One For The Road

49: People

Drake, Drake, Drake.

Griffin was right that it was an asshole move to assume that he could kick me out then ask me to come back at the last moment, and we could just pretend that nothing happened and I was born to fight robots. But with my return to NASCAR so close that I could feel the steering wheel in my hands, I couldn't get caught up in my heart and give in.

I told myself that I would get my way, whatever it took. And all Team Sacrilege was (if I could even still call it that) was a distraction.

"You know, you've been back in town for a few weeks now, and the only party we've had is the one you crashed," Griffin said.

"I wouldn't mind one." I laughed. "It's not gonna be here, though. This place is trashed."

Dust and cobwebs littered the corners of the house, and as much as I wanted to show everyone in Baton Rouge the trophies I worked for and remind them I was still relevant, it was gonna have to be a Gallagher-Moore party, not a Moore-Gallagher one.

I shut the front door. Even though Drake was right about me, I still wanted every second of the next few days to try to talk myself into making the logical choice of letting him and Josiah go.

"Was Penny up in the trophy room with us earlier? She's being a little too quiet right now," Griffin said.

I shrugged.

"Penny," he called. "You don't have any garbage here, do you?"

"Besides you, no." I smiled.

Griffin laughed, but before he could say anything about how I, too, was garbage, Penny came trotting around the corner with something brown in her mouth.

Oh god.

"What the hell are you eating? Drop that," Griffin said.

And just like she was asked, Penny set the questionable brown thing at my feet.

"What the fuck?" I squatted down to the floor. A dead lizard. I looked up at her, and her tail wagged behind her.

Fabulous.

Griffin laughed. "At least she likes you."

I never thought I'd win the approval of Griffin's dog before pretty much anyone else's.

I gave her a scratch behind her floppy, pointed black ear. "I like you too."

Although her breath smelled like shit, she was one of the cutest dogs in the history of ever, and I didn't mind sharing Griffin with her. It only meant that Griffin liked cute things, and therefore, I was cute.

***

A couple days later, with a party for no goddamn reason set for later, Griffin and I ran through the house to make sure everything looked clean. I dusted off the Martinsville grandfather clock trophy he won when I was a rookie. Maybe I'd win one for myself soon.

Every driver understood just how much each trophy meant, even the ones with fifty wins nearing the end of their careers. And every single NASCAR Cup driver was invited to our party, even the ones we didn't like. Although we all lived across America and had different strengths and styles, we all had one goal in mind: win.

NASCAR's roots were in the rebel spirit of America, the ones who didn't give a fuck and had one life to live as fast as possible. Moonshiners running from the cops was just the beginning of the sport, and for anyone to claim that I didn't belong for whatever reason—the vagina, the mouth, the intensely fun spirit—all it meant was that they had no idea what the hell we were all about.