author's note: I went through a serious case of writer's block for several weeks. Taking the time to piece over this story thus far, i actually made a flowchart to detail the journey, and the rest to follow. It helped a bunch. I'm sorry for the major delay. Also, I noticed some goofs I made, specifically, calling Reyna a BMW right after the previous chapter she is introduced in says she is a Lexus. She is a BMW Moreover, I've observed my writing evolve some, it's kind of neat.
Dear guests and followers, thank you for you reviews and critique of the story. Typically, I try to leave the questions related to my OC or other characters as a sort of ''read between the lines" thing, as all of them evolve with the next chapter and so on and so forth. Essentially Melise is down to earth and classy, a pleasant medium to the hustle and bustle of the fast-lane Jackson is in. Based on the book and Storm's personality in the movie, he is the more chill type, and he doesn't care much for flashy things, just good publicity and valor for bravado on the track. He likes the attention, but doesn't live for it 24/7 like McQueen did in the first film (namely his daydreams). Everyone needs that balanced medium.
this ramble has ended, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. More to come, cheerio! please review, I love hearing from you!
From the edge of the module, Leon watched the chief work his magic. Keying his tires into each button pedal, he uploaded the modded data into the racing simulator. The 'lift sat back, satisfied, this was his own creation made by tweaking the system's original file. Ray asked for it to the pit crew's surprise. Nonetheless, the astounding reality of seeing Ray use technology with A-level understanding was more impressive than the mod itself.
"So is McQueen supposed to be motivation now?" Leon inquired. Ray reversed from the system setting pedals, heading around to the driver's treadmill, " Cars like Lightning McQueen have always been motivation for Jackson," the pickup replied. He glanced to the forklift as the machine raised the lift. Leon began preparing the commence of the virtual race. He listened to the chief as he booting up the controls, "that's why we put him in the simulator."
It made sense, albeit, in vain. Overweening was Storm's new specialty, and the Press had little contrition in the making of his media biography. By now, his pit crew were known by their names, and when the opportunity was desperate, they were prodded for interviews when the racer himself, alongside Ray, were unavailable to take return their calls.
The tug almost forgot the chief was racing virtual race cars for the first time where he could see it. Pickups weren't fast, and the generic racers in game easily passed him. It didn't help that he was also nearly two decades their senior, like McQueen. Ray maintained a comfortable speed just past one hundred miles, and the familiar red race car passed him in the middle of the pack, fifth place.
"Damn, that's surreal," Leon muttered as the vehicles disappeared around turn one, "I uploaded McQueen using his track stats from Copper Canyon. He's still doing a decent run against pumped up Next-Gen generics."
Ray paused the screen pedal with one of his free tires. The treadmill lowered to the ramp, allowing the pickup to reverse off.
"They don't call him Lightning for no reason," Ray stated, turning to the waiting loader, "But the storm always comes first."
Leon snorted, "Ain't that the truth." The forklift reset the simulation, taking it back to the menu screen where he could power it down.
"So, are you gonna tell him, or am I?"
Ray raised a lid, "about McQueen?"
Leon nodded, as he watched the computers in front of him shut down, "You think knows yet?"
Ray allowed the exit automatic doors slide open as he braked in front of them. Leon followed behind, both keeping their headlights off in the darkened, theatre-like corridor.
"News flies around fast with those social media sites you kids use nowadays. I wouldn't doubt Jackson knows McQueen's coming back," Ray answered.
"Or care," Leon added. The duo eventually reached the main floor, heavily sunlit with its wide-framed glass walls.
"Besides," Ray continued, "If he doesn't know now, he will tonight when he works out."
The pickup glanced aimlessly around the main ground, finding no cars in sight. He headed to the elevator, Leon still following close.
It was two o'clock on the hour, and much of the facility's trainees were shipped off to sponsors willing to take them under their profits. The cars would have to compete against some of the top athletes across major leagues, schools, and 'freshies' off the streets lucky enough to make it big. They would be inside the same virtual pool Jackson began his legacy— hundreds of 'em fighting to impress the next sponsor willing to subsidize. If Ray's intuition was any more keen, he could be Jackson himself. Everyone knew he would win timelessly against the next advanced rookie of the year. This was nothing to prepare for, rather, a new way to relax.
Once the doors opened on floor 'L', Leon glimpsed about the small lounge, finding the space rather personal in nature. Dimming curtains were closed along the huge windows, and a single tire mat sat adjacent to an empty crevice for a simulator at the center. Forgotten in the corner, just behind the long drapes, a six-quart pack of Liquid Adrenaline: Original.
"Where are we?" Leon whispered, the quiet setting instinctively ushering manners.
Ray looked at the loader, "In Storm's room," the pickup answered, voice loud and clear. He headed towards a closed door requiring a tread scan for entry, knocking firmly three times.
"Storm! Get up!"
The comfortable silence resumed as the Chief waited. Leon watched the darkness under the door, keeping his voice low, "He's still asleep? It's nearly three PM."
The door opened halfway as the outstretched Lightyear tire rested back on the floor. Ray lined up alongside the doorway, pushing the door open further. Jackson yawned, eyes closing from their weary, opened state under irritating stray sunlight escaping through the lounge room curtains.
