author's note: Hi all! I revised and edited some of the first chapter of this story. Just some minor edits and tweaking. Enjoy!

Eleven 'o clock at night was late, practically the normal hour to be asleep during the training season. Racing was teidious, concentration was prime, and then there were the rigorous dawn to night wind tunnel exercises. The strain on enjoying off time dragged down some of the guys. Florida nightlife was something different for a change, the tremors of subwoofers were still beaming. Guests and racers alike dwindled in numbers, still eager to make the most of IGNTR's success.

Humming of a modern V8 engine remained muffled under the noise as his tires brought him into the setting. Some guests batted looks his way, hardly making out the Nitroade decals' barren colors beneath flashing LED lights.

Tim's eyes moved along the gradient of the hall, seeing coupes and sedans alike enjoying their chatter in unison over quarts. Some were sparsely packed in groups, hardly moving as they parked in conversation. Others enjoying their time on the floor. He didn't know half of them, and he didn't have bet Storm knew them either.

In fact, the champion racer was no where in sight. The star of the show bolted himself out of socializing, as usual. If Treadless was lucky enough to catch Jackson Storm, he was guaranteed to see that smug grin accompanying him. The very thought boiling his circuits with annoyance.

Tim was late— hardly wanting to arrive in the first place.

The racer shook away the thoughts. sponsor representatives told him to make an appearance, make friends. Truthfully, even with easy-going race cars, it was a neat little challenge. Some guys were bold and competitive, letting the talk of the crowd and adrenaline get the heat of the moment, only to be misjudged by the negative media. Other guys behaved as if they were the only one on the track. The Sports Network spun everything as they pleased.

It didn't matter, they were all fighting for first place, friendship was in another world. Who could befriend the guy who was possibly ready to trash you to the next RSN journalist in sight?

Tim's brown eyes narrowed as he gripped the gift tucked under his axle. He didn't want to bother himself with Jackson Storm. The guy was like a cold wall of ice. Admittedly, climbing over it was worth the look of defeat, but the very likelihood of getting him to say something worthwhile was akin to landing an airplane on a stop sign. Treadless wasn't looking forward to the encounter. He could almost hear the condescending tone on Storm's resonant voice right now.

He blinked, the flashing wasn't heavy, but the changing spectrums were still something to get used to. He caught sight of the bright green Vitoline-colored-frame surrounded by more competition. If Chase and the other guys could laugh over a pint to drink, why couldn't Jackson do the same?

Tim couldn't imagine the IGNTR racer grinning with the guys. Not a friendly part was itching in his body. Some sort of D-bag one-up attitude. Treadless would be the first to admit he thought Jackson was playing a lame joke of a first impression on his introduction to the team. Storm was hardly more than a freshman on a school sports team, yet he was certain of his desired place as team captain.

His tires moved him past the next-gens, their chatter keeping them oblivious in the corner.

These racers— they were the scattered debris after the storm passed. Hardly as magnificent as the dark, ominous clouds rolling through. It ached to watch the unthinkable happen; speed over sobriety. Score over sportsmanship.

Treadless scanned the large hall a second time. If Jackson was here, he was likely tucked away in his mouse hole gloating like a lion. His wheels took him to a back hall, well lit, luxurious, with a hint of vintage flair on the ancient analog clock.

Without so much as a glance his way, the dark mass swerved with his cab skillfully around a stunned Tim, quick to avoid a minor collision.

His engine slowly toning down, the whizzing erupting like a breeze as he straightened his proper U-turn, merely inches from his competitor. His livery hood was buffered to near perfection, the polish reflecting his on-looking discordant expression.

Hardly acknowledging Treadless, the grey eyes followed a bold SUV approaching, in front of his menacing grille, a smaller white Honda convertible, modern and fashionable. Her wheels moved against time as her hood kindled some irate she tried to mask with pouty lips and a tinge of rose on her fenders. Her brown eyes fixed themselves upon Jackson as she noticed he stopped to look her way.

