Catching a glimmer of sunlight, the maroon hood of West Gearsley sported a wide smile in the morning sunlight. He watched the facility's garden below his second-storey window. The roses were a magnificent red, giving color to the ominous logo of Liquid Adrenaline.
Today was a good day, magnificent once the memo was received. IGNTR was making profits that sky rocketed up there with Syner-G, even making a close budget to Combustr. Sponsors that fueled the very sport of racing— IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline sharing a hefty sales peak with them. Gearsley was proud of the odds, the very probability merely joke only a year ago.
He recalled the events, remembering look of defeat in a talented rookie's eyes. His frame was already low, but he seemed to sink, if it were possible, even lower that particular day.
Gearsley had approved the hire of several new interns that week. He pinned this as their redeeming chance to showcase intrapersonal skill to the company. Convince a tough talking, angry young racer with a razor-sharp speed statistic to work with IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline. To be fair, it wasn't difficult, the young potential hotshot ate up the opportunity like cool oil on a hot day.
Determination, class, effort and speed. Jackson Storm had all of it. He just needed a track. And true to his talent, he aced the season, earned the big bucks, and helped the expansion.
Gearsley had to admit, the racer could use some gratitude. His concerns of a measly quarter of his pay going to growing merchandise was a small endorsement. In fact, he was to thank for it, and he would be certain to profit from it. A win-win annually, for racer and sponsor alike.
IGNTR's side branch, partnered with Edison Turo's contemporary rim sales was another growing pitch. Cars wanted to dress like their idol, be as fast as him. They paid the dollar for the a-class replicas. In fact, West had received an email about the different color schemes the tires sported, their original midnight blue rim and halo surrounding the outer tread, the colors and styles could differ. He hadn't found the time to truly study the images, but skimmed over them nonetheless.
West heard the revs from his opened window, muffled chatter below as the breeze blew. The CEO relaxed, today was more than likely, a day off.
"You ain't seen nothing," Quincy spoke, his wheels moving faster than Storm accompanying him as they cruised the yard. "You should've seen Racelott in his coverage when they asked about losing to you over and over again."
The forklift turned, "He was speechless. Couldn't retort a thing. Was rich to watch."
Storm's eyes wandered the parking lot across the field, ignoring his pitty, "Where's my personal sim?"
Quincy shrugged his forks, "I dunno. Maybe it's getting maintenance."
"You don't know where my simulator is?"
Quincy put his forks out in defence, "Hey, I was on break these last few days too, Storm. Ray and the rest of the crew's been handling that."
Jackson scanned the lot one more time, "And where's my trailer? Why are all of my stuff gone? I need my simulator, now."
He looked at Quincy, the forklift's front, a bored expression, unfazed by the racer's demands, "What's with the random disorganization all of a sudden?"
Storm watched as Quincy cleared his throat, "I have two answers, one you're gonna hate, and another you're gonna hate some more."
His grey eyes narrowed, "Where's my trailer?" he asked bluntly.
"Ray, Gale and Leo went out for breakfast early this morning while you slept in," he paused for a moment, allowing some dramatic effect to cue, "And they aren't gonna be back till noon."
"What? Are they having lunch in my trailer?" Storm huffed in sarcastic annoyance.
The forklift nearly snorted with laughter, "Nah, Gale dropped it off to get washed and polished."
The race car wasted less than a second to angrily speed past his pitty. He made his way into the facility training building, his expression relaxing as he passed some rookies eying him with awe. Quincy followed, watching him board one of the trainee simulators, the rest empty. Within seconds, Storm was blowing wind as his tires sped up each passing moment. He even collected the tokens designed to help newbie racers balance their lines.
Quincy adverted his attention to a group of trainees watching from a distance.
"Alright, let's clear out, Storm needs his space," the forklift announced.
He watched them leave, some seeming too eager to please Storm with their unnecessary apologies.
Quincy turned to the ambiance of the simulator, the gentle breeze expelled as Storm's tires sped past 208mph.
"You're barely breaking a sweat, I know pushing it past two-hundred-six usually brings on the that game face racers have."
Storm studied the virtual track, "These trainee sims don't have an incline. Not even an opposite force to horsepower against."
Quincy grinned at the racer's vocabulary, "Been listening to Ray's verbal records, huh?"
Jackson pulled his eyes from the track, a side glance to the laughing pitty. After a moment, he turned back to the track, racing the gradient once more.