"Time to rise," Ray lectured, looking the racer down as he ignored the moderate mess of constantly received sponsor trinkets strewn about behind him, "It's after one. You set conditioning exercises for four o'clock today, and you haven't made time for brunch yet."
The racer's face remained spent, grey eyes hardly concerned, "I'm aware," he replied, voice groggy. "Give me another hour… and half." Storm reversed into the room, disappearing in the blackout interior.
"ANOTHER HOUR!?" Ray huffed through his grille, "Your schedule is booked today, don't waste it!"
Leon glimpsed inside, unable to see much. Nonetheless, it was clear Jackson was undeterred by the Chief's howls. Ray soon gave up, leaving the door opened. Heading back to the elevator, Leon shook his hood, grinning.
The doors closed after the chime, "We're gonna send a large mug of caffeinated low-grade to his room in a minute."
Leon snickered, "Storm drinks coffee?"
Ray focussed on the digitized floor numbers decreasing above, "If he's going to be on time for afternoon breakfast, he'd better finish the cup."
The steam from the hot pint of nutrition had simmered down a while ago. Parked opposite, Ray contemplated behind his newspaper, putting the meal in the microwave. It packed all the protein cars needed to function on a several hour race. Ray had heard the trainees grumble of the mid-grade meals. Never mind the appearance matching blended leaves, rather, it was the unappetizing taste. Jackson in particular, would leave the fussing far behind, he precisely had better things to do. In accordance to himself, they were no one's business.
Ray glazed over the canister again, opting against further nonsense to debate intellectually. Storm was the only car he'd ever overindulge. The kid had it rough from the get go, yet he pushed through, and kept on pushing. He didn't need any more nanny services, and with his general repute, Jackson was not the type to invite coddling. to put it simply, he didn't roll that way either.
With the chime of the elevator, Ray heard the electric rev follow close after. Storm approached from the left side, making a slow U-turn to his side of the table, eyes focussed on the raw meal.
"You remember that trophy I got months ago?" Storm pointed out, glancing from the surrounding to his crew chief, "That wasn't my Piston Cup."
"Good afternoon," the pickup greeted flatly, giving the racer a quick once over, "That was the half-season award. It means you won more poles than half the year."
Storm thought about it for a moment, blinking slowly as he loomed over the can of sludge, "Okay, when do I get my Cup?"
Ray found entertainment in the sheer naivety. Storm was stubborn when he wanted to be.
"You don't remember what a Piston Cup looks like?" Jackson's eyes narrowed slow at the patronizing, "Super Corsa: 3 had enough of them for you to recognize."
"I get it," Storm deadpanned, "I just thought it was my Cup for the longest while, until I read it."
There was some comfortable silence as the two piped down. Storm took a long sip, stretching afterwards.
"Just don't let it get dusty and scratched when it arrives," the racer continued, "Put it in my trailer."
Ray took his eyes from the newspaper, "You want to travel with it? The road is no place for a gold cup."
Storm scoffed lightly, "I keep my valuables close."
When it was nearly four o'clock, Jackson chucked the canister into a blue bin, leaving the premise. Ray pulled up alongside him, and the two cruised down the facility south hall, narrowed temporarily towards its center by caution cones.
Approaching in the opposite lane,
a lone Veloster kept his eyes peeled on his route. Ray noted the Hatchback slowing down as he drew near the obstruction. His eyes scanned his blind spot as he began to squeeze around the same time Storm was closing in. The 'road' was big enough if done right…
Truer thoughts couldn't explain the event further than Ray expected from young drivers. The Hyundai was squeezing through, sheepishly— it was only seconds of soon-to-be shambles. However, Jackson swiftly erased the two-lanes of traffic he and Ray occupied, pulling to the far right in front of the pickup, allowing both cars to pass comfortably.
Ray observed Storm pulling back into the center, slowing down nonchalantly until the pickup was beside him. The exchange was quick, but it showed what an confident and attentive driver was capable of. Granted, the gesture itself was a simple occurrence, Ray hadn't remembered the last time he coached a fresh racer that knew the skills of proper road techniques and timing. An old school set of skills some modern cars could use a few lessons in, most Next-Gens for sure.
A moment of agreeable silence loomed. Lightyear tires revolving with a faint, humming engine were the only ambiance echoing the wider perimeter.
"Lightning's out of retirement," Jackson remarked, rotating himself in a slow, rolling turn.
Ray inspected the main hall, finding no cars in sight, "Found out recently?" He let Storm straighten his tires, grey eyes in miniscule curiosity. He was capable of being quite the personality when his guard was down.
"McQueen's going to be racing at the 500," Ray summarized, receiving a bleak, spiritless blink from Jackson.
"You've gotta be kidding," Storm commented, "he doesn't stand a chance."
Ray flexed his jaw, gazing to the evening yellow through the panels. He let his eyes wander some more with a grunt in agreement.
"Lightning doesn't roll that way, Storm," Ray noticed the subtle, grey glance his way. The racer was hearing him this time, "Challenges come as a boost. Race cars— the older ones, like him, they're used to working up the totem pole to success."