"You told me to explain, I was only trying to," she said calmly. Storm returned the same look of contempt her way, as if looking at a flat tire.

"Like I want to hear about you having fun!?" he hissed, the music still loud enough to drown any mass attention down the lone hall, "You're wearing a Halloween costume in February!"

The security truck pursed his lips, attempting to conceal his amusement between the arguing cars. As far as he was concerned, if Jackson Storm wanted to throw this Honda out of his party, he was going to miss out on a better conversation.

"It's supposed to be an angel..." her softer reply came as she took a cautious glance between the security truck beside her, and Jackson, a short length away. The look on his face suggested he was waiting for a punchline he knew wasn't coming.

"Why would that matter to me?" Jackson scoffed after a moment. He gathered his thoughts, she was hardly fighting back now. She was crumbling, maybe other cars didn't see it, but he could spot her weakness a mile away. Typical.

Melise inhaled sharply, her annoyance brimming, "Its all that has mattered! It's the whole reason you're upset!"

Jackson's glance focussed on her, his lid raising slightly as she caught him off guard with the back-tread comment. Tim kept quiet as he listened, this conversation was already interesting.

"You thought I would be impressed with your get-up? With your amateur photoshoots?" Storm retorted, his eyes narrowing further as he grimaced the snow-white paint accompanying a cake-full of makeup on her eyes.

"You always think everything is about you! I did this for myself!" the convertible snapped back.

"I would ask myself why I even agreed to do... this!" her eyes looked down her hood, emphasizing her paint scheme and delicate show wear.

Her brown eyes focussed on Jackson, his own train of expressions fixed still as she rambled on.

"But you get tired of it!" she raised up on her shocks as her words echoed the hall. The convertible settled on her axles, her frustration and anger faded away, leaving a melancholic frown as she kept her eyes on the red laced carpet below.

"Exhausted... when you're looking everywhere for something meaningful. Anything that gives you a reason to get up each day instead of wither away in the same old routine. Then you find a small shred of stupid hope, and you cling onto it."

She looked up, her eyes narrowed, "But you don't know what that's like, do you!? Mister 'I have everything but I want nothing!'"

Jackson looked on, her eyes were sharp as she screamed at him, missing their characteristic gentle appeal. His reproachful look became more intact as she went after his ego.

Her voice fell, losing it's fiery tone, "The last thing I wanted… was to hurt you, or anyone else. I know you're not stupid enough to believe your own idea of how I keep bumping into you."

"I just wanted to feel... purpose. To dream at night— the ones that I could pursue the day after," her white paint seemed to glow as her eyes became starry.

"I've never felt happier in the past months working a job as minial as an oil runner than ever before. Cheering with the crowds," her eyes softened, looking Jackson in his grey stare, "Watching the racers speed faster than I ever could, being in the warm sun under rock tunes and roaring engines... I can't believe I'm saying this, but it was fantastic!"

She exhaled.

"I don't want to give up anymore, I just want to live, a new day each day. Something creative to wake up to, each day."

Jackson's eyes studied her, the cold orbs moving about in inches, making sense of her idea. The narrow contempt was faded. Tim hadn't seen an expression like that before. The odds of Storm losing control of his running mouth was a rare sight. What was this all about? Who was she?

"I know you're upset, but I can't apologize to you, Jackson," the girl stated, her voice blunt with a soft edge.

"Because if I say I'm sorry, I dismiss all the effort I put in. I tried to keep that promise," her eyes trailed down her left fender, the cream paint covering the old autograph.

She exhaled again, her demeanor as calm as a rose in the breeze. Jackson heard all he needed to know. Yet, he didn't look convinced. His eyes pulled a look of confused stupor. Tim recognized the face, it was all too pleasing to forget. It was just a matter of whether or not he would decide to make angry doughnuts on the dancefloor or outside this time.

Jackson soon exchanged a glance with Treadless, acknowledging him with stern precision.

"Nitroade, right?" Storm watched the deep brown and orange along Treadless' side.

