Thank you for your continued support. For those who saw me break my promise about posting weeks ago, I apologize. I ended up changing and reorganizing this chapter to flow properly with the upcoming ones. I rewrote everything and it took a while, but it's done now, whew! Enjoy!
Merina put on a disgusted face and covered the fresh made Prestone with her tire. Emla's gutteral, dry coughs echoed the perimeter of their suite.
"That one sounded painful," Merina cringed, exchanging a casual glance with Melise.
The convertible was haphazardly cleaning up the finale mess of a movie night. She used her tires to sweep popcorn kernels together.
Hardly sympathetic, she frowned at the state Emla was in. Last night she heaved and gagged through the entire film. Not that Melise had any interest in the chick flick at all, but Emla's awful manners kept her from enjoying any given moment. The insolent Camry would grab the nearest can all night, even if it wasn't hers, and slurp miserably until her throat stopped aching. If Melise were anymore bold, she would stuff a deflated inner tube into Emla's mouth. It was one thing to be sick, but another to be disgusting and disrespectful. She was coughing with her mouth wide open, spreading germs everywhere.
The Honda watched as Merina approached, a brew of honeyed coolant balanced upon her hood.
"How is this?" Merina let the quart hit the tiles, looking to Melise. The convertible rolled forward, inspecting the medicinal mixture through its opened lid.
"It looks good," Melise smiled at the Benz, "the thicker the liquid the better. It helps to soothe."
"Oh my gosh," Merina relaxed, "I thought I would screw up your recipe, but I actually did it properly!"
Melise giggled, "Look at you, Miss Iron Chef!"
Merina laughed, pulling up to face the television, "Right!? I should totally put baking as a talent on my call card!"
Emla opened her mouth to interject, breathing a fit of coughs instead. With each dry heave, she begun sniffling. She opted to forget about her desire to comment, and nestled herself under the mess of blankets and pillows.
"Ugh," the Camry's voice was sticky and miserable, "I can't stand being sick."
Merina shrugged tapping her tread through television channels, "Well you can thank Melise for being your doctor today."
Emla sniffled aggressively, rolling her eyes, "Doctors don't take care of sick cars, nurses do, dumb ass."
Melise cringed, not bothering to take her eyes off the television flipping through networks. It stopped on a segment of the Mel Dorado Show.
Merina's tires took her in a half turn towards Emla. She looked annoyed, curling her upper lip, "Doctors literally go to school to take care of vehicles, what are you even on about!?"
"Oh… my… gosh," Emla groaned the words out, burying her hood in her treads, "Nurses actually do everything, not doctors, that's what I meant!"
Melise turned her attention to them, offering the full quart of additive coolant to the Camry. Emla accepted it quickly, downing a long slurp. She casted her distate elsewhere in the form of a slight frown. Why did this conversation even matter?
"OK, just complain another time and continue pretending to be sick," Merina shot back sneering.
Emla threatened to toss her canister of brew, raising the quart with both tires menacingly. Melise sprung in front, blocking the Camry from committing any violence.
"I'm literally sick you stupid a—"
"Okay! Okay!" Melise diffused the air astonished, "Let's all chill out a little!"
Emla huffed, "She literally thinks I'm lying though," the coupe kicked a pillow at the Benz, the action was hardly organized, landing with a soft thump in front of Melise. The Honda stared down at it boringly.
With an adjustment of her position under the covers, Emla shot daggers at Merina, "Don't tell me how I feel."
"La, la, laa!" Merina sung loudly pressing her eyes closed and turning her hood away. The cars next door could definitely hear them. Melise rolled her eyes, sighing.
The bickering was a routine, Melise learned that quickly, it only happened everyday. The tirade would begin with Merina's eccentric array of opinions. Not that the Benz meant any harm with her ideologies despite their premise being flawed and illogical at times. This pissed off the temperamental Camry. Emla would retort with pristine harshness, typically sneering her grille with curses, followed by narcissistic boasting.
Melise was no fool at figuring her out in particular. When she met the models, Emla made her judgemental personality painfully clear. Melise still felt paranoid whenever the sound of moving vehicles was heard in her own suite at night. Merina's neutral aloofness kept her good in Melise's books, she just didn't understand how the two could fight so much. Truthfully, if these girls were her new friends, the Honda wondered if she was going to be the only sane car among them.
Emla groaned, taking another sip of her medicinal coolant. She looked at Melise, eyes brightening, "I'm so glad the shows are over for a while. Pretty sure I impressed Laverne Spark. I'm a tire in for high end gigs now."
Melise looked thoughtful. She exchanged glances from the televised interview, featuring Cal Weathers back to Emla across from her, "You did look pretty gnarly with those Le Mans strips. So what does it even take to become a model for Corimme?"
"Duh!" Emla's eyes traced the air, magical wonder filled her green irises "It takes… basically being perfectly polished and a bunch of other stuff I can do like academics and smarts."
Melise's smile flexed down at the corners. She didn't bother asking anything else.
"But honestly," Emla continued, "if a richer brand comes along, I'll take them in a flash."
Merina had her eyes glued on the TV. The retired Dinoco racer was answering a question in his signature, heavy southern accent. His voice filled the suite at a moderate volume.
The Benz scoffed after a moment, looking at Emla, "Last year you wanted to model for AUTOgirl, then Cover Canopy, now it's Corimme," Merina begun laughing, "Like, make up your mind, girl!"
Emla shrugged, a grin etching her face, "You literally just wore black paint, and buffer." She gestured at the convertible accusingly, "Melise just ripped off the Dinoco Girls' style, you bitch."
Melise blinked, silently annoyed by the Camry's tone, specifically how purposefully low her voice dipped when she cursed as if humor was supposed to cover an insult. Subsequently, her disdain peaked at Emla's disapproval of her costume. If only she knew what originality had gotten her. The Honda chewed her lip sweetly, debating explaining the finer details that were absent from the traditional Dinoco costume. Those hibiscuses were her own design along with the different azul undertones... It made for an exquisite finish on a beautiful car.
The two girls giggled away at the TV, mocking Weathers' accent.
Emla was the kind of car that always had to be right, even when she was painfully wrong on all accounts. Reality would hit her head-on eventually. Melise had found herself astonished in recent days, learning the true colours of her friends.