Storm kept his sights away from stray sunlight. Absently, he viewed an abstract ribbon sculpture fixed beside the wall opposite. The bronze colour sparkled, giving some breezy life to the wide space, "Like me."
Ray eyed Storm's semi-circle reverse, catching a glimpse of Jackson's natural equilibrium in expression. He cruised forward slow, headed to the gym. Jackson made up his mind, and Ray knew better than to poke him.
"Track's gotta be last this time," the vast environment and distance gave his voice reverb.
"Then we're doing the tunnel first." Ray closed the distance, approaching.
Jackson gave him a slow once over, "You're cutting out my sim time, again."
Ray was undeterred, "Virtual cars won't cut it. You know that."
Enough going for him was an understatement. Jackson had raced to glitz and glamour in the span of a year. His tires turned back on course, taking him into the high-tech P.E dome. Booked specifically for the champion alone, Ray knew Storm appreciated the privacy. Despite all his anti-social efforts and avoidance to team effort, Jackson had improved, in some ways.
He was already in the wind tunnel, grey eyes lucid and deferential. Storm didn't stretch his axles, he never had to. Speed and control came easy to him.
Ray pulled up to the module controls, and Storm glanced from the transparent tube, "Ready," his voice came through the panel system speakers, straightforward in nature.
The chief wasted little time. Ray engaged the winds to a gust force, the artificial rain would drench Storm soon. He squinted through the haze, little serpentines to straighten his cab through crosswinds. The remainder was undefeated past minor discomfort.
"Is that the best you can do?" Storm breathed, puffing droplets from his mouth. He powered on, now keen to keep his mouth shut during the water phase.
An inquired look grazed Ray's features, "Don't push it, Jack," he sped up the winds, and Storm doubled down, "this is just the start of conditioning."
There was a specific angle used to peek properly. Lean to the side, just slightly. Don't park, treat it like a red light. Being a Silverado hardly made it simple, nor lend any favour to the rugged pride. The activity was far from noble, however, fateful circumstances lead to it. Now, he wasn't sure if it was guilt or fear that brought him crawling to her whereabouts, but a swift punch to Tony's ego was enough to send the truck into submission. Once, he had leverage, unfortunately, it was faltered to a weak string now. Melise wasn't even hard to find, especially when she was the gossip around. Apparently, she was alone with Jackson Storm.
That was old news.
Cuddling at the waterfront with him? Not so much.
The guys would've loved to profit from it, had they taken the pictures. Unfortunately, the gossip press got a hold of it, and pulled Storm right into the limelight. He was well received already, although now, he had an attitude to match. Truthfully, Tony painted it as a ploy. Storm didn't really need commoners to rise to fame, his engine did it alone. That was no 'calm and kind' vibe he had with Rūūnes, those two were more than quick pics on the prowl. She wasn't seeing him for nothing.
The convertible parked diagonal from the slight-opened doorway. Her rear concealed a concoction she was fender-deep in. Her treads worked about blue and white plumes. Every shift of her cab sent stray feathers loose around an elaborate bonnet. The cloth was festive and tropical in nature. Random too. Patiently, she hummed alongside another noise, a guide playing through her radio.
"Be sure to keep your cabin posture tight while cruising," the voice over continued, "Models don't smile, only pout."
Melise rolled her eyes slow, visibly piqued by the shrill, valley girl tone. Reluctantly, she resumed listening. She focused all her interest into the craft of garment in front of her. Tony moved from her line of sight, despite the door being plenty of obstruction. After a moment, he peered through the cracked open door again.
Abruptly, the pickup checked his mirrors. No one was around. Inside, not a trace of spent money. Melise had returned to her merits, cleaned up and keeping to herself as usual. Grace came easy to her.
The oil cars were miserable, so the outcome to their gamble was obvious. Painfully surprising too. Figuring better fared luck, Tony took the time to avoid her at all costs, at least he still had his share, despite being the new outlier. The thought of the other guys jolted his RPM's… turned his oil pressure to red hot rage.
Tony took another glimpsed inside. Guilt on his end wasn't helping either, these new mixed up emotions.
Months ago, Tony branded her as a prim hermit. She stuck out on the team like a glowing antenna ball. Not that the guys minded a girl's presence as long as they were close to Piston Cup celebrities, but she wasn't hard on the eyes either. Her cab had curves, sloped in the right places. She was sporty, but prude in nature, abnormal for a divisive car. Although, on the contrary, down to Earth. Those irises were like diamonds, innocence to a youthful touch to complete her Igari-like appearance.
Tony could hear her pacing 'round off his line of sight. Either stretching her numbed still axles, or following instructions for that new job she was up to. Truth be told, the pickup was surprised Melise went up instead of down the totem pole. Then again, her little 'date' with the Champion opened doors for the most mute of cars.
More silence. Tony flexed his mirrors, checking the scene one more time for that fraught feeling. He heard the engine first, then the blaze of gold, low-riding, uppity cut sharply around him. The car was in front on him, glowering as stiff as his enhanced features would crease. Based on the model alone, he was one of those Bentleys. Luxury cars that would wax their own tailpipe's shiny.
