Disclaimer: I don't own Community.

Advanced Studies in Automotive Care

Chapter 2

APOV

For as long as I can remember, racing has been a part of my life. As a kid I would watch my dad tear down dirt roads, pushing other drivers into ditches and making 180 degree turns at the drop of a hat. He was the best in the Tampa underground racing community, and from the time I could reach the pedals, he was training me to carry on the family name.

I started racing competitively when I was fourteen. The whole thing was underground, and there were lots of unlicensed, underage drivers like me. Our parents were so deeply embedded in the circuit that it was unthinkable that their children wouldn't eventually become part of it. I still can't remember if it was my choice to get behind the wheel, or if my dad put me there and coached me along until I became just as embroiled in it as he was.

I was seventeen when I watched my dad and most of his team get arrested at a race. Back then the Tampa team was headed up by Leonard Rodriguez, and old white guy with absolutely no Mexican heritage to speak of. I asked him about it once—he said it was about street cred (Leonard Butts didn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of his competitors).

Once Leonard, Dad and the rest of the crew had been put in jail, a new leader came in to take over. His name was Alex Jones, but we all called him Starburns (after his star-shaped sideburns, of course). Starburns was a complete moron. He'd been the kingpin of an international drug cartel for years, and only got involved in racing to expand his criminal enterprise. I considered leaving the team when Starburns took control, but I didn't want to stop racing, and the only alternative was to join the rival team. My dad would have had a heart attack if he found out I'd gone with Tampa East, so I sucked it up and became Starburn's star driver.

Starburns was truly a disgusting human being, in every sense of the word. He liked me as soon as he met me, and even though I was only seventeen, he started bringing me with him everywhere. He tried to dictate my every move—who I could talk to, when I could race, what I could wear. He was the most domineering person I'd ever met, but I stuck with him out of the sick sense of loyalty that my dad had engrained in me from a young age.

I didn't start sleeping with Starburns until I was eighteen. It was his 'birthday present' to me. I didn't really want to sleep with him, but I was young and naive and didn't know how to say no. When he started to make moves, I had no idea how to respond other than to just let him do what he wanted with me. For the next three years he kept me at his side, racing (and winning) constantly, and then fucking me to 'celebrate'.

It wasn't all bad, though. Despite how incredibly disgusted I was with Starburns, sleeping with someone that gross actually opened my eyes to a skill I wasn't aware I had: the ability to shut off, and do whatever was necessary to get a lag up. After I started sleeping with him, my racing got better because I realized I didn't care if the other driver made it out alive. I started seducing other drivers whenever I thought I could gain an advantage from their affections. It didn't hurt that I was classically beautiful, and that my schoolgirl routine was so effective on so many unsuspecting saps.

Ultimately, it was Starburns' creepy obsession with me that made me into the person I am today: ruthless, detached, and acutely aware of every leering idiot I cross.

That said, I wasn't the least bit disappointed when his showboating got him and the majority of his cronies arrested. They tried to take me too, but just like every other guy I met, no one saw me as a threat.

After the Tampa racing scene had been taken down by the cops for a second time, I began to realize that there would be no way to rebuild it in the near future. The police were watching all of us, just waiting for us to slip up so they could take the rest in. Eventually, I began looking for alternatives, because even though the Tampa scene had dried up, I still felt the itch. Racing had become my identity, and if I couldn't do it there, I was going to find somewhere else that I could.

I'd heard rumblings from some friends that things were heating up in Colorado. There were a few duelling teams that had become renowned in the underground for being ruthless, and their drivers were considered to be some of the best. It didn't take long after my name had been cleared for me to pack up and head west. I didn't know who I'd join up with when I got there, but anything was better than sitting back and waiting for the police to come up with an excuse to arrest me.

As it turned out, the folks in Colorado were aware of me as I was of them. It took about three hours after I rolled into town for the first offer to come in. Ben Chang— sorry, El Tigre— headed up the second most successful team in the circuit, but he was convinced that with me, they could take the top spot. Their archrival was run by some guy named Winger, who Tigre described as tall, dark and handsome, but fiercely gay and balding.

As soon as I started driving for Tigre, I knew I had made the right decision by coming to Colorado. I was wiping the floor with the competition, and despite being a creepy old Asian guy, I actually got along quite well with Tigre. He was endlessly complimentary without being gross, and he thanked me constantly for choosing to join up with him.

The other teams, as it turned out, were a cinch to beat. There was a small team out of eastern Greendale that had a bunch of newbie drivers who didn't stand a chance, but the real competition was supposedly from the team out of the north and west, led by Winger. I wasn't sure what Tigre had been so concerned about with this team—I wiped the floor with the first four drivers I'd crossed. The first had been a fat guy named Neil—he'd ended up in a lake. Next was a small bald man who asked everyone to call him Dean—he lost control coming out of a curve and smashed into the guardrail. Check and Check.

The next two were tougher. The first was a black guy who easily overtook me at first, managing to get up to an insane 215 mph in about ten seconds, but then he got cocky and lost it on the 180 at the back of the course, spinning out and losing all momentum. I overtook him without too much hassle. The second was a blond chick—gorgeous, and ruthless. She tried to use my own tactic of forcing people into the ditch, but she was way too slow. Although she made an effortless 180, by that point I was halfway back to the starting point.

There was no way this team was as good as Tigre claimed they were. If their best was the blond and the black guy, our team would be taking the lead in no time.

I had been racing in Greendale for about two months before I finally laid eyes on the guy that had Tigre so riled up. Winger hadn't bothered attending my races against his four drivers, so I hadn't had an opportunity to size him up. That changed not long after I schooled the blond. Winger showed up for my race against a cocksure asshole from the third-place team in the circuit. I knew it was him as soon as I saw him. He looked exactly like Tigre described: he was tall, dark and handsome. His hair was purposefully askew, and his sunglasses were firmly in place. He looked like he'd stepped out of a Gap ad—very much out of place among the betters and grunges that frequent races.