"It beats hearing about how McQueen's retirement's going."
When noon arrived, Ray pushed open the doors of the training building, expecting to find the class of six rookies transferred from Combustr's relay cup. More youngsters, fast, confident, hopefully fearless. He scanned the empty room, finding only a steaming simulator. Ray approached, inspecting the machinery. He turned it on, seeing the monitor state it was overheated, and still attempting to cool down.
Jackson wasn't here, but Ray could bet he was responsible for this. No rookie could break a B-class piece of efficient technology. It had to be an engine refined to A-level veneer.
Heading to the main building, a livery black race car was spotted pacing in the foyer. His eyes listened to something Quincy said, soon a grin spread on his front, and he replied a placid remark, the two enjoyed the company momentarily.
Ray braked, undecided on disrupting. It was clear the two were making the most of the time. Jackson's glance focussed on the window, looming on the appearance of his polished toys taken from him for a few hours. He was good this way. Socializing with others, even if he didn't want to. A good racer had good exposure. It had been a year, just over another half working with Storm. It was normal to ease into the spotlight of interviews— he took them when he wanted, when he knew he had the upper end. He was mature and sharp, then, impressing his fans.
It didn't always work that way, he'd have to learn the improvising art when things went haywire, and stamp it to the back of his tread, sooner or later.
Quincy yawned loudly, his extrapolating wail heard from the outside of the transparent twin doors.
Jackson's attention turned elsewhere as his stoical wait was slowly wearing thin. His eyes loomed over the building interior, spotting his crew chief with so much as a thin raise of his lid.
He headed over, wheels moving quickly, followed closely by his personal pitty, "Put me in the wind tunnel."
Ray raised a lid in surprise, racers were never eager to go into the wind tunnel. He could still recall Jackson grimacing as dust and dirt clogged his air filter when he was just a trainee.
"He's full of energy," Quincy remarked.
"We don't have to overexert ourselves in wind tunnel exercises," Ray explained, making eye contact with the dull stare of his racer, "Qualifiers aren't something to rush."
"I've relaxed enough," Jackson argued, uninterested in schedules, "get the tunnel prep'ed. The usual."
Ray watched Storm head off. He was still far from figuring out this guy. Jackson was cold as ice in the morning, potentially hot as magma in the evening, He could be furious behind a grinning façade, or celebrating with a neutral lip of boredom.
The crew chief could hardly feel proud of having little time to bond with his racer. Jackson seemed to feel the interactions past guidance on the track were unnecessary. He was perfectly content bottled up in his dim trailer, Ray didn't like to admit as of lately, he preferred it that way. Less hassle, less confrontation.
Reverham entered the darkened room, courtesy of computer-generated mechanics. The pick-up truck's engine hummed in the silence as he approached the LED-lit tunnel. Jackson tapped his tire, the treadmill holding him still. He waited patiently for his crew chief to push his buttons.
"Turn it on, let's get this over with," Jackson's voice echoed through the vacant clear-glass cylinder.
"Alright," Ray replied, inputting the specific stats required for a champion's caliber.
The large fans began rumbling, blowing a grey trail of tint over the racer's frame. With each second, the knots increased each second, doubling its initial speed.
Ray watched as Jackson bared his teeth briefly, his eyes squinting tightly as his tires spun towards the optimum line. The chief wasn't concerned, he had seen the former rookie struggle till sleep was eating him to maintain his drag efficiently.
The shift in pressure caused Storm to close his eyes and rev against the blowing gale force. Within seconds, he was muscling past the kinetic displacement, his line neat and efficient.
Jackson quickly noticed Ray's face coated with impression.
"Hardly a setback," Jackson said aloud, his voice clear through the loud speaker. He merged slightly, easily manœvering the increasing change.
"These new systems have the ability to simulate a tropical storm... including the rain," Ray announced.
Storm gave him a side glance, "Not even a big deal," he boasted. Reverham adjusted the meteorological simulation and the fresh water began drizzling the tunnel walls.
He watched as Jackson squinted through the messy conditions, his speed slowed a fraction as water pelted his windshield. Ray watched silently a few minutes as Storm clocked in at 199mph, he swerved suddenly at times, his wheels generating smoke and kicking up water as he picked up his traction. Severe weather was no cruise down the street, especially for a car that hardly encountered it.
Some peeping sedans hovered the garage window, creating an obvious dimming of fluorescent light reaching the dark training room. Ray's mirror's flickered, catching Jackson's curious fans huddling away at its corners.