"Never tried the stuff, but I'd bet it's still better than your stats." Storm took a swift glance between her and Treadless, his stern look remaining in place. She seemed to be satisfied with her speech.

"What do you say Timid Treadless and Lychee over there get acquainted? One jittery driver to the another."

He watched as Tim's expression became stunned, "I came here to congratulate you, not hang out," he flat-lined, tossing a can of Nitroade to Jackson, seeing the racer hardly phased by the last minute gift sliding towards him.

Storm glanced to the quart, the canister falling on its side as it made contact with his left fender, "I've got better places to be right now." He gave the convertible a last once over, his expression cool and neutral.

The bouncer, forgotten in the heat on the moment, received a comment from Storm as he followed the VIP race car away, his engine blowing a decent rev as he headed elsewhere. Security's large rear-view mirror's focussed on the convertible as he parked some distance away in the shadows of the event floor. Tim's glare latched on him, likely 'baby-sitting' from a afar. Jackson Storm truly was a piece of work, leaving Tim to clean up his mess.

Treadless wasn't sure of it, but the chances of Jackson actually having a fling with someone else was as non-existent as his empathy. This Honda was wearing racing tires, had a mocked small grey logo of IGNTR's 2.0 on her sides. If she was some sort of fan, she had saved quite a bit of bucks to afford the look. It was a shame she had to bear the brunt of Storm's attitude.

Tim gave her an awkward half-smile. He wasn't good at pretending to care like Storm. This friend of his was clearly distressed some, but Tim wasn't about to entertain Jackson Storm's antics again. The champion racer's conniving improvising worked wonders. Tim had barged in to defend her, so now he was "responsible" for her. Treadless had to shake his hood at the realization.

A mute and melancholic look was left on her front before she rolled forward, a weary, meek smile she returned.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she murmured. Her eyes blinking a few times before she settled. Someone else was always apologizing for Jackson Storm.

Tim watched her engine carry her away, the red lights of her tail end flashing between the traffic, soon disappearing behind sedans left and right.

Groaning, Treadless panned a quick look around, seeing no visible prying eyes. He soon followed her.

Whatever happened, she must've felt like she was in the wrong. As far as Tim knew, Jackson could've handled that confrontation better. And his little friendly fan here— she should have covered him in dents for the entire mistake that was his racing career.

Outside, the cool Miami breeze ran through his rims, blowing fresh air through his air filter.

Tim quickly spotted the Honda, her mouth moved slowly in exhaustion as she explained herself regretfully to a door bouncer, his eyes pulling and prying her with concern. He was likely showering her with questions.

For a moment, Tim observed the duo. The Honda, she really was painted much like a snowy-colored Jackson Storm fan. Her metal accenting decals in grey that formed a grand "S", the number 2.0 air-brushed in its center. Her tires were lightyears, the font narrow on each tread as a white ring glowed on its bolted rim. Was she really a fan? Really that dedicated to a trash-talker? A fast-lane junky? A gaming addict? Why did girls always go after the fringes of society?

She was dressed like him, at least, some form of him. She likely wanted to be near him too. Tim could piece together the indefinite encounter. Fans seemed to always bite off more than they could chew.

With Jackson Storm, you were always biting the bullet. It was a lucky enough encounter if he paid a single fan thirty seconds of his attention. If he even looked at you. Sportsmanship be damned. Nitroade would have Treadless' bumper in hot oil if he did so much as disrespect an eager fan. IGNTR must've had due debts to endorse that attitude.

She was headed off, merging herself onto the main road, keeping to the right lane, moving slow.

Melise adjusted her mirror, the glass focussing on the approaching revs. She pulled over to the shoulder, and her eyes acknowledged the familiar face of twenty-eighth racer.

"Hey!" Tim met her turning form, a curious expression on her soft features.

"I don't really know what happened back there, but, uh... "

His eyes looked her up and down as he extended a tire, lost at words to explain his likely sympathetic remark.

"I'm okay. I'm fine." she replied, a small smile to acknowledge him kindly. "Are you?" she asked after a moment, eying him.