She would be humble. Melise didn't have to explain herself to anyone, especially when the odds were in her favour.
Merina began flipping through channels again, Emla fell into a spell of coughs.
The Camry exhaled, "So, are you still storm chasing?"
Melise stared at her, blinking slowly, "What?"
Emla rolled her eyes, "Jackson Storm, you know the race car out of your— well our— league? Are you still after him?"
The convertible's quizzical expression changed into lightheartedness, "Oh." Melise seemed to think about her response, "No… "
"Because honestly, I was thinking about this the other night— but like, I think he's just being flirty with everyone, and you're mistaking it as him actually liking you. He is famous after all." Emla began her stuffy lecture. Melise looked on, dumbfounded. Merina giggled at the change of expressions on Melise's front end.
Emla nodded her hood confidently, "I'm serious… Like, he can have any car he wants, so why would he settle for someone who isn't famous?"
She took another sip of the honeyed Prestone, "That's how girls get used by guys. I'm just looking out for you, 'cause I know you're pretty socially awkward."
Merina's giggles subsided, "Wait, did you mean pretty or awkward? Or pretty and awkward?"
Emla stared at Merina for a moment, choosing to ignore her this time, "I swear you're a total idiot sometimes."
Melise released a sigh, "You know what? I'm not going to just sit here and let you talk to me like I'm some kind of token lemon car."
Emla turned to Melise, her sneering expression fading into perplexion, "Wha—"
Melise blinked, relaxing some more, "Don't proceed to worry about me, Emla." she gestured a tire in compliance, a sassier, girly tone escaped her lips, "Seriously, I know how to take care of myself."
Emla stared at the convertible, moderate disdain in her uncomfortable eyes. Melise held the gesture, her lips tucked neatly together with serious eyes. The Camry hadn't expected her to rebuff.
A small smile spread on Emla's lips before she turned away, nonchalantly staring at the television once more.
Melise adjusted her discomfort away. The Dorado segment reminded her of the upcoming race.
She closed her eyes, settling lower on her chassis, meditating. An illegal stunt was going to be pulled with an undisciplined pickup truck tomorrow. Despite the ordeal, Melise found herself at peace; acceptance. Things had been at ease for a time. Needlessly, she was just expecting someone or something to jinx it. Conflict always seemed to follow her.
"I honestly wouldn't mind being a Dinoco show girl," Emla announced, "Like, not putting myself above you guys, but I've been modelling since I was little, so… "
Merina peered at her friend, blinking, "I've always thought about it, but they're so uppity—"
"Oh my gosh, that's so me!" Emla swooned.
"Same!" the Benz replied with a glance between the two, "But not like… all the time though."
Melise digested the conversation. She definitely had nothing to add.
"So what's your long term goal?"
The convertible peered up to see Emla's quizzical stare. Something about her tone suggested judgement.
Melise dug her tire into the carpet, "Well, I'll just go with the flow, and I don't know, see where thi—."
"Yeah, I'm gonna see if I can start a window tint line, and sell a bunch of cosmetics," Emla gloated, her eyes filled with stars.
Melise nodded, "Uh-huh," her awkward frown appeared. Her opinion clearly didn't matter.
"But like, I don't mind giving discounts to my BFF's." Emla smirked at the two, her mind was high strung. Merina shared an approving laugh with the Camry.
Silence filled the room. Emla begun slurping her Prestone once more. Merina continued browsing channels, pausing on a documentary about deeres.
"Hey Melise, look!" Merina took her tire off the remote, "Didn't you say you love documentaries?"
The convertible glanced to the wildlife show. Two male deeres bucked antlers, their tracks kicked up dirt, fighting for territory. A soothing English narration followed.
"Yeah," Melise replied, "But mostly ones about prehistory or outer space."
Merina raised a lid, "Well this one is boring then, its just about park deeres."
Emla opened her mouth to bark, Melise quickly interjected, "Let's just watch it anyway," she cruised in beside the Benz, parking, "It can't hurt to just chill and watch something new for once." The two coupes glanced at the shrugging motion of her tires, "You know, just bond for once?"
Merina's cab relaxed. She watched the program, content on the decision. Melise kept her eyes peeled on the T.V, ignoring any adverse reaction Emla may have shot her way. She was satisfied with the atmosphere, this morning had to be peaceful, just for once these girls needed to shut up.
The late afternoon brought about tranquility despite the soon-to-be circumstances.
Melise was in her bed again. She had run to its safety time and time again when life had decided to throw stress her way. Large room service pillows beneath her cab kept her doughnut tires elevated, easing any tension in her axles. Golden sunlight streams glared the walls, nonetheless she kept her weary eyes peeled on nothing in particular with slow, timeless blinks.
"I'm really busy Jack, maybe another day."
"Yeah, same. We'll reschedule."
Her eyes remained closed. She missed his voice, his caress, the athletic angles of his body. The message arrived in the late morning. She had likely missed the notification whilst Emla and Merina participated in one of many routine arguments over breakfast.
She shifted some more, stretching her tires out at the sides and burying her hood cozily into soft quilts. An exhausted sigh escaped, warming the vicinity of her front bumper. Apprehensive emotions crossed the threshold, she shook them off.
A glossy brown eye opened ever so slightly, she peered forward. Her phone was asleep. The message she received only hours ago replayed in her mind. Naturally, one could disconnect from imagined tone through technology. In Melise's case the fancy cursive font on screen was accompanied by that handsome, sonorous voice of his. She read it over and over again just to keep him with her.
Her axles became tense. His tone was suddenly smug and dismissing on the eighteenth replay. In her imagination, he had that perfect smile with a small dose of gregarious invitation here and there. Racing networks ate up the pride of a highly skilled race car the same way competitors detested his very presence.
His voice was gone for a moment then back to haunt her again. Melise's eyes closed halfway and she frowned. Chrysler, it was the same narcissism he dumbed her into submission with on the night of his personal venue.
Dammit. That was in the past… she clenched her eyes shut, trying to forget that hurtful, embarrassing instance. If his methodical approach to conflict resolution included emotional abuse, why should she even give him the time of day? Because he was an impressively built race car?