A heavy and sudden rev pulled his attention back to his racer. Jackson's focus was clear as he straightened his frame with might alone. He continued to squint through the steady rainstorm, hardly a swerve or bend as he picked up speed, racing up 206mph.
"Is that all this thing's got?" Jackson shouted through the wind.
"Be realistic, the race track doesn't have hurricane winds." Ray replied. He watched Jackson ignore the comment, his attention engulfed in the artificial squall
The screens read green— optimal. The exception remained in an amber flicker of caution on traction, a normal read for the advanced weather conditions.
The system ended its timed operation, allowing Storm out of the tunnel.
"Burned off enough steam?" Ray asked.
"It was a piece of cake. Easy said and done," Jackson remarked, hardly out of breath, rounding the short ramp up to his crew chief. His tires trailed water dripping off his frame. He glanced to the screen, indifferent to to his pleasing statistics.
He headed for the exit, obviously done with his activities.
"Storm,"
Jackson swung into a U-turn, he eyed his crew chief calling him.
"What's this tirade all about?" Ray asked.
Jackson's grey eyes searched the pick-up truck's.
"I don't need you to play house with me," he replied after moment.
"All in the job as your crew chief. It's my role to play house with the whole team."
Storm scoffed, Ray expected it.
"Your agent is back," Ray commented, seeing Jackson begin to digest the new information.
"Okay... and?" Jackson continued, losing interest in prying conversations.
"Your trailer's parked out back," Ray drove ahead of him to the garage exit.
Storm watched the truck leave without another word. He enjoyed the silence for a moment, quickly finding the interaction odd. Ray was prone to lecturing, that wasn't the case.
When Jackson made his way to his trailer, he was relaxed, his eyes half open and indifferent to the hazy afternoon. He was used to this kind of weather. No sudden changes, just lasting mild conditions.
He blew out a breath once, the cool water from his recent run still giving a good adrenaline rush.
The garage his trailer sat in was void of any faces. No pitties, no driver, and no prancing fans.
His mouth curled at the corner slightly, pleasant with the reality. His crew was getting better at their roles each day.
Entering the shaded space, Storm pulled around to the back, tapping his tire rhythmically as the ramp came down slowly. Within mere seconds, his personal in-van phone chimed, its default ringing raising a lid on Storm.
Grey eyes scanned over the caller ID, hardly recognizing the name of 'T. Rodrigez', his personal agent, back from months of little contact.
"... Stormer? 'Ya there!?" a voice, native to Rhode Island with its twang, boomed in excitement.
The racer almost wished he ignored the call.
Jackson exhaled, "Yea—"
"Good! That's good!" Rodrigez chimed, "Now lets get back to business!"
Jackson hardly rolled his eyes, instead blinking slowly as he listened, half interested.
"Hmm, lemme think about it for a minute," his agent said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone, "cut the B.S."
"I got cars talkin', you know they love to talk. You ain't giving your competitors something to chew on."
Jackson could feel the annoyance peaking. What was he even talking about?
"What?" the racer replied, half confused.
"The trashing, the lack of smilin', no damn sportsmanship!" Rodrigez remarked gruffly, "I got Racelott, Mixon, Swervez, Wheelhouse— better approval ratings than you right now. And some of these guys ain't been on the track nearly as long—"
"Where have you been all this time?" Jackson scoffed.
"Tryin' to keep your bumper outta hot track oil! I got you interviews with Hicks, you don't care to do 'em. I get you some signings, you're too busy. I phone up Ray— guy's doin' the best he can to put you in line. You got a reputation! I got a reputation!"
"I'm aware," Storm replied easily, "I don't need favors, just roll and smile while everyone else cheers until they get an engine block. Got it."
"We ought to fix this, now," his voice began falling calm, "McQueen's retired bumper has better ratings than yours, too. Learn from it. Lemme make some calls, get some schedules goin'. Later— I'm done."
Jackson was quick to tap the red button, ending the call. The frustration settled in as he reversed into the air conditioned trailer. If it wasn't his crew, it was the Network, if it wasn't the Network, it was Chick's Picks, if it wasn't that spaced-out green racer car, it was loud, unruly fans.
The hatch closed, keeping out sunlight in its shaded interior.
The racer stretched his axles out, flexing the suspension with a deep exhale. He had one thought on his mind, to avoid any interviews. None of that, at least not now.
