The Set Up (2 page)

Fourth gear.

Finally, I reach 100, and I still have so much grip on the track that I can barely contain my enthusiasm. Now that I’m at the speed I want to be, I can properly assess my position. I’m in last place.

Fuck!

But Will is only a couple of lengths ahead of me and I’m gaining on him.

“Speed it up,” I tell him, talking into the helmet microphone.

“She won’t go any faster!” Will is yelling.

“No passing. Max was clear on that—he said no passing,” Jake whines.

I don’t say another word as I fire past Will and then Jake.

“What the fuck?” It’s Jake again, and he’s not happy that I just slid in front of him.

I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Sorry, Pretty Boy
,
but since when do I listen to Max?”

Drew’s moving fast and showing no signs of slowing down.

Faster. I have to move faster.

Pushing it as far as I can, I quickly creep up on Drew’s bumper but can’t get the upper hand. We’re approaching the second bend. Jake is right behind me. Now he’s passing me. I swear he just flipped me the bird.

“Hey, Pretty Boy, that wasn’t nice,” I laugh.

“I’m not in a nice mood,” he grumbles.

“Guys, that’s enough.” It’s Max.

We’re all ignoring him. I stare straight ahead and son of a bitch, I see the tiniest, slimmest crack between Drew and Jake. No right-minded person would risk it. Only a suicidal maniac. Luckily, I have big balls and I go for it.

Maneuvering my way in, I slam on the brakes when I get a little too close to Drew on the turn. My car doesn’t slow in the way I’d like her to, but I ignore that fact for now. Max can fix the issue later. I wait to cover the turn and then push her to her limits, leaving Jake in the dust.

Soon enough I’m awash in that exhilarating sensation when the tires feel like they’re gripping nothing at all, and I go flying past Drew into first place.

“This isn’t a race, boys,” Max’s agitated voice booms in my ears.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jasper? I’m the pace car!” Drew’s voice crackles through my speaker with frustration.

Pace car.

Race car.

None of them are driving the Storm.

Only me.

“Just having a little fun.”

A throat clears. “Jasper, let’s try not to spin out today, okay?” Max warns me.

Hands gripping the leather around the wheel so tight my fingers are numb, I grin and say, “I’ll do my best.”

“Hey asshole, you do know that’s what happens when you engage both the brake and the steering wheel at the same time while going more than one hundred miles per hour?” This time it’s Will showing me the love. Usually he’s the cautious one, the calm one, the one who is reasonable at every turn. Today he’s in rare form, and his sarcasm only makes my grin wider.

Again, I laugh. “Yeah, I think I know that by now.”

The four of us aren’t really racecar drivers, we’re best friends who just so happen to share a love of cars. A ragtag mix of marketing major, accountant, business major, and automotive engineer, Will Fleming, Jake Crown, Drew Kates, and myself have wanted to quit our day jobs since we started them and build an automotive company from the ground up that would be able to compete with the likes of GM, Ford, and Dodge.

And today is day one of that dream becoming a reality. With the sale of the part I named “Pulse” to a large retail automotive parts chain, I am now in the position to fund this venture.

The Pulse is a really simple piece of metal that to gearheads will change their lives. It’s a very small supercharger that when attached to the engine block pressurizes air intake to above normal levels, hence allowing the car to move faster. It’s something I designed during college and have been perfecting ever since. I never planned on selling it as an aftermarket part. My plan was to use it on my own concept car, the Storm, but it was a means to getting Lightning Motors off the ground, so I went for it.

Max, my old boss and now our chief spec designer and engineer, is on the sidelines today. He has helped me over the past two years assemble my dream—a car of thrilling contradictions. A car that will be every man’s dream. The Storm is just one of the fleet of prototypes I have in mind to launch. It’s a sports car that moves fast like a car on the track, but doesn’t make the consumer compromise on comfort and roadworthy traits.

Uniting thrilling contradictions to create something better, stronger, and faster has been my dream since I was fifteen. And the Storm does just this. It is all soft curves and hard edges—unique and unmistakable. Fast and can stop on a dime. And with the start of Lightning Motors, it’s almost ready for the assembly line.

“I think it’s time to bring it in, boys,” Max says.

I can’t do that.

Not yet.

I ignore his suggestion and go faster. Faster still.

The other guys are pulling off the track like good little boys listening to Daddy.

“You need to bring it in.” It’s Max again and he’s talking to me. If I could see him, I’m sure he’d be running his hand through his gray hair.

But I can’t pull off. I need to see what she can do. That’s why I’m here. So why not push her? See how far she’ll take me.

“That’s enough, Jasper. We’ve got all the data we need for today.” Now Max sounds really annoyed.

I should listen to him.

Instead, I press farther down on the pedal.

Still not fast enough.

Screw it! I’m going to mash the throttle.

“Slow down, Jasper! Something isn’t right!” Max yells.

Feeling the exhilaration of the moment, I can’t stop, and I go around the next curve like vengeance itself. Again, I’m not slowing as I should, and somehow I slide off the track entirely, but manage to get back on it. That’s the beauty of the Storm—control that is made for both the track and the street.

Now I’m going even faster but when my car starts drifting, I can’t seem to get control over the wheel. I yank it to the left, and finally I rein it in.