"Another one!? Do you not know where the exit is!?" Jonah glanced between the door and Silverado.
The pickup's upper lip curled in defiance, "Who are you talking to, pal?"
Jonah's scowl grew, "And you're mouthy, just like the sludge junky lineage you came from. I don't need perverts spying on my protégée."
'Sludge Junky'? Tony had no idea what it meant, although it still pissed him off. This low-riding, glitter-ridden bumper had just wandered in, yapping insults. He needed to be crushed.
"Get outta my grille!" Tony accelerated, pushing the sport's car with little effort. Jonah grunted on contact, and his tires began to spin in reverse. Rubber stained the tiles.
In the heat of the moment, a brown, shimmery Jaguar appeared from the room opposite. Her powdered face was horrified, "Omigosh! Babe— Jo-nah! Get off him!"
The Bentley reversed, his hood dented once again. He exchanged a hateful glance with the pickup. His eyes glared to the right of the Silverado, finding the familiar convertible. With most of her cab inside, her front tire length peered out, bewilderment on her face as she exchanged glances with the two.
"Should've backed off." Tony grunted, ready to charge once more. This was just a warm-up.
Jin narrowed her naturally arched features, "You're a psycho!"
Tony glanced to the car beside him. His expression cooled down seeing the convertible, "Rūūnes… "
Jonah lunged, his engine hissed, "As for you!" his tire pointed at Melise, "I've already talked to Edison— I'm done helping you!" Briefly, the Bentley grimaced, touching his grille hesitantly, "By a dozen, the most disastrous amateur to fashion I have ever had the unfortunate experience of working with! It's over, you're done! Continue hanging out with these grotty cars, they're just as talentless as you are!"
Jin rolled forward, following Jonah's exiting U-turn. Abruptly, the Jaguar flickered her mirrors, "Groupie."
Gauging the reaction, Tony glanced to the convertible. Her expression remained inhibited as they left. Most of what the Bentley said was a haze now, but calling her a 'groupie'? What was that all about…
"I remember you," Melise looked the pickup over, voice monotone, "Go away."
"Wait!"
Melise winced at the volume of his tone, "You're the last vehicle I want to see."
She accelerated and the door closed on its own, automatically locking. Tony followed reluctantly.
"Wait! Where are you going!?"
"Go away… " she murmured, heading for the descending ramp.
"Please! Rūūnes, listen for a minute!" the pickup swerved around stray cars in the lobby.
When Melise reached the main road outside, Tony picked up speed, just making it past an amber light. Her mirror's caught sight of him, and she became worried.
"Just stop driving and listen!" Tony shouted. He watched her merge to the right, turning down a well-lit street. His engine hummed as he pulled in after her, braking quickly as she caught him off guard. Melise idled in the opposite lane, soon reversing into the lot neighbouring. Under streetlights, her sullen expression was pronounced. Her glare returned as she narrowed her lids in his xenon low-beams, ready to deny conversation.
The pickup exhaled. He opened his mouth, eyelid twitching, "They fired me!"
Melise looked up from her mirrors, brake lights reflected off the bar windows behind. Her lips parted slow in astonishment. The pickup huffed, breathing shaky. His suspension creaked as his cab jittered. Tony down casted his hood, "they fired me…"
Across, she blinked, lids raised.
"I don't know why… " he exhaled wobbly, "They won't tell me what I did— I don't know! What… if… "
Passing vehicles glanced the pair sideways, the strident vocals catching their attention. Melise just stared at the hysterical Silverado. He wasn't himself, yet somewhere in the dark, depths of her mind, they were both even. Was he crying? Stressed out? Embarrassed and distraught?
Karma, perhaps. She'd never wish harm on anyone, although some cars needed a kick in the bumper to straighten them out. For a moment, Melise thought of the right words to say. No more spite, he was a sloppy mess, buried behind his treads. Aggressively, Tony wiped the tears from his headlights. If the convertible had any imprudence for his weedy meltdown, she didn't show it. Instead, her engine hummed in reverse, and she slipped into an empty lot. Eventually, her soft eyes looked up, silently beckoning the miserable pickup to share her company.
"I was trying! You know it's l-like to be hounded every minute?" his breathing was labored, tires rolling in neutral gear.
Tony exhaled, catching his breath, "Dammit, it was so easy just filling up oil cans— moving them around!"
Melise kept her lips closed, eyes attentive.
"I didn't do anything! I… did my job!"
The Honda's effortless expression remained, "He must've told you why."
Tony's lower lid twitched. He blinked twice, shaking his hood left and right, "No, he took Yarvis— do you remember him?" Melise nodded once.
"Everyone takes his side," Tony sneered, "Just because he looks like scientist. They're all crazy… judgemental, sneaky."
A soft hymn of acknowledgement escaped her lips. She looked at him for the answers, raising a knowing lid slightly. Patience was one of Melise's greatest virtues.
"Aren't they your friends?"
He blinked, trying to keep the 'sissy water' from staining his windshield. If Melise noticed the fresh frustrated tears rolling down his quarters, she didn't show it.
"Tony," he adjusted to the watery, orange haze under streetlights, "Why are you here? What does that have to do with me?" Her tone was ambient, straightforward, and free of hostility.