The CEO was at the Champion's VIP party. He saw those maroon doors on a grinning front from the other end of the hall. If he actually witnessed the crossed interaction between himself and Rūūnes, the odds of harsh discipline were imminent. Scratch that, if anyone saw it. Words and interactions were always twisted at the seams.
Then the large SUV with his clear role of security, the guy just butted in, as if she could possibly harm someone with those small, non-racing axles. It didn't help that Treadless wanted to be some knight-in-shining-armour either.
Jackson swallowed the urge to find a simulator. His was shipped off, the others too weak for his liking. He had better things, necessities, to work on.
For a moment, the racer slumped into further thought. He passed her over to Treadless, as if the guy that could only beat him once in a software game was worth her time. Peaches didn't need to look for something to impress her, she already found it when she watched him win timelessly. Treadless was wasting his time if he actually took up the offer.
Storm quickly retracted the idea. She was one of those cars that kept to themselves, away from others' business. At least, usually. Jackson had to appreciate that. His life was filled with pushy vehicles left and right.
She was impressed, he was interested.
Yeah, he said some things that likely caused her to speed home crying, but she should've showed up invited. Next time. Lose the wild makeup and paintjobs... then she could have all the cookies she wanted.
Her comments were unexpected. She could have sounded like a preppy student, but she didn't. Not a speck of boasting was in her tone as she parked herself in his paystub. She had some nerve, the good kind— but in the wrong place and time.
He glanced back to the speakerphone, its screen displaying the mid noon clock as its screensaver. The number his crew left was to her home, or shop, wherever, but not here.
Jackson would have to devise some strategy, a crafty string of words. Nothing difficult, but the tension wearing strong on perfection.
He was Jackson Storm, fastest racer in the Piston Cup Racing Series, still racking up wins. He had cars, ones that could spend their time jotting his priorities on expensive paper.
It was mid-afternoon. The angle the sun situated in burned heat into the mini living room.
She had pulled the curtains closed, finding the UV rays shining directly on a sleeping pair of coupes. In front of them, several discarded teabags, the sticky, sweetened ring of raspberry steeped tea around a cooled down quart jug.
Melise kept her movements around the suite quiet as she tidied the long night of escapades. Her wheel reached for a corner of the terrace curtain seeping sunlight in. She leaned forward without leverage, bumping her left fender against the wall, the familiar discreet pain returning for only a moment. She bit her bottom lip, and puffed out her cheeks, attention quickly turning to the shuffling red Camry, hardly disturbed.
Merina's sudden stretch of her axle punched the tea jug over. Melise watched,
wide-eyed at the sudden scare as the pitcher gurgled the remaining pink tea across the white tiles. Her eyes trailed up, seeing the two still sound asleep, Merina snoring softly after muttering incoherent words aloud.
Melise didn't blame them. Although, she was hardly expecting them to fall asleep in the living room of her suite. It was adorable, different, but not really unsettling. It would have been more natural to see Jonah, maybe even room service tidying. Instead, she was embraced with the compassion of two competitors.
She relaxed for a moment, feeling some of her own fatigue arriving. The quiet atmosphere of the white tailored tropical theme kept Melise in a tranquil comfort. She loved change, different expectations each day.
After some minutes. Merina opened her weary eyes to the Honda headed into the bathroom, a pale rosy-orange blob closing the door. The Benz blinked a few times, adjusting her sight.
She stretched, her eyes turning to the opaque yellow glow on the closed curtains, "Geez, what time is it?"
Emla didn't hear or stir, her patterns of breathing remaining neutral.
Merina inhaled the sweet scent of left over traces of raspberry tea. The small end table was vacant of tea cups, the mess left last night swiftly cleaned.
In the bathroom, Melise focussed on her reflection, attempting to briefly ignore it, but curiosity getting the better end. Her doe brown eyes blinked twice, the rose tint on her fenders giving some life to the peach fibreglass that seemed to fade under the peeking sunlight. Her plump lips remained comfortably together, her expression mostly blank.
She felt plain, boring to look at. Her eyes trained on the grey print, still clearly stained on her fender.
'Stay Peachy'
Maybe the choice of wardrobe for the catwalk wasn't so appealing to him. Melise was biting her lip, ready to rub her eyelids. The sticky residue of eyelash adhesive was still left in traces. Her eyes themselves feeling heavier than they looked in the mirror. She had showered off the entire angel-wagon costume, but it's embarrassing qualities from that night were still fresh. Melise turned on the shower, the steam vapor began relaxing her in the confined space.
