As it turns out, Brian's day takes a hell of a turn for the better. Park flips in next to no time at all, and Brian can't tell if that's more because he's afraid of what Brian'll do – he's realized a little side effect of his display with Stasiak is that this guy's pretty much piss-his-pants scared of him – or what he's afraid Dom'll do if Brian lets him walk.

Which he may or may not have threatened to do.

And then there's the meeting afterwards. He gets the double benefit of seeing Stasiak with his busted nose, and shit, it's busted, and getting to hear Penning come as close to singing his praises as the guy'll ever come. It's probably a good thing he's as tired as he is, because all he does is pump his fist a little when Penning calls him up to bat on the street racing. Otherwise, he think he might start dancing. This is his world; this is what he's good at.

All that's pretty fucking great, but he thinks the highlight of the day still comes later, when Trinh pulls up the list of imports the FBI's impounded. He's kind of like a teenager getting his hands on the SI swimsuit edition for the first time, and he's actually pretty proud of himself for not drooling all over himself looking at them.

After that, it's a lot of long hours in the garage, and Brian doesn't mind that a bit. It takes him back. All that time he spent at DT's, back when he still wasn't real good at telling his ass from his elbow when it came to building a car. Honestly, thinking back, he's amazed Dom never got fed up with him. But no, that wasn't Dom's style. He'd just show him what to do once, and then he'd let Brian do it, and it was just so easy then.

And then there's Miami. He put in a lot of wrench time on that Skyline – damn, he misses that car; it's probably why he picks those two R34's out of the lot – and between that and working at Tej's, he ended up getting some mad skills under the hood.

He still ain't got shit on Jimmy, and he knows Dom could gearhead circles around his ass, but still…he's got this. This is his niche, and even though the hours are long, this is the most relaxed he's been in a while.

By the end of the next afternoon – he works through the night again, and he wouldn't be surprised if he's got more NOS in his system than his damn car – he's cannibalized one of the Skylines for parts, swapped the RB26DETT engine of the suped-up Skyline for the GT-R's VR38, and installed two fresh tanks of wet nitrous. He's also swapped the all-wheel drive train for the rear-wheel, because he learned the hard way with an old Mazda that AWD is shit for drifting, and he tunes the ECU to handle all the new mods. After all that and a fresh coat of paint, he's feeling pretty damn pleased with himself.

He takes it on a test drive that afternoon, but the real test comes that night, when he pulls into the address in Korea Town for one hell of a maiden voyage. And yeah, he thinks as he gets out of his new Frankenstein, this is definitely his niche. He may be playing a part, but he feels like he fits in here a hell of a lot more smoothly than he does at his real job in the FBI, and it occurs to him that maybe that should worry him, but now's not the time. Now, he just lets it all wash over him, all the familiarity, the energy.

And tries really hard not to laugh at all the punks that think they're the shit just 'cause they think they got game. "Tries" being the operative word here, because seriously, anyone that talks about himself in the first person deserves to get laughed at.

He sobers real quick, though, when he catches sight of a 1970 Primer Chevelle SS, but he catches himself in time to keep from doing anything more than glancing inside it. That's enough; he sees him behind the wheel, and shit just got a whole lot more interesting.

Sure enough, when he gets up to the driving range – and for the record, who the fuck needs their own personal driving range? – he sees Dom come up some stairs following Gisele Yashar, Braga's liaison.

The look Dom gives him kind of throws him. His eyes are supposed to be hard like they were back at the apartment, but seeing him now…shit, if Brian didn't know any better, he'd say Dom's almost smiling. There's a flash in his eyes, a hint of a smirk, and Brian feels his pulse ratchet up a few BPM's that have nothing to do with the high stakes race he's about to run. Because actually, that doesn't bother him. He's excited, yeah. Eager. But the race doesn't make him uneasy.

Dom, on the other hand….

Brian remembers him talking about his cool, about how it was his meal ticket, but shit, Dom's smooth. He's still got this smirk, this easy confidence of someone that knows he's got shit on lock and is just waiting for everyone else to figure it out. He's always had it, and Brian can't decide if seeing it again feels good, or feels really really bad.

He decides, in the end, not to think about it, and just lets himself enjoy the show. These people think they're the shit, but they've never stared down Dominic Toretto. He feels like the only kid in the room that's in on the joke, and he doesn't try to keep from smiling as Dom stares down Fenix Rise, the resident big man, like he's nothing more than a little dog with a loud bark.

Dom ain't like that. Brian won't pretend he knows everything there is to know about the man – not even close – but he knows him well enough to know that he's all bite. All act, no talk, and he's got mad respect for that.

Unfortunately, respect only goes so far, and a half hour, two car crashes, and a busted-ass front bumper later, Brian's fucking pissed. He had him. He had him, and he goes and pulls that shit, hitting his tail end.

He gets out of his car and stalks up to Dom, and by the time he reaches him, he still hasn't decided if he wants to hit him yet. "Least we know you can't beat me straight up," he says as Dom turns around, and fuck, he wants to hit him. Doesn't he get it? Dom's supposed to be smart, and here he is, fucking everything up! Everything Brian's worked for these last few months, trying to land Braga and clear his name – everything Letty died for – all blown to hell, because he's Dominic-fucking-Toretto and can't let someone take care of shit for once. He thinks he's the only one that can solve problems, and now he's gone and screwed everything up, and he has the balls to stand there and look at Brian like he's the one that's out of line.

"I didn't know there were any rules," he says. The smug bastard. And Brian can't even appreciate that this is the closest he's been to Dom in five years, that they're in arm's reach and not beating the ever-loving shit out of each other, because he's so mad. It's not about losing – okay, yeah, maybe it's a little bit about that. But Brian had this, and now Dom's gone and thrown his whole plan for a tailspin.

He wants to tell him. He wants to scream at him, to shout, to make him understand what he's just done, but he can't do that

Even if he wanted to, he doesn't get the chance.

"Now that's what I call real driving!" Fenix says as he comes walking up.

"Nah, that's bullshit, man!" Brian snaps.

"Go cry to your mamma, eh?"

Brian knows he's being blown off, and there's not a whole hell of a lot he can do about it. He's got some serious damage control to do, and he doesn't have time to waste on being mad. That can come later.

He's driving out the way he came when he sees Dwight standing by his car. "Yo, nutsack!" he calls. "Let me tell you something, man. Muscle beats import every time. You know what I'm saying? Every time!"

Brian just keeps driving, but as he does, he's definitely getting an idea. And as pissed as he is about the race, the idea he's got swimming around his head is enough to put a hint of a smile on his face.

The smile falls when his pocket starts to buzz.

Same place. 1 hour.

Fuck.