Nearby, country rock echoed. Tony took a curious glance to the bar diagonal. The flat screens played the same motion picture — a vivid red series of strobes. Yellow electric bolts followed. He'd never gotten around to putting Rust-Eze on Kessler's lug nuts. They had to be at least four years old with the rust caked on them. Oh yeah, his mouth, windows, mirrors and tires too.
There was more noise, horns of cheer and thumping tires. In the reflecting array of lights, Melise's smile was heartfelt as she enjoyed the scene. Somewhere in her novice understanding of the sport, she was probably a McQueen fan.
Tony watched her curled mouth subside, "I wanted you to help me." By now, the content was wiped clean with his request.
"So now you want my help?" Melise's words twisted in the flintiest tone. She shot him a look of contempt, "Weren't random pictures enough?"
Tony shifted. Briefly, he checked his mirrors for prying eyes. By this hour, the avenue traffic was sparse, so he was in the clear. He looked her over once. Brown eyes shot daggers at him, but if she would just listen…
"I'm sorry—"
"Wha…?" she raised her lids, genuine daze.
Tony shook the shame from his hood, "For selling pictures of you. For leaving all our stations for you to clean, and even making you decide— no, causing you to lose the job. Everything." Her nettles expression alleviated. Despite the selfless act, Melise's guard remained firm. She was no fool, not anymore. No more of that crap.
"So," she began, eyes up at the streetlights, "You were fired... and rightfully so…" Tony curled his lip in self-loathe then nodded. She murmured something on the last of the sentence he didn't quite catch. "And you want my help… " Melise glanced slowly his way, "what kind of help?"
The pickup sniffed absently, "I need you to take my place."
It was a straight request, a big one too. Tony avoided eye contact on cue, although the Honda gave him a reception he least expected. Her eyes widened just enough, lips parted slightly. He'd never got the honour of knowing Melise, but her expressions spoke volumes. Hardly dumbfounded, she was ecstatic? Astonished? Tony couldn't figure it out this time. Then again, the demands he came with did no justice.
"The race is in three days," she emphasized, extending a tire out.
"I know."
"I'm not an oil runner anymore."
"I know, I'm not one either," the pickup thought some more, "but maybe you could fix all of this—"
"I know the other guys are awful, but I'm serious when I say this, Tony, how would one extra car make a difference?"
Melise was good at those logistic conversations, Tony almost forgot those traits. That would be a huge plus too, she remembered all the small details the boss sprinkled over on day one. Her point made sense, yet she was still unaware of some things.
"They never hired somebody else," Tony clarified, "there was no replacement."
She blinked to half closed eyes, "Is there something wrong with the six others?"
"Five," Tony corrected, "One guy just stopped showing up. I think he went home."
There was some silence, traffic ambiance whistled in the distance. Beside, the bar's reverbing music was toned down, drowned out by chatter of attendees.
This is how he needed it, she was listening, thinking it through. That's what she was good at, calculating, reasoning without generalization. Although, Melise's bias could never be firm, she always held on to the information she could gather, logically piecing it together unless her timid prowl got the better of her. In front of him, the Honda was acumen, and only now, Tony was truly comforted by it. Where credit was due, he would have to give it. She actually understood what the numbers and percentages on the tanks meant— even the symbols. Nozzle lights, pressure meter, cubic volume, grade quality. Chrysler, the details stood out now more than ever. Melise left the coach her bedazzled Piston Cup calculator, and he didn't even bother giving it to his remaining shirk-ridden employees. Kessler thought she was preppy for bringing 'her own' calculator.
They were given calculators… Tony could remember where he left his before training, somewhere in that ratty Copper Canyon motel. Evidently, he wasn't the sole idiot.
"The contract ends in three days too, yes?"
Tony thought about it, "I think so, yeah."
"So then it would be work for one day," Melise narrowed down the schedule, voice stuffy, "one last day of oil running."
Tony lit up, "You could sneak into the stadium during the race."
She rolled from between the yellow parking spots, "At the Florida 500? That would probably be like trying to break into Area 51, implausible."
Tony shrugged his tires, "Then how? Say you work for RSN? Don't you need a badge for that?"
Melise slowly braked a comfortable distance from the truck, "Yours," she said suddenly, perking up on her suspension, "Your badge, do you have it?"
Tony's mouth opened slow as he stared at her blankly, "It's all I have. It's in the trash can in my room, but I can give it to you."
She nodded, breathing an affirming sigh. The pondering curl of her lips gave her a new outlook. Melise let her cab roll side to side gently. She listened absently to the muffled country tunes from the pub.
"Does that mean you're gonna help me?" Tony inquired innocently.
"If by help, you mean make your friends look worse at the job than they already are," she glanced to an advance green traffic light blocks away, "Or genuinely give the team a helping tire, then yes."
Tony was silent in his mind's reiterate of her words, but the Honda caught on quickly, "To both," Melise answered with a small smile, "only because I liked the job."
"Uh, thanks."