After the race, I was acutely aware of him sizing me up as I talked with the others in attendance. He watched in the same way so many other men had watched me before, and I realized that Tigre had been wrong about one thing: Winger wasn't gay, he was just another dirty old man who thought he had me all figured out. They were my favourite kind.

Fucking Winger was as much fulfilling a personal vendetta against assholes as it was a prudent business move. I figured if I could knock him off his pedestal just a little bit, then I would have all the more power over him and his pathetic little group of amateurs.

The look on his face as I walked away was worth much more than the price of admission. And, I'll admit, the lay was pretty damn good too. I could feel him dripping out of me and onto my seat as I drove away.

When I returned to home base—an old warehouse on the outskirts of town—Tigre had already heard about my win. He met me at the door with a smile.

"There's my girl!" he greeted, pulling me into an awkward hug. Tigre was about three inches shorter than me and he dressed like a Cuban cab driver. He wore too much cologne, and had recently begun styling his hair like Justin Bieber circa 2010.

"Heeey," I dragged the word out as I tried my best to extricate myself from his tiny grasp. Getting the hint, he stepped back and put his hands on his hips.

"Edison, tonight, we're celebrating." I raised an eyebrow.

"Why? I beat the new kid on the crap team—it wasn't exactly the showdown of the century."

"No, no, not that. We're celebrating because today we officially became the odds-on favourite for next month's battle royale against Greendale East and Winger, and it's all because of you, you little firecracker," he gave my chin an awkward nudge.

"So what does that mean for you?" I asked, genuinely curious. I'd never been involved in the business side of the racing circuit. All I knew was that people placed bets, and when I won, I got a cut. All the rest was just white noise in the background while I did what I loved to do. Tigre led me through the warehouse into his small office that acted as central command for the organization, talking as we walked.

"It means that if you manage to pull out a win at the battle, we're in for a huge payday. I'm not talking about the chump change we've been getting for your past few races, I'm talking big bucks." His excitement radiated off of him as he talked about the prospect of our team's first major win. I couldn't help the way my stomach flipped at the news.

"What kind of money are we talking about here?" He sat behind his desk and motioned for me to sit across from him.

"You know what? The money doesn't even matter. I mean, it does—and there's a lot of it—but what really matters is street cred around here. Winger's team has won this battle every single year that we've done it. I can't wait to see his smug, pointy little face when you drive his bitches off the road." Winger's smug, pointy little face flashed in my brain when Tigre brought him up. I couldn't help my own grin when I pictured his expression as I drove away, leaving him dazed and confused in my wake.

"Speaking of Winger, I finally met him today," I told Tigre, excited to share my victory over that smug douche earlier that afternoon.

"Ahh, so the elusive Mr. Winger finally showed up for a duel, eh?" Tigre leaned forward slightly on his desk. "What did he do when you won? Did he cry? Please tell me he cried."

"No, he didn't cry," I said, laughing. Tigre's excitement was infectious. "But I did get that bastard good. It felt amazing to take him down a peg." Tigre began visibly vibrating in his chair.

"What did you do to him?" the older man looked like a kid on Christmas morning. I had considered not sharing my deception with him, but not even I could deny a face like that.

"Well, you were wrong about one thing. Winger is most certainly not gay. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he thought he had one up on me. He tried to seduce me into joining his team—but I turned it around on the son of a bitch. I let him think he had me, that I had no idea who he was and that I'd be just as easy to sway as every other girl he tried to work his charm on. Then, afterward, I pulled the rug out from under him. You should have seen his face as I drove away—completely destroyed." In my excitement, I failed to notice the light leaving Tigre's eyes.

"Afterward...what? What did you do?" he demanded, suddenly angrier than I'd ever seen him. I was taken aback by his sudden shift in mood.

"Well, after we... you know..."

"No, I don't know. Spell it out for me, Edison." I sat back in my chair, putting as much space between us as I could.

"After I fucked him," I explained. I tried to sound confident, but I'd never seen Tigre so angry. He banged his fist down on the table, making me jump. For a small man, he had a menacing streak.

"Are you fucking kidding me!" he cried.

"I..."

"No, for real. You're fucking with me, right?"

"I don't understand what you're so upset about," I returned, unwilling to let this small Chinese man get the better of me.

"So you mean to tell me that I finally have one thing on Winger, and instead of just letting me have that, you decide to go actually be on him?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, for God's sake, woman! If I wanted you to fuck him I would have told you to!" I stopped for a moment, flabbergasted that this man actually thought he had the right to dictate those kinds of things in my life. He continued ranting before I could retaliate. "You don't call the shots around here, kid. You do as I say, when I say it. And you don't, under any circumstances FUCK the competition!"

I jumped out of my seat, surging forward to the desk, leaning over him in a way that I hoped was menacing.

"First, Chang, you don't tell me who I can and cannot sleep with. I drive for you—I am not your property. Second, if you want me to stick around and keep winning for your team, you'd better get your shit straightened out, because I will not sit here and let you dictate my life!" Chang stood up, meeting me at eye level.

"Edison, I don't care what you do on your own time, but I draw the line at letting you fuck Winger." I stood back, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Well that's too damn bad. I fuck who I want, and you? You can either accept that and continue to cash in, or I can take my car somewhere else." Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out, unwilling to hear another thing the man had to say.

My next move could have been called petulant or childish, but after that conversation, there was only one thing I was interested in doing—and that thing was Jeff Winger.

~~

A/N: Merry almost Christmas everyone. This fic is brought to you by the letter Q.