"Uh, I'm doing okay, fine, cool." Treadless answered, trying to be as friendly as possible. "So you're leaving?" he gestured the road ahead.

She took a glance down the road, and back to him, "Yes," she answered, pausing to collect some thoughts. Her glance briefly checked him out, knowing he was a fellow racer of Storm.

"I know he was just being..." she paused for a moment, thinking over an array of descriptions for the confrontation minutes ago.

"Boastful."

Tim nodded. That was nothing new with Storm, he was always trouble. Tim was more content with the confirmation that she in fact knew he was being a jerk.

Granted, her choice of adjectives was certainly worth the raise of his lid in minor stupor. Jackson Storm's ego could easily be bottled and sold as boost for its fiery revile, all laced with cool, moderate gist.

"But I have to get back to my own life. You know, stop interrupting his?" Her lips curled into a cute smile, and her engine whizzed as she pulled forward, briefly stopping after a moment.

"Nice meeting you... " she looked at him, beckoning his name with her pause.

"Tim," the Nitroade race car answered.

She smiled, "It's nice to meet you, Tim."

Dismissing herself, the heavy tires rolled along, quickly following the road. Tim gritted his teeth once. He couldn't let her wander the streets alone... even if he didn't know her.

Her distance extended as his decision wavered. If that glance from Storm earlier meant anything, she was being looked after.

Eying each banner above the opened rooms lining the corridor, Melise rehearsed the room number in her head once more.

One thirty-eight, one thirty-eight...

This wasn't the Emergency department, the halls were too empty. Her brown eyes looked over the room number, a red glow— much like an exit sign, harboured the digital logo, granting easy discovery in a hurry.

A glance inside gave her the sight she was hoping for following the nurse receptionist's directions. The gold Bentley was fumbling with gauze taped neatly around his hood. He muttered inaudible nonsense under his breath as a young Jaguar adjusted his pillow, tucking the fabric under his axles. Her appearance was spot on, she was the same girl fussing merely hours ago. Jin.

Melise reversed into a 'U'. Her brakes locked her in place beside the entrance, allowing her engine to idle quietly in the ambience.

He was okay. There were some minor dings on his doors, a save for the extra large crease bending his hood, but he was fine. She could breathe a relieved sigh.

"I can't believe Dad beat you up," she patronized. "He's not coming to any more of my shows."

"Still glad you ditched your family to see me, baby, you're a keeper," Jonah cooed.

Outside, Melise couldn't help the distasteful manner spreading across her features. Were these two insane? Jin likely still attended secondary school.

"I know, I know," Jin giggled, "I kinda just wanna ditch them entirely, like live with you in Cabo."

"We could share the master bedroom. Live the high life like you deserve."

Jin squealed in delight, reaching over to embrace Jonah. The Bentley squirmed away, a look of disgust on his features.

"Honey, what did I tell you?" he lectured. The atmosphere was silent a moment longer.

"To not touch you without per-"

"Without permission." the two repeated in sync. She giggled in a high pitch tone.

"That's my girl. You're so smart."

The convertible's tires rolled away slowly, her eyes downcast in discomfort.

A nurse cruised onward pass her, his attention elsewhere as he entered the examination room, quickly scolded by Jonah.

"I asked for pain medication, but you and your staff never listen... "

Melise could hear the gradual dissapation of his shrill tone as she exited the premise. One wild encounter after another. She wasn't sure her bargain was worth the hassle it came with, but she was living, that was all that mattered.

Opting to head back to her keep, Melise trudged onward. These heavy tires had to come off for now.

The creaking of oak finished flooring broke noise into the quiet room.

Keeping the headlights off in the darkened environment, wheels rolled into the suite living space.

With the gesture of a tire, the large bedroom door was slightly pushed open, revealing a sleeping convertible breathing steadily on the end of the bed. Her peach polished reflected off some moonlight on the adjacent veranda. The long ago melted tube of ice cream at the foot of the furniture left forgotten.

There was some work to do.