A change in the bar's casual yellow lighting was interrupted again. Blue aura drained the flat screens, and a computerized riff rumbled the speakers. Blue-ringed Lightyears and an electric engine to ignite. A transition of 2.0 glazed the screen from quarter panels of the well-known champion racer. An aerial view drift across blue sand in slow motion probably emphasized traction, control, endurance. The IGNTR: Original Adrenaline flavour canister was revealed behind static, slow blinking blue lights.
Tony came closer, ease ran through his circuits, "What's that whole Jackson Storm thing with you about anyway?" She glanced at him slowly, hood downcast. "If you don't mind me asking," he quickly added.
She sighed faintly, "… I don't really know, Tony." That was an honest answer, he just knew it, the surface of it anyhow.
"So, what are you doing now?"
"Another job I can't stand," Melise replied with a contrary curl at the corners of her mouth. Tony wasn't going to add to that one.
"If I could choose between modelling and oil running…" she began, smile fading. Several actualizing blinks were in her eyes, a bigger picture, "I—"
Melise accelerated around the pickup at twenty, "I just need to finish with a bang!" her voice was clear, grin wide.
The pickup stared puzzled. She was random at times, but as long as she agreed to take his place, he didn't hear the rest of it.
"What—"
Melise shook her treads in no matter. She had ideas, probably a long list of them. Nonetheless, she was ecstatic in an adventure, a challenge.
It wasn't a good day. In fact, his belonging were next to the driveway, ready for the garbage trucks to collect.
Edison could see the flattened rubber, slashed tires and bent rims. The expensive ESR ones. Those were his soaked by the late rainfall. She was still wearing hers when she came outside.
"Two-timer!" the Sentra hollered from the front door, "I knew you were cheating on me!"
She loved to slam doors, then buy high-grade fuel with his money. Hubcaps, makeup, decals and polish. If credit cards didn't have a limit, she would buy the whole country. She was also a hypocrite, she wasn't squeaky clean with those annual romantic affairs.
The Hummer was thankful she didn't come outside. The last thing an executive business car needed was a moocher breathing down his back. Scornfully, he peered over the tattered belonging.
Reyna would never do this.
At the office, the BMW skimmed over several emails from Jonah. As to be expected, he was fighting with his students.
"She doesn't listen, has the talent of a Lemon. Her friends are violent too.
She wanted to sever the contract, so we did."
It was always about Jonah-Dawn. Reyna suggested Eddie get rid of him, find a better fashion manager. The Hummer saw the profits, the fun his clients could have travelling the country. He was too good in his own right. Jonah had a reputation too, something about being a sleaze-wagon. There were four other girls wrapped around his golden tires, doing him favours to move up a broken ladder.
He didn't like it when he couldn't control. He painted pictures that Eddie scrutinized for answers. Hardly, if ever, the Bentley cooperated truthfully. Eddie was a big guy, and had a big heart to match. He loathed fighting, and tried to convince the girls to look at the brighter side.
There wasn't really one when a gold, stuck-up man-child was around.
The aforementioned Hummer entered through the elevator. He breathed deeply as water dripped from his cab. Reyna glanced to the window.
Clouds. She forgot it was going to rain this evening.
Tugging along behind the CEO, an eager forklift dropped destroyed parcels next to his desk. The Hummer nodded in thanks sullenly, and he departed.
"Ed," Reyna called softly. The Hummer exhaled, relaxing on his treads, "I'm glad you stood up for yourself."
"So am I," he breathed, exhaling through his grille. He looked at the silver BMW across the wide space, "But I sure do feel like a teenager again. The week's compare has been up, at least that's something better today."
Reyna smirked, "Yes, sales are great, better than last year's. Do you know why?"
Edison stared at her, guessing the surprise. Reyna approached, lining herself snuggly to his side. She toyed with the laptop's tire calibrated cursor, maximizing the email page she sent him.
Two dimmed cars, one noticeably glowing with blue decals, strong angular features. Locked in an embrace with him, a sweetly satisfied convertible.
The Hummer looked at Reyna. He was curiously content, "Is that, Melise?"
Reyna drove around the desk, looking him head-on, "His fans know, who do you think the customers are?"
Edison scoffed wholeheartedly, "They can't all be his fans, but—"
"Her fans?" Reyna mused, "The sales are coming from somewhere."
"Good publicity," Edison remarked, "This is different," he glazed over the photo again. They were basking in each other, undisturbed and genuine, he knew that feeling too well himself.
"Didn't you tell her to stay away from the race car? It looks like staying near him is the greater value."
Edison smiled. It was a growing fact that Melise was — partly so, building sales. Her and IGNTR paired together made a formidable alliance. This was working out more than anticipated. More than likely, the convertible wasn't quite the redeeming one, Jackson Storm was. She complimented his reign, a good medium to that supposed narcissism Edison heard all about. CEO to CEO, Gearsley mentioned 'it would be handled'. Nature seemed to do the trick on its own.
"Are you worried about her, Eddie?"
The Hummer narrowed his lids in wonder, "I was, when she didn't have any influence on the matter."
Storm rolled past the guard truck. The SUV gave a quick side glance, watching the race car travel down the building driveway. Inside the venue, two other Next-Gens continued catering to a group of nearby admirers. A sea of new racers flooded much of the hall inside.