Emla's eyes opened only slightly, wearily studying the golden sunlit glow of the white suite. The noise beside her caught her attention.
Merina arrived back to her side, parking herself with a neatly plain trimmed envelope.
"What is that?" the red Camry asked, still slumped on her undercarriage.
"I don't know," Merina replied, "Probably our stills from the practice run."
Echoes of a high-pitched scream caused the warm water to suddenly feel cold. Melise paused a moment, unsure. She glanced to the door, no knock or disturbance heard. Her RPM's began to race as she squeezed herself out of the shower, and tossed a large towel on her roof, the fabric covering her cab and tires. Melise pulled the door open slightly, peeking into the suite living room where she had left the two coupes.
"Is everything okay?" she called, seeing only the corner of light blue cab from the bathroom's angle.
"Did anything come with it?" Emla asked, her voice quiet.
"No, nothing else, just... this!" Merina replied gleefully.
Melise headed into the room, unsure of what to make of the commotion. The two coupes quickly focussed on her. Merina's grin from fender to fender. Emla's expression suspicious after she looked elsewhere, thinking.
"Look what came in the mail for yoou," Merina sung sweetly, sliding a plain tailored envelope to the convertible. Melise glanced to the paper silently, her first and last name scribbled neatly on it.
"What is this?" she asked softly, fearful to open it.
"Probably a cheque!" Merina piqued.
"Or worse..." Emla replied, bitter in her tone.
Melise nervously bit her bottom lip, pulling the flap open with weight of her tread, a light blue folded sheet of paper held inside.
Merina watched ecstatically as the Honda read the paper, her eyes following each word silently. Emla focussed her blunt stare on Melise's incoming reaction.
Her brown eyes turned slowly to the two cars watching her. A blank look on her front, rose rising above her headlights.
"What even is that? What did it say!?" Emla reached for the paper, sliding it in front of her.
"She got asked out!" Merina couldn't hold her silence any longer. Melise raised her lid slightly her way, realizing she had snooped the personal letter.
"Mister Jackson Storm cordially invites—"
"JACKSON STORM!?" the Camry's eyes shot up in surprise. She gave Melise a wide-eyed look. The convertible returned a frown.
Emla continued reading, "cordially invites you to a private evening today at Isle Maro. He asks that you please dress casually in peach, and arrive at 8:45 PM in the back hall. Additionally, it is highly advised that no guests accompany, as security is on standby to escort them away."
She rolled her eyes.
"Best Regards,
IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline™ pencars."
Merina squealed again, "She got asked out!" the Benz sung.
Emla gave her friend an annoyed look. She turned to Melise, clearly unsure how to feel about it. The convertible placed the towel on the end table in front.
"Melissa, this is an official invite, it has the symbol and logos engraved on it," she stated.
"It's Melise," she corrected softly, "I don't know why he would..." she eyed the invitation, her thoughts steaming.
"Who's Jackson Storm, anyway?" Merina asked, lost in the confusion.
Emla turned to her, "A race car. A very fast one."
"Seriously!? An athlete!?" Merina asked, curiosity brimming. Emla stared at her for a moment longer, stunned.
"You've never heard of Jackson Storm?" she asked with a blunt tone, "He's one of the Piston Cup Racing Series' athletes— you know, the greyish-black race car with the eerie blue decals that's on a winning streak? He's the guy that beat Lightning McQueen out of the sport."
Melise watched the two bicker about the race car, Emla adding that he was one of the racers without a southern accent, attempting to enunciate Jackson's clear, mostly articulate, tone. Merina laughed as the Camry turned her attention back to Melise.
"You know Jackson Storm?" she asked, "briefly looking over the grey autograph on her faded peach fibreglass."
"Um, not really. I met him onc—"
"You met him!?" the Benz hollered loudly.
"When!?" Emla toned her voice down to a whisper.
Melise exchanged glances between the two, "When I worked as an oil runner a few months ago," she answered calmly, trying to be the difference.
"Okay! This day is already wild!" Emla drove around the end table, "Let's order some breakfast and talk all about it. Come on."
"But it's the afternoon, Em'," Merina said, following the Camry and convertible out of the suite.
"So then it's brunch," Melise replied with a sweet smile. She locked the door behind her.