When I hit the last curve, a bobby pin at 15—the sharpest turn on the course—I slam on my brakes, yanking the wheel to make the turn, but nothing happens. The brakes don’t engage and I can’t change gears. Before I know it, I start to spin and spin and spin.

A dizzying sensation consumes me.

I close my eyes.

Open them.

Look twice.

The words
DETROIT AUTO RACEWAY
written on the wall appear to be upside down. No, it’s me. I’m fucking upside down and I’m doing more than spinning out. I’m flipping. I’m completely out of control.

Everything is a blur as I’m rotating on the track, walls coming in and out of view. My body is bumping and grinding. My hands are clamping vise-tight around the wheel. My foot is on the brake and I’m completely touching the floorboard. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.

I’m spinning.

Weaving.

Rotating.

Suddenly, my view is blocked by an airbag, and in what feels like a fraction of a second later I’m no longer moving.

Disoriented, I try to look around. I’m secure in my seat but hanging upside down. Hood on the ground. Wheels in the air. Belly up.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

There’s yelling. A lot of it. My body doesn’t feel right.

My head pounds.

My legs throb.

My blood feels like it’s burning through my veins, trying to find a way out.

I can’t move my left arm.

My ribs are screaming.

It’s dark. It’s light.

Someone is unbuckling me.

It’s dark. It’s light.

“Something isn’t right!” I hear Max yell.

“We need to get him to the hospital.” It’s Will, and he’s dragging me out of the car. “I think his arm is broken. Maybe his leg, too.”

“I already called 911.” Drew sounds alarmed. That’s not good. He’s never alarmed.

I’m in and out of consciousness, catching only snippets of what’s being said. Someone is taking my helmet off. “Jasper, you with me, man?” It’s Jake.

I try to talk but can’t seem to find the words.

“There’s brake fluid all over the track.” Max again.

Forcing myself to open my eyes, I ignore the pain flaming through my body. When I see Max pacing around me, I have to ask. “What’s wrong?”

Jake is holding my helmet and his hands are red. “You’re pretty messed up, JJ.”

I try to shake my head but can’t. “Not with me, the car. What’s wrong with the car?”

Jake starts talking to Will. A bunch of mumbo jumbo I can’t make out.

Feeling myself losing consciousness, I focus on the still pacing feet. “Max,” I call.

“This is my fault. I should have done a better job checking out the car before you took it out on the track.” Max sounds more than upset. In fact, he’s almost hysterical.

“Not your fault. Mine,” I manage to tell him.

He’s staring at the fluid on the ground. “No, Jasper, it looks like a brake line might have been cut.”

Sirens in the distance swallow my voice, but somehow I manage to beckon Max over. “What do you think happened?”

“Sabotage,” is the last word I hear before my world goes black.

PIMP MY RIDE

Three Years Later

Jasper

LET’S FACE IT
—there’s one thing on every boy’s mind when he turns sixteen, and it quickly becomes a passion. For me, though, it became even more. It became an obsession.

I know where your train of thought has gone.

You’re thinking sex.

Well, you’re not wrong, but that’s not what I’m talking about.

It’s something that at times can be even more satisfying.

Don’t laugh.

It’s true.

It’s
the need for speed
.

That never-ending quest to make a car go faster, no matter how much of a piece of shit it is, or how magnificent it might be.

I can still remember the first time I lined up with dudes like me at a red light. I stared down the other drivers. I tightened my grip on the wheel. With my car in neutral, I revved my engine. I set my gaze on the road ahead and when that light turned green, I put the pedal to the metal—and got smoked.

That pitiful day I learned a humbling lesson. I learned that zero to sixty doesn’t come easy. I learned that I needed to be prepared before I got behind the wheel of someone else’s car thinking just because I knew how to drive fast, I could win. I learned at sixteen I wasn’t ready for anything like that.

However, from that day forward, my mission in life became crystal clear. I had to make a car that was better, stronger, faster.

Pimp My Ride
premiered on MTV when I was seventeen.

My days as a street racer hadn’t quite taken off yet, but I’d had a taste of fast cars and I wanted more. There was this never-ending thirst to try it again and a real need to win the next time.

That show drew me in like a moth to a flame. Maybe it was the poor kid in me who wanted a fast car but couldn’t afford one. Maybe it was the glamour of watching a piece of shit go from nothing to everything.

I don’t know.

All I know is the show had a straightforward premise that was beautiful in its simplicity—take a boy with a beat-up car and orchestrate a massive and ridiculous upgrade.

The theme song explained it all in just a few lines. It went something like, “So you want to be a player, but your wheels aren’t fly. You have to hit us up, to get a pimped-out ride.”

It wasn’t the 24-inch spinner rims or plush leather interiors I cared about, though; it was how they made the cars move faster. What they used. Nitrous tanks. Turbo. How they reconfigured the engine. Valves. Pumps.

And at twenty-eight, my attention is still on speed.

Just like I stopped street racing, I stopped watching
Pimp My Ride
long ago, but that doesn’t mean I stopped wanting to be a player in the speed game.

I still want to be one.

Hell, I am one.

We all are.

It’s hard to believe that four poor boys from the other side of 8 Mile Road are on the rooftop of the super-swanky GM Renaissance Center throwing the party of a lifetime. And that tonight is about us. It’s about moving forward. It’s about Lightning Motors. It’s about finally building a new factory. It’s about the mass production of the Storm.