Jackson Storm was in, signing and chatting up the cars like it was a regular thing to be obliged to the world. He put on his façade of interest, paying attention to the cameras and staining fans with tread autographs when necessary.
Truth be told, the racer was enjoying himself, but he bored easily. Fans were a trunk-full, and based on the irate whenever the younger ones screamed, Storm wanted it to be all over sooner rather than later.
The security truck had to give it to him, he was the most honest one here.
Storm parked in the humid night haze by some empty lots in the area nearby. He reversed into the corner spot, that same half-open neutral look on his hood. He didn't have to say anything, his engine was off. The truck blocked the garage to outside with his own cab.
He wanted some alone time, no biggie.
Tires crunched in ambience over gravel. The noise was so faint, it may as well have been some stray palm leaves blowing by. The air smelled like rain. The water was nothing, but he couldn't afford to be in front of cameras soaking wet.
Fifteen more minutes. If it did rain, he'd cut this short, cut the venue appearance shorter.
"Mister Stooorrm," the voice was so squeaky, it sounded forced and extremely annoying, "Can you pleeeeease sign my hood?"
Jackson kept still, the noise was to his right, a reasonable distance away to ignore. After a moment, the racer opened his eyes, catching sight of the car adjacent.
He raised a lid at her, and she giggled, a sweetened smile decorated her front.
Storm relaxed some, giving her a once over.
"Long time no see," he stated, "you really want the hood signed?"
Melise shook her tires in dismissal, "No, thanks," she idled, "It seems like a weird place to sign, anyway. Don't you think?"
"Rear bumpers too," he replied. The racer glanced to the road amongst the trees behind him. His eyes bee-lined to her position in front of him. She twiddled some gravel around her tires drawing semi-circles in awkward silence. When Storm's engine ignited suddenly, he only pinned a brief gaze on her ruffled demeanour. Melise gathered herself, chewing her bottom lip and playing off her minimal startle as nothing more than a twitch.
"Are you leaving?"
"Chat and roll with me," Jackson replied, answer null. He lead the way out of the parking lot.
Once the duo were on the side road, travelling slow, the Floridian night became quieter, peaceful.
"Do you enjoy interrupting me all the time?" His lid raised, tone sarcastically serene.
He watched her look to the curb in thought. Melise turned her eyes his way, "Yes," she replied, expression blankly honest.
"Huh?"
She could feel his eyes on her, "Well, perhaps it's a two-lane street because you don't seem to be bothered by it." his grey eyes narrowed as he listened, the action nonchalant. After a moment of silence, she looked back to the empty street ahead.
Jackson didn't fuss on the elaborate statement, instead, he focussed on the route, intently pacific of the car beside him.
"I'm not," he commented, "You're different."
Melise smiled to herself, "I think I'm well aware of it," she beamed with soft confidence, "It seems like everyone else has to 'get wasted', bang random cars, and take pictures of the beach instead of actually dipping your tires in the water to have fun."
Storm chuckled lightly, "Wait, wait, what?"
"That's what they do," she inquired sheepishly, "I mean, it's all you really see, right?"
"What you mean is, you don't do those things?" Jackson cleared it up, the question genuine. Melise shook her hood.
A tire caressed her cheek and her voice fell faint, "How do you think I stay looking so youthful?" Jackson mouth remained half open as she turned her cab his way. The words fell out in such a matter of fact grace that he huffed a chortle. Melise grinned shyly.
The end of the road lead to a crescent. Shadowed by heavy palm leaves, an elaborate, blue undertone structure sat behind a gated parking lot. Melise glanced to Jackson driving ahead of her, pushing the stiff metal gate open. He drove inside, approaching what was quickly revealed to be his trailer. The hatch door lowered steadily, the surrounding lot glowed an electric blue to match his decals.
A sense of flight grazed her mind. Melise looked around the lot for the semi-truck, finding no drivers among the other trailers. When Jackson parked himself in front the ramp, uninterested of reversing inside, Melise calmed, letting her wheels roll cautiously towards him. The lot stretched the perimeter of the side road, hidden behind greenbrier and thick shrubs.
Storm's eyes never stopped observing her curious wonder of the area.
"You're not from around here?"
Melise's eyes fell from the ominous and large Sabal palms looming over them. She gazed at the racer, stumped by the sudden question for a moment before shaking her hood, "No, I never knew they got so big," his eyes followed the shadow above his trailer.
"I'm not from here, at all. Further north."
Jackson let her park beside him, unbent by how close her reverse line was to him. If it were a parking space, she'd have half of her wheels on the dividing line.
"Like, Washington?" he guessed, eyes narrowed. She hiccupped a gasp when she noticed the space— or lack there of, between the two.
Melise thought about it, somewhat reluctant, "Further north than that."
Jackson straightened his wheels, silently acknowledging her indirect answer. The two idled in comfortable silence. Breeze from the distant marina cooled the hot air, and traffic echoed on the horizon.
"Do you?" she exchanged a quick glance his way, then back to the lot in front, "Do you live that mainstream— you know, guzzling liquor sort of life?"
He exhaled, "Nah, doesn't work well if you want to be a winner."