Melise fought the urge to massacre her pillows. Jackson comforted her. He apologized, he wanted to see her prevail. He'd given her more than he had to. He could change.
Melise scoffed into the sheets, that spell was Emla telling her how to think, boastful instruction to detest the racer's character.
Speaking of which, the Camry's charismatic tone was audible just outside the suite's single bedroom. Melise had left the mess of their room suitated down the hall about three hours ago, opting for some leisure time to mentally prepare herself for the possibility of her and Tony's imprisonment after their soon to commence antics. It was Emla who first noted the listless in the convertible's face as Melise excused herself. She begun pulling out personal questions akin a petulant attorney. Merina— bless her heart, pushed the mission of "Make Sure Melise isn't Suicidal". At the double, the duo followed the Honda down the hallway and into her room. Insistent that Melise's dreadfully concealed and highly nominal anxiety was their priority.
The two cars giggled as they whispered nonchalantly outside her door. Something about a guy they had met was all Melise caught. Somewhere inside her slowly blackening heart, she was grateful for their presence. Her mind tended to drift itself into hell with endless scenarios. Times like these were when she missed being an Oil Runner.
Merina's muffled and excited voice became hushed outside the confines of Melise's chamber. Evidently, Emla was having one of her theories again. Even in sickness she was insufferable. The Honda felt the oil in her parts run hot. This nonsense was throwing off her mojo.
"… what I think? He probably left her for some other sport's car."
Merina sounded astonished, her voice matching Emla's whisper, "He did!?"
Melise propped herself up and headed for the door, pushing it open furiously. The two vehicles' eyes widened, Emla found anything else to look at except the scrutinizing eyes of Melise.
"I can hear you," the convertible's tone was filled with attitude. Her brown eyes with their signature demure were transfixed with a fire.
Melise focused on Emla, The Instigator, "Both of you."
The red coupe looked defensive, glancing at the rookie model with softer eyes. She coughed and sniffled, "We're just worried about you."
Convincing to a fool.
Melise was taken aback, "Then why are you trying to make things worse? You came to my room, because you both felt worried about something you have no idea about, then you park outside my bedroom and start going on and on again about him all over again!?"
Merina exchanged an embarrassed glance with Emla, the latter whom kept her faltering stare on the convertible. Her eyes suggested she was zooming through a mental list of excuses. She had nothing to say.
"Just stop," Melise's wheels creeped slow in reverse, she appeared moderately ashamed. Confrontation wasn't her strength, but reasoning was. Without further contemplation, the convertible returned to her chamber. The tension would steam itself out eventually.
Clearing her mind, she peered at the city outside. It was unusual for shops to close this early in any other event. The Florida 500 commenced in a few hours and it was a damn big deal.
Racing was not a sport taken lightly, its revenue was merely a percentile below petroleum and fossil fuels in North America. Distinctly, Melise could recall her father joking with some other SUVs about the need to soon harvest natural oil from institutionalised cars if the refining of prehistoric resources hadn't been discovered. He'd give her his perfect smile and rub her hood in admiration, promising that he'd save Melise and her sister a large batch if the end of the world were ever near. A fond memory, one of many.
Melise's attention was swayed by the ringing of her phone. Turning, she loomed over the device for a moment. The rhythm of its house music tone had grown foreign to her in the midst of weeks. Briefly, she looked over her phone, uninterested in answering it.
It was her mother. Oh Chevy.
Melise cringed. She hadn't called, messaged or checked on her family in weeks. Hesitantly, her wheel thumped the green answer button.
Static and distortion echoed from the speaker, it was long distance after all.
"Mellie?" Vanda's buttery voice filled the room, "I miss you!"
A smile glided across her daughter's face, "Mom, it's been so long. Are you okay?"
"Oh gosh… " despite Melise's inability to see her mother, she knew the Accord was fanning herself dramatically. Something good had happened and Melise would get an earful of it.
"Your father is back!" Vanda's unmistakable happiness was long overdue. Melise stared into space. Dad was around? He was back in her mother's life? How many years had it been? She wasn't so sure she had time to think about all of this on top of her schemes.
"And guess what!?"
Uncertainty etched across Melise's face, "You're… pregnant?"
There was silent static on the other end momentarily, "Chrysler Melise! No!"
Vanda took a deep breath, "We're selling the café and opening a hotel!"
Melise felt her eyes weighing heavy. A lot had happened in the many weeks she had ventured off. She was glad, it wasn't her achievement or goal, but she could let it warm her up.
She adjusted her gear into Park, "Really? Tell me all about it."
Melise's reflection looked back at her with valiancy. Her eyes scanned the mirror for any dings or unpleasant spills on her rose fibreglass. Finding perfection, she reversed, heading to the map laid neatly on the floor.
It had been hours later and the convertible found herself as relaxed as she could possibly be.
She followed markings of each hazard, specifically identified with a red, diagonal dash. Her tire grazed across the paper gently, adhering to the path she and Tony would take through the stadium's country club diner, it was the tamest of the three options, providing the duo with heavy traffic to blend into.
Formidable choice, she had to give herself a pat on the hood. Maybe a reward of sweets later.
Without further thought, Melise crumpled the brochure in her treads, dumping it in the waste bin. She could hear her duo of friends still in her suite living room. Modern melodies played quietly, Emla sung along, Marina hummed with her. The two were hushed enough that Melise forgot they had followed her here hours prior. They stayed despite all odds, and she couldn't help but find some harmony in their determination. She stared at the door, contemplating her exit.
It was still early and the scout was to commence in approximately thirty minutes. She received no word from Tony today, yet forced herself to fan away her worries.
Reaching her tires under the bed, she felt around for the staff decal. Pulling it free and into view, Melise regarded it silently. The Cup in the center, flags and trimmings adorning its sides. That was the same image in the job posting months ago. It's intricacy and adventurous prosperity pulled her in. She never imagined it would all lead to this day.
After pressing the decal to her left side, she glimpsed at her heyday appearance in the mirror once more. A smile came, it was just like her first day in Arizona at Copper Canyon Speedway. Idealism washed over, it felt so easy now.
