls, I didn't have any pre-set plan. That wasn't who I was, I would say whatever came to my mind. But back then, girls were never really on my mind. Mom always said how girls who required lots of money to have, were never worth it. She always said to put your money where you can see it, and that was in Isabel.

Isabel represented my freedom. With her, I was able to go anywhere I dreamed. The adrenaline high was intoxicating, and once I had it, I refused to let it go. Nothing made me happier than drifting around tight corners, barely making it out with a scratch.

I didn't want to live my life by the books. Ever since I was young, my life has never been the picture perfect family every one dreams of. Once I embraced that my family was different, I never wanted to be normal. Normal seemed boring, and that wasn't I wanted for myself. I wanted to live a life worth remembering. I wasn't the type of guy for a 9-5 job, to become domesticated. I was in love with the open road, and the wind in my face.

Maybe that's why I started illegally street racing.
When it was time to grow up, maybe that's why I became a cop.
Maybe that's why I quit being a federal agent and became an outlaw.
I was addicted to the speed, just like my father, and maybe that's why I vowed to never be like him.
Maybe that's why I was loved being a father.
Maybe that's why I'm addicted to the speed.