Emla lead the way, watching through her mirrors as Melise scanned the empty hallway, likely looking for any sign of her filthy mentor. As far as the Camry was concerned, she was better off without him.
"So," her red cab tilted, "He looks like a gashole."
"Jackson?" Melise inquired knowingly, "He's not really so mean..."
Emla huffed once, "That's not what I heard."
Melise looked down to the floor, keeping her lips sealed. She couldn't exactly fight the truthful statement.
The trio exited the hotel. Melise steadily following the two into a diner. She watched as they chatted, seemingly used to each other's company, and the setting.
The convertible pulled up to the table, parking herself with them.
"Merina, this time, don't order more than you can eat," Emla lectured.
"Think about your own food, not mine," Merina retorted, her eyes narrowing.
The Camry glanced to Melise, seeing her expression dull, her lids closed half-way, eyes downcast. She was pondering.
"You said you met him when you worked on the track," her treads pushed a quart closer, she nibbled the straw, "What was that like?"
Melise straightened herself, "Well, I... "
She sighed once, glancing to some palm trees swaying in the distant breeze. Transfixion on the invitation weighing heavy on her thoughts.
"I met him by accident—not by crashing into him, or anything like that!" she shook her tires in defence, the unintentional comment causing the coupes to raise their lids in confusion.
"Well, I don't quite remember it, but I got carried away, and I cheered too loudly for him when he raced. And he heard it."
Merina thought for a moment, "From the pits, or whatever it's called?"
Emla frowned, a dumbfounded look on her hood, "No Merina, she cheered on him from outer space, that's why he heard it."
Merina stared back, a mutual annoyance in response.
"To be fair, the races are very loud, I think he heard me through his crew chief's headset."
Emla took a moment to gather her thoughts, "So then you hung out afterwards?"
"We're not allowed to do that," Melise replied low. "But I went where I wasn't supposed to with... a friend. The VIP places in the hotels."
She stopped talking for a moment as the waiter, a white Civic, delivered buttered bread to their table, "I just went to far, I should've stayed out of his way. He was doubted and shunned before he even arrived on his first race... "
"Stay calm, Melise, don't beat yourself up," Merina offered her sympathy.
"What happened after that?" Emla asked.
"He wasn't angry, not at all rude," Melise glanced to her autograph, "He gave me his signature."
Merina cooed as she looked at the grey print in interest.
Melise felt better once the story was out, she could breath some relief.
"Weren't you caught in some scuffle outside of his trailer?" Emla asked. Her bold statement met with blunt force.
The table fell silent as the red Camry eyed Melise suspiciously. Blush rose to the convertible's fenders.
She hung her hood in shame, "Yes," she answered in a small voice.
The shimmery red paint of Emla's cab sparkled as she narrowed her eyes once more. Merina and Melise perplexed by the reaction.
"I heard he shoved you."
"He actually shoved her? I thought some camera guy ran into her." Merina inquired, exchanging glances with the two.
"He didn't shove me at all! He was trying to help me," Melise answered curtly, "Who told you that!?"
"One news site said that, but I don't doubt it after seeing how rude that Jackson Storm guy is."
Melise could feel her RPM's racing. It made news? Even if it was minor, why was she only finding out now, several weeks later?
"So he signed your fender," she took a sip of her oil latte, "does that make him as nice as The King all of a sudden?"
Melise chewed her bottom lip, remember some stares she received the days following. She almost forgot about the embarrassing mishap until Jonah and Emla reminded her. In fact, it seemed to be a different version each time.
"I crashed—I mean bumped! Bumped into him while he was practicing. I hurt my headlight, and he just wanted to bandage it."
"I bet he was a jerk about it..."
"In fact, he was," Melise answered honestly with her tread under her front. Her tone was it's usual ambiance, making the blunt comment sound simple and unnerving.
"I mean, I did crash— I mean bump, into him."
The trio fell silent a moment longer. Their food soon arriving.
"So," Merina began, "Are you going to go to see him?"
"Even if he's a gashole?" Emla chimed in.
Melise frowned once more. The question scaring her. She couldn't muster the idea of how he could possibly want to see her after upsetting him with her recent escapades.
"What did you see him do to give him the title of 'gashole'?" she asked.
"Well, he's just so cocky on camera, and he never hangs out with the other race cars, his smile is full of it too."
Merina nodded quickly with her mouth full, finishing her chewing, Melise glanced her way, anticipating the reply.