Emla's attention was drawn to Melise exiting her bedroom. The convertible rolled past the table where the duo parked. A quick friendly grin grazed her features before she hurried out of the suite. Emla returned the gesture, coughing dryly afterwards. Marina, occupied with choosing the next karaoke song didn't bat an eye at Melise's departure.
"Do you like 80's rap?"
Emla turned her eyes to the Benz, observing her scrolling through a personalized playlist on her tablet. Her throat still ached, and if fatigue wasn't pulling her to the brink of sleep, she would have asked Melise why the hell she was wearing a Piston Cup Staff uniform.
"No, Marina," the Camry replied, licking her dried lips, "Just play pop music."
Melise observed the large structure appearing behind Sabal palm trees from the avenue. The traffic was moving, but heavily congested. Cars argued and honked their horns ahead, clearly displeased with vehicles racing through their final method to make a left turn, the last minute amber light.
Engines and exhaust filled the air as she rolled to a stop in her lane. She could never get used to this kind of metropolitan rush, at least trackside she didn't have to worry about collisions.
The light ahead was green yet traffic hardly pulled forward. The left lane flowed moderately faster, no quicker than twenty miles an hour in a forty zone. Melise sighed when a courteous, blue, double-decker tour bus found himself slowing down in the traffic beside her. Inebriated, old ricers and dragsters hooted and hollered to country rock.
Melise kept her eyes peeled on the speedway's entrance, a massive crowd of vehicles, makes and models stuffed the security clearance. She was still at least fifteen minutes in junction for wait time. She, and the hundreds of other cars on the main avenue and interstate exit opposite.
Sudden heavy tenor of a bus horn honked twice. Melise jumped, her tires skittering and overcorrecting as she bumped the curb on her right.
"'Scuse me, ma'am, I need to get over," the double-decker bus eyed her annoyed, "I was trying to get your attention for a whole thirty seconds, do you got sand in your engine?"
Melise looked at the space ahead of her, the Ford minivan in front began to pull forward opening up the lane, she disregarded the larger vehicle, letting him across. He was just another miserable tool to her ahead of her in line. His massive ass obviously had done this route numerous times, it wasn't his right to insult her because he didn't merge into the correct exit lane kilometers down the avenue prior. Nonetheless, she was a Piston Cup Employee to on-lookers, she couldn't afford to foil her plans with petty road rage.
The traffic came to a total stand-still as a red semi truck pulled into the stadium's back lot bursting his horn in twin honks. Upon turning, familiar yellow bolts shimmered from the decaled truck's trailer. A wide confident smile of Lighting McQueen's banner shaded the setting sun, disappearing down the speedway's private entrance. Melise watched in silent stupor as multiple vehicles chased the veteran and his hauler, cameras donning their roofs and doors. The grass and avenue islands paraded more crews, dashing along and weaving through breaks in both sides of the road. No one seemed phased or concerned with the commotion, it was a regular day in the world of racing.
The lane begun moving again, Melise occupied herself by shaking away her butterflies, the stadium entrance lane was only feet away as the double decker bus cruised into the bus lane hastily, the country rock music faded away, drowned out by stationary RVs playing even louder Aerosmith rock and roll through grounded speakers. The trailer vehicles were clearly drunk out of their minds. The noise was getting ridiculous.
The traffic stopped again. Melise glanced through her mirrors, her mind wandering aimlessly. Among the long train of cars stretching the avenue, one pickup truck stood out. Melise felt her tank drop as she noticed Tony, his own expression weary and defeated. He was here, about four cars behind her and in the left lane.
"Tony!" Melise caught the sun's reflection in her rear mirror, manoeuvring it up and down to flicker on his navy blue hood. The pickup didn't notice. Nonchalantly he merged to the right, now in her lane.
Inside the gate, vehicles drove about wildly, from kiosks to security barriers, interstate exits to entrance toll booths. Melise focussed on the country diner around the side of the stadium's high arch entrance. To her credit, she wasn't sure if it was correct to assume the restaurant would have less traffic, but her guess had been rectified. The ground was free of tire skid marks beyond the diner's small road entrance. A pair of BMWs drove leisurely towards the diner, entering without reservation.
"Hey," Tony's voice was small and monotone. He looked like he hadn't slept. His navy metal was pale, parched of nutrition. He probably needed an oil change.
Melise regarded him with hushed excitement, her frown soon came as her eyes zoned over him. Whether or not he heard her moments ago no longer mattered. He was here, he had actually come to help her, gritty and dilapidated.
"Are you ready?" she asked rolling away from the crowds. Tony followed alongside her, his eyes on the pavement, hardly interested in sharing eye-contact, "Are you going to be okay?"
Tony flinched, shrugging his fenders, "I dunno, Rūūnes," He looked up, straining against the harsh sun on the country club's tinted windows. He didn't want to see her reaction.
The duo loomed nearby, watching their way in quietly. A Sentra exited the diner dressed in clown gear with a group of mothers and tykes gleaming behind him. A small juvenile jeep reached up, eager to pull the orange balloon hat from the clown's roof as he hummed, trailing them along in tour.
"Tony," Melise felt the words tumbling out in necessary obligation. She looked at the big guy beside her, a confident smile tugged at her lips, "I believe in you, we can do this."
He finally looked at her, the world around him seemed to fade away only his salvation, a dainty convertible focussed on him. She had all the cards now, even his badge. She was the only one left who cared for his well being. Tony couldn't have known it then, but she would be the kind to spend the scraps of her stray change just to buy him a coffee if it meant a better day. She would stick with the guys who trashed her through thick and thin if it meant something greater. The end justified the means.
Her smile was gone now and her brown, gentle eyes searched his for reason.
"Let's go," Tony managed a croak. Melise nodded, leading the way.
The diner was full. Patrons cruised about as waiters pulled in and out the bar and kitchen. Melise scanned the perimeter as the saloon-style doors closed in momentous swings behind Tony. The flat screen TVs featured live pre-race interviews with closed-captioning above the bar. An amateur jazz band played a relaxing melody, contrasting the atmosphere.
Melise nosed her hood in the direction of the rear diner exit to the speedway. The map never stated that it was tunnel, nonetheless there was no visible traffic, "That way," her eyes looked at the pickup truck once as she gestured him to follow her.
