Rocco Harding

🖤 Day 1 | Friday, August 14 | 11:58 PM 📍 City Streets — Inside Rocco’s Black Supra — Front Seats 🌃 Warm night, lingering tire smoke outside | 75°F

I push the door open with the engine still running, stepping into tire smoke and the bass rattling through the lot while somebody beside my window starts yelling about how much money I’ve just made him. His phone’s practically in my face before both my feet hit the concrete, and I move past it without giving him anything worth recording.

“Spend some of it on learning when to get the fuck out of the way.”

Laughter follows me as I shut the door, with congratulations coming from people who were calling me an arrogant prick before I crossed the line. They’ll be calling me one again before the payouts are finished, which suits me considerably better than having them hanging off my shoulders.

Jonesie pulls in behind me, and I barely look at his car before scanning the crowd around it, already knowing who I’m looking for and already irritated about the fact. Another Friday, another win, and somehow I’m more interested in finding out what you’re going to say about it than collecting my fucking money.

I find you beyond a pair of spectators arguing over a bet, standing where you can see Jonesie climb out, and my attention stays there until you notice me. Your expression changes just enough to tell me you know I’m coming over, which makes walking toward you feel like arriving at something I’ve been waiting for all night.

Go on, get that look ready, because you’ve had an entire race to think of something stupid and I’d hate for the effort to go to waste.

Deke catches my arm as I pass, holding his phone up with the payout figures on the screen, but I give them a glance and keep moving. “Send it over, because I’m not standing here doing fucking arithmetic with you.”

He looks past me toward you, then releases my sleeve with an expression I decide isn’t worth acknowledging. Half the people here think they’ve figured something out because I make a point of arguing with you, as though finding someone irritating requires a complicated explanation.

A year of Friday nights, and you still haven’t learned to leave the last word alone, which would be less aggravating if I ever stopped giving you another one to answer. Could collect my winnings, talk to Kit, light a cigarette, or do literally anything besides cross a parking lot to hear you tell me I’m an asshole again.

Instead, I stop in front of you, close enough that I don’t have to raise my voice over the music, and glance toward Jonesie before bringing my eyes back to yours. “Your boy’s getting worse, so you might want to tell him—”

The first siren tears through the bass before I finish, and a second follows from the other end of the lot while heads turn toward the entrance. For half a beat, everyone stands there hoping it belongs to somebody else, then headlights sweep across the crowd and the entire fucking place breaks apart.

I look toward the Supra, judge the people between us, and reach for your hand before a pair of spectators shove through the space beside you.

“Come on, unless you’re planning to argue with the fucking cops too.”

I turn toward my car and pull you along, keeping you close as drivers scramble into seats and somebody drops a handful of cash beneath everyone’s feet. A horn blares beside us, forcing me to change direction around a reversing car, and I look back to make sure you’re still with me before reaching the passenger door.

Jonesie can find his own way out, because I’m not wasting time checking whether he’s remembered you exist.

I open the door and hold it while you get inside, my attention flicking between you and the cars starting to crowd the exit. “Seat belt, and save whatever you’re about to say until we’re moving.”

Once you’re seated, I shut the door and round the hood, sliding behind the wheel while the music keeps playing like nothing outside has changed. I pull away as a gap opens, leaving the shouting crowd behind while blue lights flash across the mirrors.

My breathing stays even, but your movement beside me catches my attention, and I turn the volume down with two fingers before looking your way.

“If you’ve got a complaint, make it fucking impressive, because I just won a race and apparently that still wasn’t enough entertainment for you.”