"Yeah, we just pick up on the vibe. Usually, the racers are friendly with each other. He's never around them, and they're never around him. You can see it on T.V!"
"That must have been the most intellectual thing you've said all day, Merina." Emla giggled.
Melise thought the odds over. She knew they're observation were spot on. Jackson Storm was a cold car, sometimes bitter to the core of his circuits. But he was also all around, laid back too. He was a racer, beating off the likes of traditional racing leagues, maybe there was a reason to be so arrogant. Maybe.
No, she couldn't spin it. Melise knew better than that. Jackson was doing great. He just needed a track and a victory lap. He was bitter because he didn't expect a simple girl to take some of his thunder. Likely other things in his personal life. That was it.
Her thoughts began to displace themselves. Melise could remember the calm gaze on his grey eyes. The relaxing blinks as he listened to her. The way he was confident, respectful, stoic. For a time, she was certain he would call her a moron for acting like a shy school girl. She wasn't used to talking much. His patience was thinly veiled under a curl of his mouth, but his priorities told him otherwise. He came after her, twice, maybe even three times if she could count her former coworkers horrified dashes out of the barren stadium once Jackson raced in.
Her heart began to sink, the feeling growing as she saw the neatly trimmed letter. Jackson called her weird, maybe it he was trying to compliment her. She didn't beckon the actions much then, just interactions. He likely thought the same.
But Melise missed them. Not just the words, but his expressions, his awkward raise of his lid when she said something about garden ornaments, his eyes as they trailed around the features on her model as she exchanged glances from him to random scenery. Social nerves while she spoke. She couldn't admit it to herself, not a thing about it could make sense. She didn't much belong in his way, but he didn't seem to mind her there— at least, now. He was one of a kind; in fact, the convertible could hear the words coming out of his own sonorous voice. Not just referencing himself, but about her too.
Melise didn't answer, instead, breathing a gentle sigh. Her fenders flushed, her lips bent in a frown. Her eyes remained their characteristic doe, the brown seeming to shine.
"Why don't we just finish eating?" Emla said, changing the atmosphere.
"I want to order seconds," Merina piqued, "This time I'll finish it all!"
The sun was setting at six. Melise, alone to her stress, nearly dosed off several times. She sprawled out her ties, her undercarriage flat against her own coverlet. The day flew by when you spent time doing something with it.
She saw each missed call, recognizing the same private ID, the only one who she knew to call her.
The mirror across reflected a lost Honda. Her fibreglass glowing in the glint of orange sun rays. No one else came to see her, the feeling of disassociation in making friends haunted her. She wanted the coupes back in her company, despite the two only leaving a short while ago.
She was all alone again.
The phone chimed it's ring, the brief moment ignored as her eyes focussed on the soothing glow of a tropical sunset.
Melissa snapped from her daydream, seeing the same number phoning her again. This time, she was around to answer it.
"Melise!?"
She smiled gently to herself, the action alone a summary of gratitude.
"I'm okay, Mister Turo." she answered softly.
The Hummer sighed relief, "He informed me that he went to the hospital. You weren't there for him?" Turo's voice questioned her without malice. He was curious of her intentions.
"I… no. I didn't go."
"Melise," he called on, "Are you feeling okay? Nothing is broken?"
She shook her hood in redundancy, "Nothing's broken."
Listening on, Melise couldn't imagine any sort of expression the CEO could have. Her muddled thoughts sealing much of the reality around her.
"He's not here, and I don't know where he could be, but prefer it this way."
Melise didn't bother keeping her concerns at bay. She didn't need Jonah, not anymore. He never needed her.
"You're still both a team, I know those other girls run their lives alone, and it may make you feel inclined to do the same, but you're just too young, Melise."
Her lips tugged into a frown, hood slumping.
"Make sure you guys re-group, I don't want either of you to get hurt again. Watch out for each other."
The call ended alongside a breeze blowing the terrace curtains. Orange rays blinding her for a moment as the fabric returned to its position.
Melise didn't have to worry. She wasn't going to be tortured, no anger could come out of a peaceful setting. What was he going to do?
Maybe he could make fun of her roof designed to match her metal? Talk about how she woofed down fries, milkshakes and cookies like a starving tractor? He could say every word Emla had in her idea book.
He understood her place now, but accepting it was one thing Melise and Emla could agree on, non-existent.
He was being a gashole because he could. Even if the odds weren't in his immediate favor, he would bend it how he pleased.
The last name fit.