Between the shimmy of vehicles, Melise slowed down, driving down the gradient. The polished, wooden flooring of the diner changed to asphalt with a divided yellow dotted line. A burst of warm air pressured its way through the long tunnel. The noise of the country club faded away replaced by the hum of her engine shifting gears as she picked up moderate speed. Tunnels made her nervous but curious. She hadn't realized how long the passage would be.
Up ahead the underground valet lot appeared. Some cars would turn on their headlights for the dimmed down space. Despite the mandatory idea to stay under radar, Melise found herself grateful for the small array of patrons minding their business, travelling about in the dark, thunderous lot.
She sprung herself carefully over the speed hump, following the signs directing traffic to the main road at the right, and the diner behind.
Her circuits raced as she observed the heavily gated back lot entrance to the track. A large sign read RESTRICTED, warning of trespassing on the concrete walls of the underground parking garage.
Looming about, Melise etched closer, her eyes squinting as she observed their way in. The super speedway was marginally visible alongside the Daytona seaside. She could hear the nostalgic white noise of a muffled stadium full of fans.
There was surveillance, two cameras angled at the edge of the small corridor to the massive, final gate. The chain was wide enough for a convertible and pickup truck alike.
From the shadows, Melise made eye contact with the gruff security SUV studying her from the quiet, highly leaden corner of the lot. She hadn't noticed him, nor how long he had been there.
"You're not getting in," he rolled into view, his large, Infiniti bulk displayed his badge and company, "Head to the front booths."
Melise swallowed her nerves, "Sir," she gestured to the pickup truck behind her, "We're employees. It's our first day, and I think we got lost."
It sounded convincing to her and the nervous tone made the lost excuse believable, "Is there any way we can enter here?"
"It's restricted," the security truck replied flatly, "You gotta enter at the front gate," He shook a tire at her in dismissal, "Head back upstairs and tell the booth you're late, they'll let you through."
Melise chewed her bottom lip. She had seen there were cameras, but didn't expect an entire embodiment of a vehicle would be here.
"We were at the front gate and there's a traffic jam," Melise devised with believable sympathy, "I told them we had no problem waiting, but they told us to head around to the court-yard— somewhere around this way, to get in faster."
She paused, regarding the gate carefully, "I'm sorry," she let her voice and frown fall, "We just, don't really know how to navigate around here."
The truck pulled closer, "Look, I get it, you're lost— stadium is big as hell, but you can't get in through the court-yard either."
Melise rested her teeth on her bottom lips, appearing defeated. She glanced back to the tunnel, for the first time— behind her. Her tank flip-flopped.
The SUV watched her drive in a semi-circle, she turned on those bright, xenon headlights newer cars had and looked about the lot anxiously.
Tony wasn't here. There was no one else following her. He was gone.
Her brakes released themselves and the Honda rolled absently in the rest of her circle, "Where'd you go?" her voice was a shaken whisper. She seemed to question herself more than the confused guard.
The Infiniti huffed, letting his intake clear of the sticky underground air. She was having a bad day, he got it that much. Despite her troubles, she was indeed in uniform.
"Listen, I'll let you go through," he reversed, pointing a tire at her, "This doesn't happen again, understood?"
Melise turned her hood sharply to glance at the truck. Her brown eyes were heavily void of emotion under the luminous glow of her headlights.
"Thanks," her soft mumble came.
He beckoned her with a tire, "Head on in, watch it near the gate, and make sure the track is clear before you drive across."
She drove through the tunnel, thunderous thumps of tires in the grandstands above the concrete pounded her thoughts like a boost of adrenaline. She was alone and hadn't even noticed when he fled. Goddamn Tony, he never intended on coming to help the team, not even to make amends. If he could ditch her when she was the only one willing to help him, then he was no one to rely on.
Melise exhaled, trying to calm herself down. She had confidence in this plan, it was perfect— now it was mediocre. The thought of Tony prickled her circuits, he fucked up.
Pushing the large chain loop to its maximum tension, Melise looked through her rear-view mirrors. The guard was gone back to his corner.
"I should've checked my mirrors," she whispered to herself.
Yarvis pushed aside two filled quarts of Mobil 1. He shoved an empty canister towards the nozzle, recalibrating the numbers to the same volume total again.
Meters away, Kessler pressed the start button on a separate Mobil tank dispenser. The sensor's battery indicated low.
"Yarvis!" Kessler waved a tired at the sedan, "It's gonna have to charge some more!"
The Yaris sunk on his axles. His face twisted in disapproval. The team had forgotten to prep the oil lane yesterday along with testing to make sure the dispensary even worked. Today everything was rushed. It didn't help that his new grille still ached from minor internal damage.
Pulling into the Oil Runners' space with a new tank, the large white supervising RAM truck, grunted as he let the tank fall free from his flat bed, "Try this one."
Keeping clear of any further lectures, Kessler did as instructed. They were already short staffed and the truck hadn't been too pleased to find out that Grid was now absent too. He had been so furious, his polished porcelain paint seemed to turn a hue of red in anger, that or Kessler still had a piece of Yarvis' cracked front bumper lodged through his windshield.
Today, the supervisor was devoid of much emotion. He was filling in for two missing employees and a sense of practical reason erased any residual anger.
He parked nearby, ignoring the screams and thumping of thousands of vehicles in the grandstands. Their cheers and smiling typically kept his mood high, but the boys failed to complete their simple, pre-race tasks. Preston, the youngest one, had taken the time to have spa treatment. He'd arrived about seven minutes late for his shift, polished from roof to chassis in brand new Rust-Eze decals.
His eyes glanced over the red sedan, oil spilled on his quarter panel when he commenced his duties some time ago. More Mobil splattered from another sputtering nozzle. Good, at least three of them were working. The boys would make do.
"Hey Coach," Preston called, regarding the dispenser frightfully, "This one's making a weird noise."
"And the other one?" the truck looked at Kessler, the sedan just stared back. Yarvis parked beside him, "It's working, but it needs to charge a bit more."
The supervisor sighed, turning his attention elsewhere. That extension cord crossed the oil runners' lot, cars would drive and tear the wires apart in no time. That was why the machines were supposed to be charged prior.