She nodded with a quiet hum, "I'm glad you realize that… Jack…" he didn't react past a gaze at her.
"Jack, huh?" Storm remarked fruity, "Finally getting comfortable, good."
Melise met his eyes, a sweetened smile turned to the ground, "I was nonsensically nerve-ridden before."
Jackson scoffed light, "Like right now, minus the nonsense part." she didn't budge, fenders honeyed with rose.
"Jackson," she stiffened looking to him, "What are we?"
His eyes examined her doe features with faint precision, "You've stuck around, before I started my winning streak, and after." she chewed her lip, she was a total ball of anxiety, played off with neat maturity.
"I think about you," he continued, confidence coming naturally, "I wouldn't have brought you over here if there wasn't something."
"More than winning a Piston Cup?" Melise inquired. Storm paused, eyes darting to her in a narrow decide.
"Don't even push it," he focussed, a lid raised and discerned, "I care, but I separate my priorities." She chuckled.
"So while I'm the fastest car in the world now, have you worked on being less of a pushover?"
Melise's cab tilted, "I'd say I have, I did win a bet race with the other oil runners."
"A bet race?" Jackson deadpanned, "An actual race, you won one?"
She widened her eyes for dramatic effect, voice breathy and rising an octave, "Yeahh…"
"Wow."
"Jackson…"
"I just wasn't expecting that outcome," he continued, thumping her side quite gently, "That's two things right there. Nice."
"And the prize was gnarly too."
"Hang on, did you just say, 'gnarly'?" he lip curled in an awkward grin.
"Yes, I always use that word," Melise answered cheerfully.
"What'd you win?"
"All the money they scammed from me."
Jackson scoffed wholeheartedly, "You've always got something random going on." She shrugged her tires with a lopsided smile.
"It makes life more exciting," Melise looked at him, tone little, "Like being with you."
He gazed at her a moment longer, "'Cause it's me, what more can you expect?" He pulled her closer by the tread. She nuzzled into his side, breathing becoming wobbly after some minutes.
"You've gotta relax, Peaches," Jackson muttered.
"I am," she protested sheepishly. He drove forward several inches, reversing into a turn to face her.
"You have a lot of beauty, and you're not the type to prance it around," Storm scanned the area aimlessly, "Good traits, you know?"
Melise kept her sights on the blue hue by his tires. She had some seriously goofy confidence before, this time, she couldn't get her gear out of park. It hardly mattered, because Jackson was rolling closer. She shut her eyes, lips quivering as the seconds passed. The shadowy warmth was looming over her, her tone couldn't muster past a whisper.
"…Wait… " he didn't much, pulling away from her lips after some seconds just an inch. A minty, cool, inch.
Jackson exhaled a breathy tone, "What?"
Her mind changed quickly, and she rolled in, closing the space. This was a new feeling. Another good one.
Somewhere in the maze of kisses, Melise's nerves ceased. He nuzzled her front, trading extensive canoodles. Being an expert was irrelevant, these things came naturally.
When Melise felt a drizzle tap her roof, she reverse from Storm's grip. He came closer, kissing her fender and cuddling, "…What's up, now?"
Thunder rumbled a distance away, the air did smell of rain since evening.
Her breathing was shaky, eyes watered, "Nothing, I… just haven't ever done this before."
"I think you did fine," Jackson replied, coolly, his sonorous voice vibrated her cab, "Cut yourself some slack, Peaches."
Melise gathered herself, sniffling, "Now what do we do?"
"Well, we could continue some more," he ignored the drizzling precipitation, "I've got the time. Or, you could put your number into my phone, and be on your way until I schedule a date."
She stifled a sweet smile, reversing into his trailer, easily figuring out how to use the intercom. Tapping on the roof grew louder, and the livery race car blocked her ramp exit. It was a sudden rainstorm.
Melise back to the front of the trailer, its space wider than she assumed.
"Looks like you're camping here for tonight," Jackson watched the water pool in cracks outside the window. His tire pushed a knob on the left, closing the hatch door behind him.
Inside, the ceiling reflected a glowing aura around the edges. Two beeps followed the door's red lock light. Melise observed the contingency sponsor gadgets, a two-point-zero reflector on the front wall behind her. The shelves and cabinets were empty, nonetheless, a quad pack of the real IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline sat unopened to her back tire.
The blue light made her sleepy. She took a weary glance at Jackson in front of her, he stared in space at the ceiling, eyes moving aimlessly and slightly. The droplets blowing against the tinted windows made the forecast clear inside the nearly sound-proof shelter, "It's not gonna let up, so get comfy."
"I am, thank you," Melise consented warmly. Silent tranquility ensured.
"Your crew chief or trucker won't be upset?"
Storm stretched his axles, eyes casually half-closed, "My trailer, my choices."
For a moment, the convertible blinked at an ever decreasing rate, her hood flushed with rose, and she mumbled something he didn't quite catch. It was nice having her here. She was safe, comfortable, and the blue hue looked good on her. Her lids were heavy with fatigue, and dozing off in his trailer was a minimal concern. In fact, Storm didn't mind her company, she never tried to pretty herself up for an audience, just chill and collected. A breath of fresh air.
"Sweet dreams, Peaches."