He could hear V8 engines revving on the other end of the track. The jumbotron featured an interview with a racer named Jonas Carver. No Stall replaced Todd Marcus? The truck snorted in disapproval. Modern racing called for modern cars, but damn did those implementations change quickly. There weren't going to be any veterans on this speedway, unless the talk about McQueen's return was true. Regarding Preston's get-up, there was likely truth of the man's return tonight.
From his left mirror the RAM truck spotted a rose gold coupe approaching. The track was restricted, where did she enter from? Her nervous smile shined through both of his rear mirrors.
"Melise?" he gave her a once over, noticing her former uniform, "What are you doing back here?" His voice came more as an exhausted statement rather than a question.
Her eyes were sympathetic when she looked at the other boys sullenly regarding her presence, "Sir, I want to help."
They needed this. Chrysler, did those fools need her. Yarvis seemed to have a glow in his eyes as if he were seeing the Virgin Mary herself. He didn't even flinch as Next-Generation race cars cruised by in a symphony of V8, thundering horsepower.
"Just this once," she stated, her place on the team finalized, "I have to do this."
She cruised to the boys, Yarvis seemed to smile when she came near. If the supervisor had any more knowledge of the shenanigans these fools had played, he would've dashed in and escorted Melise from her endeavours. She blended herself in, putting aside any bullshit. He'd take it as it was, the race was starting, and she knew how to do her job.
"Listen up," the truck's engine hummed low, "Rūūnes showed up. She's got more brains than most of you, so consider yourselves lucky," his gruff eyes focussed on the Honda, "We have a lot of work to do and this is going to be a long night. Do you remember how to calibrate the machines?"
She nodded, "Yes," two pitties arrived to pick up the eight quarts they ordered, waiting impatiently as Preston pumped the fifth canister. She huffed a little laugh, "Honestly sir, oil running is really all I've ever remembered how to do."
"Look, I don't know what crazy idea you had coming over here, but I'm not gonna guarantee that you'll get paid for showing up. If you can fix this mess, I'll see what strings I can pull. Do your best, and no funny business," he smiled haphazardly down to her, giving her side a gentle thump, "If you need any help, just shout for me."
Melise immediately turned to the small flat screen televisions, each displayed order picks and the amount of fuel required in litres. Kessler pulled in beside her, grabbing an empty canister.
"Twelve litres," she whispered to herself, reading Octane Gain's pick. They wanted a lot, probably safer than sorry to have pitties running to the oil hut and back. Plus that extension cord was there, it looked disorganised, she would just have to deal with it.
The required time indicated five minutes. They weren't alone, six other teams placed their picks on the screens, all different volumes and duration.
"Who are you running?" Melise turned to see Yarvis beside her. His bumper was dented, a stain of deep blue metal scratched itself into his natural colour. She looked away from his minor injuries quickly meeting his eyes, "Octane Gain. Several others want Mobil as well so we should divide it up."
Yarvis pulled a quart closer, pressing the pedal beside the large tank, "What do you mean by 'divide it'?"
Melise counted the empty canisters in her head, "Octane Gain needs twelve litres, so its best that we give them six for now. We can put in the notice to their crew on the panel," she hadn't known where they kept it here, every track was different.
"Where's the tally screen?" she asked, taking quick notice of Yarvis' bewilderment, "You know, the paper we checked off for each team's finished orders?"
"Ah," the sedan gestured to the screen behind the tanks. A panel board was displayed on another screen, this one closer to the ground and accessible to touch. He observed Melise working some controls in the menu.
"Right here, we can send messages to the teams about their picks," each racing sponsors logos were digitised, some with moving GIF-like features, "Press Octane Gain, and input that we are sending six now, and six more when we get the rest and will tweak the volumes accordingly if the desired quantities change."
She reversed a bit, letting Yarvis punch in the words. Hitting send, he looked at her for further instruction, "That's all?"
"That's it," Melise smiled, she regarded the computer screen again, watching the sponsor logos dance around the screen, "That's so cool. Is everything digital here?"
"Yup," Yarvis replied, the two drove back around, glancing to the main order screen, "This is the coolest race track I've seen, it looks even better full of cars."
Melise's attention caught on the jumbotron, watching a live feed of Lightning McQueen, determination etching his features as he picked up speed with the other race cars. The outer edge of the speedway's bowl flashed into a green glow against the setting sun, the cars sped forward, pulling around the first turn, Storm lead the pack with a prolonged distance on the others.
She reversed away from the Oil Lane's edge, even at her safe distance, the ground rumbled, something still thrilling yet equally unsettling.
Preston's eyes lit up as the cars approached, "OhmygoshLightningMcQueenyou'remyfavouriteraceryoucandoitbeatStormIbelieveinyou!" the sedan scream a drabble of praise at the pack of busy race cars. Melise cringed. He screamed the sentence in under a second. Preston was out of breath after his bidding was done, gasping in deep breaths.
"Back to work!" the RAM truck lectured.
Melise hitched herself up and tugged her order to Octane Gain's pit. The harsh zipping of racers making the loop returned again. Those deep blue decals on his angular frame was unmistakable, Storm was leading the pack with quite a comfortable distance. The Jumbotron briefly featured a stat tally up beside live feed of Storm's stoic, emotionless face. Natalie Certain's suave voice echoed the arena. He rounded turn ten, gliding smoothly, inches from the wall. His grey eyes glanced easily to the mention of his skill qualifications and a confident, handsome smile came. His lids closed halfway in cool calculated measure as he followed the track ahead.
Melise sucked in a harsh breath between her nibbled in lower lip. She was proud of him.
Turning back to her six cannisters of Mobil, Melise parked herself, letting one free forklift pitty retrieve them from her tow. She was just in time too, some of the racers cruised down the Pit road. They may have looked normal on television, but these cars had some of the most pronounced fenders she'd ever seen. Sure, she had made her way into one's life, and those venues allocated enough next generation racers, but they definitely stood out in direct daylight as well. No other car had wings of that aerodynamic efficiency or a body crafted like vehicular artwork with toned angles in all the right places.
Heading back to her station, Melise heard Darrell Cartrip jolly tone change to sharp critical attention.
"Spinner's spinnin' out! Literally!" the Monte Carlo's voice echoed the arena, "And right into Treadless!"
More metal scrapped, slicing the pride of spectators. The collective pitch of joy changed to unison chatter, some cars screamed.
"And right in the chaos we have McQueen, evading the wreckage, just like he did in '06!"
Melise flinched at the horrid sound. Her cab immediately turned to the track. She looked about the smoking wreckage, worried. Was anyone hurt? Was Jackson in there?
A black blur sped past Pit Lane and Melise breathed a sigh.
Preston chewed his tread, fretting for number ninty-five. McQueen made it out of the wreckage unscathed.
"That's a big mess down there, eh Bob?" Cartrip loomed over his microphone, cheeky for a clearer view, "We're gonna have to clean and patch those rookies up!"
Bob Cutlass frowned, eyes pinpointing Cam Spinner's ache as he sat in neutral gear, eyes clenched shut from the pain in his bludgeoned grill and bumper.
"We're looking at a restart, in five." the Saxon coupe finalized.
That gave her time. She cruised back to her station, Kessler and Yarvis were still awestruck, staring at the wreck across the oval. The air smelled of burning rubber and gasoline. Pit Road housed the rest of the cars as trucks towed the crashed vehicles to emergency tents. A pace car entered the track, Storm slowed down, his eyes briefly met those of cars in the grandstands and cheers became louder. He adverted his attention, following the oval road of the track. He could use the time to cool off until he hit higher RPM's again.
Melise watched the line of cars still able to race. Jackson could glimpse her way and see for himself that she was right here, in the Oil Lane, where everything started, where they first saw each other.
The cars were coming up to the starting line once again.
Why would he? He had no idea she was here? This was her mission, he had another.
Melise gathered some more empty quart canisters, ignoring Darrell Cartrip's sudden change of tone regarding an ordeal with team Rust-Eze. She didn't have a clear view of Pit Road behind her station until she ran orders.
Six cans were neatly placed at her dispenser, filled and ready to arrive to Octane Gain. Melise glanced knowingly at Yarvis, the Toyota just smiled.
"Oh my god," Preston exasperated, "McQueen is letting a Next-Gen take his place!"
Kessler eyed the yellow Sports Coupe on screen. She wore a bootlegged Rust-Eze logo paintjob and tires. Her nervous eyes looked at McQueen, the race car's mouth moved but his words were inaudible from the jumbotron, "I think she's pretty hot, though."
Melise watched the eager, new racer zip into formation, her name was called on by Bob Cutlass, but the echo of the announcement with the cheers of a massive grandstand audience didn't allow her to hear it. Still, the coupe looked zealous, yet timid. Her eyes scanned the grandstands in awe. She looked to be about the same age and Melise felt for her, it was like watching herself race a group of burly professional cars. The green flag glowed the rim of the bowl and the race was on again. Melise looked away, she couldn't bear to see this.
"That's not even legal!" Preston snapped, "She's just a random car! What the hell!?"
The Ram supervisor thumped his tire aggressively, pushing aside some ten quarts of canisters he filled, "Back… to… work!"
Most of the orders were picked by nightfall. Melise kept her steady work diligent, observing that the team effort was going to pay off.
She hauled back empty canisters from Nitroade, Kessler grabbed four, gathering them to the dispenser after peering to the volume required on-screen.
Preston paid mind to the charging tank, nonchalantly unplugging the system once the battery was no longer an issue. Yarvis immediately took cue, using the extra time to fill large orders. Running eagerly, Melise picked up the pace, towing cans to and from crews, Yarvis doubling through with the ones she couldn't fit in.
The boss watched his team. A grin creased his grille as the orders on screen seem to finish faster than new ones came. They were working as a unit, and dammit, he didn't give a soldering Chevy for Tony and Grid's absence. They could muster without them. Melise took an assertive charge, giving the boys instructions to make their runs easier. In sync, the boys showed her where each calibration switch was and towed the larger orders with no room to argue.
Melise watched the screen briefly, seeing no extra orders appear, save for the one currently ran by Yarvis. Her sharp sense of pragmatism kept duties in line. Even when things seemed to die down, the convertible used her spare time to empty residual gunk from the used canisters. The Supervisor stretched his axle, minor rust on his bolts caused a stiffened ache. The race was in its final stretch of laps, and that Ramirez youngster was creeping up on IGNTR. He had to see this.
"Hey, Rūūnes," Yarvis called, dropping his tow haphazardly, "I think we're done."
"Really!" Kessler exhaled contently, "I swear, if we're done I'm gonna be so happy."
Melise idled beside Kessler, looking at the empty screens, "It looks like we are finished." She closed her eyes yawning deeply. Oil splotches stained her hood and fenders, she was relieved. She just wanted a warm car wash now.
"Oh my god!" Preston pressed his tires against his headlights, staring at the track.
The Final Lap logo lit up the arena. Jackson was in the lead, and the new racer was right behind him.
Melise narrowed her eyes in confusion. Storm bucked and skid from one side of the rumble strips and back to the wall. His even tempered expression was replaced by frustration and shared perplexity.
Ramirez was riding his ass, precisely. The coupe watched her way around Storm and followed his sloppy movement incessantly. He seemed to speak to her, a grudging tone from the looks of his face.
Storm's eyes widened and he shouted obscenities at her. Melise rolled closer to the edge of the Oil Lane, a smirk crossed her front and she giggled. Was this finally his karma? Chrysler, he couldn't keep it together and she couldn't help but laugh. The fast and bold Jackson Storm was losing to one of Lightning McQueen's most dedicated fans.
They rounded approached the final turn, and Storm slammed her against the wall. Horridly, the shrieks of high speed metal scrapped against the concrete barriers, generating sparks that looked painful. What the hell was he doing!?
"Oh my god!" Preston cried out, accelerating himself beside Melise, "He's killing her!"
Storm skidded off line in a squeal of his treads, quickly regaining traction. His face exhibited an emotion no one had yet seen, embarrassment.
Ramirez was above him, twirling in a graceful acrobatic roll. Her entire cab was airborne like an angel dancing over a frustrated demon.
Melise's eyes widened. She had never seen anything like it— perfection, like car with wings, "That's extraordinary!"
"Damn… " Kessler's mouth hung open.
Melise smiled, she turned to look at Yarvis just as the confetti rained up them, "She just won, she beat the final boss fight."
The sedan chuckled, matching her energy, "She freaking did, now she has the rarest achievement."
A plume of tire smoke blew over the staff, Melise crinkled her hood in distaste. Ramirez was coughing in her doughnuts of glory.
The Supervisor geared his engine down, pulling up beside Melise and the boys, "I'm proud of you, Rūūnes. You've got something in you these boys could learn from."
Melise regarded her team, the boys were exasperated, still reeling over the win just moments ago. Preston's mouth raced as he experienced a one in a life time chance.
"Thank you, Sir," Melise sighed happily, "I don't know how I ended up here… " her tires emphasized the stadium, "I'm just proud I was able to help."
She redeemed herself good. Hell yeah, Melise was more than she imagined. Nothing else mattered, only her team, she couldn't have done it without them.
"Melise!" Kessler pulled up to her, his eyes were narrow in inquiry, "I couldn't ask cause we were working, but why did you even bother helping?"
Preston nodded, "Yeah, you're fired," he deadpanned innocently, "Did you get the job back?"
Melise shook her tires in dismissal, "No," she looked to Yarvis, "I… well," her eyes darted around for sight of their supervisor, "I wanted to help Tony out. I know he was an ass to me, but he looked upset ove—"
"Wait!" Yarvis rolled closer, looking about the scene, "Tony's here? Did he tell you what he did!?"
Melise's perplexed eyes zoned in on Yarvis, she exchanged some glances with Preston and Kessler, both having uncharacteristic antagonistic expressions.
"About how he lost his job?" Melise inquired, growing skeptical, "He told me he was attacked."
Preston cocked his cab to the side, "What!? Us?"
Yarvis shook his hood, "He thinks we beat him up? A wall decked him."
Kessler remained silent, looking away from her eyes. None of this made sense, yet it all made sense.
"Where's Grid?" Melise asked.
"At the hospital." Yarvis replied, "He was rammed by that navy-knucklehead, He tried to fight us," Yarvis' frustration was heated toward his most recent memory of Grid suffering. His fixed grille seemed to ache again, "See this paint scratch," Melise looked where the Toyota pointed to his left fender. The metal was eroded by a series of scarring and a stain of deep blue paint, Melise's eyes narrowed, "Tony did this," Yarvis explained.
"What happened to Grid?"
Kessler exchanged a glance with Yarvis,"He's busted— Tony tried to break into our suite," "He went crazy, Grid went ape-shit, Tony rammed him through the wall."
Melise's tank dropped and her circuits became ice cold. Grid was a piece of work himself, but dammit, it all made sense now, perfectly.
"He told me the police were after him," Melise stared into space as the boys regarded her words, Yarvis nodded, it made sense. "He was running from them… " her words were a whisper to herself. She grimaced in annoyance.
"Have you guys seen him?"
"Who?" Yarvis asked.
"Grid," Melise was worried, "You said he was injured—" she reversed, biting her lip. She looked about in disarray, her eyes soon falling on the track's Jumbotron. A clip of Jackson Storm's temper-laden exit replayed on screen. Melise sighed, now she had two cars to look after.
"You guys can pack it in now," the supervisor returned, "Stats for your performance were better, give yourselves a pat on the back, Transberry Juice's sponsor's tent has free beverages for staff."
Melise thought about asking the RAM truck about Tony and Grid. He definitely knew something, "Sir, what hospital is Grid in?"
The truck gave her an engrossed once over, "He's at Halifax," he regarded the boys knowingly.
Melise turned to them, "I'm glad I got the last chance I wanted, and thank you again, guys," She angled her tires, rolling forward to embrace her team. To her surprise the boys readily huddled in close, "Its nice to finally get along, but if Grid's hurt, I want to go see him."
"It's practically a waste of time," Yarvis responded bitterly, he received looks of disgust from his supervisor and Preston, easily ignoring them. He had his own vendetta against Tony and the grey sports coupe. Even if Grid seemed to consider him a friend in the end, Yarvis held contempt for his part in Melise's termination, their team falling apart. He was a straight-A student back home, being grouped with punks didn't settle well with him. It didn't help that Grid liked to wave his 'Hard Earned Money' in his face when the opportunity to gloat was palpable. When he got sick of Tony, he came running to their smaller group, desperately trying to fit himself in.
"You're already leaving? You want us to save you a drink?" Kessler inquired. He was finally getting to know the Honda and now she had to head off so soon?
Melise reversed slowly, keeping her smile on Kessler, "It'll be okay, you don't have to," she glanced at the others, taking note of her former boss' distant, discordant look. A contrast to Yarvis' indifference. He didn't feel it was a good idea to visit Grid, nonetheless he remained silent, letting Melise make her final decision.
"I'll see you guys sometime."
Her tires turned as her gear switched to Drive. She heard Preston bid her farewell somewhere behind. The build up of anxiety, traversing tunnels and ending up in the arena tonight all through a plot she could no longer fathom or explain had meant something. The stress coursing through her circuits all day had turned into a cooled dose of endorphins.
Cruz Ramirez, that was her name.
Melise observed the coupe chatting cheerfully with RSN crews, her voice projecting on the jumbotron. Her trophy was proudly displayed beside her unofficial, new crew chief, Lightning McQueen. The veteran's smile focused on Cruz, only growing as she listed her thanks, extending through her family and a place the Fabulous Hudson Hornet called home, Radiator Springs. Camera feed from the Pits showed a group of vehicles, Team Rust-Eze surprised and proud to be named on television. Melise recognized the tow truck in his elaborate piston cup hat. It was the same guy she had met months ago on her first day of work.
Her eyes drifted to the back lot as she drove past, slowing down some more. The Rust-Eze trailer was parked beside IGNTR's. Ominously, the dark mass of Jackson Storm's moving van was left undisturbed. Whether Storm was angry was anyone's guess. Melise blinked, looking at the exit stadium doors ahead. She felt impassive, her mind only focussed on Grid. If any car was in a position to fare better, it was Jackson. Ego and displeasure with the world aside, he was the mature one, at least she thought so.
A small line formed as fans began their exit. Most remained in the grandstands, astonished and ecstatic with McQueen's legendary comeback. Tonight was a good night, for most, but it wasn't over.