David Wisehart - Blood Alley

But Frankie, launching faster out of the turn, had the momentum now. The nose of his Chevy crossed the line of Darren’s rear bumper and sped forward, gaining inch by inch.

Darren tried to return to the right lane—the safe lane—but Frankie wouldn’t let him back over.

The cars touched.

Darren’s rear fender knocked on Frankie’s door.

Fat chance, buddy.

The coupe danced away lightly, settling back into the other lane. The road was straighter here, and Darren must have thought he could regain his advantage. But they were in the foothills now. The upcoming turns would weigh heavily against him.

For a quarter mile the cars raced side by side.

The road dipped. Frankie felt his stomach drop. His gut always gave him problems, and he didn’t like these sudden dips, but he wasn’t about ease up and lose the girl.

She’s mine now .

The grade increased. Frankie heard the tone of his engine change as the cars sped uphill.

Darren’s engine sounded tired. Maybe Darren was tired, too. Frankie wondered if maybe, just maybe, the poor boy’s heart wasn’t in it anymore after the humiliation of that last turn.

Frankie was on his game tonight.

The cars remained side by side. Frankie looked over at Samantha, who sat in the passenger side of the coupe.

She screamed and giggled and returned Frankie’s look.

Headlights appeared up ahead.

An oncoming truck.

Heading west.

We got company—

Darren and Samantha were still in the westbound lane, directly in the path of the barreling rig. The road had no paved shoulder, no place to escape. Just two lanes and a dotted yellow line.

Frankie kept pace beside Darren.

Again, the fender knocked on Frankie’s door.

Not you letting you in.

He blocked his rival from the eastbound lane—

Forcing Darren into a game of chicken with the truck.

Brock-bock-buckock, you chickenshit.

One way or another, Darren had to get back into the safe lane.

He either could pull ahead of Frankie—

Or drop back behind.

There was no way in hell Frankie was going to let him get ahead.

The cars jockeyed for position.

Frankie kept his advantage.

He looked to his left, past Samantha. Saw Darren hunched over the steering wheel.

Darren glanced back at him.

They locked gazes, a test of wills.

Darren’s face lit up as the truck approached, headlights glaring. If he didn’t drop back behind Frankie—and quick—he’d kiss those headlights with his own.

Your choice, buddy. Lose the girl or lose your life.

Samantha didn’t look scared. An erotic thrill played across her features.

She digs this.

Samantha must have known that Darren was a chickenshit, that Frankie was master of this road, that soon she would be spending the night with the new king of teen pop, the idol of millions.

Frankie saw his future play out across her face. He wanted to touch that face, that future. The future was his, and he would claim it.

He called out, “Samantha!”

Her eyes were bright with excitement.

He held Samantha’s yellow scarf out to her through the open window.

She reached her hand out and grabbed the other end.

Frankie didn’t let go of the scarf. Instead he steered his car a little to the left, closer to Darren’s coupe, and pulled on the scarf to bring Samantha closer to his Chevy.

She took the hint and leaned out her window towards Frankie.

He leaned out his window, his face close to hers, ready to kiss her at 120 miles per hour.

Her ruby lips were lit up by the headlights of the onrushing truck.

Their lips met.

Soft and warm and trembling.

With that kiss Frankie knew he had her.

Frankie heard the truck honk.

Then a squeal of tires.

He felt Samantha’s lips pull away from his. She fell back into Darren’s Deuce Coupe as the car receded.

Darren cut quickly into the right lane behind Frankie’s Chevy.

Frankie ducked his head back inside the car as the truck whooshed past his window.

Samantha sat back in her seat as the big truck rushed by. She felt the most amazing thrill. It wasn’t the near-collision that set her heart racing, but the boy in the other car.

I just kissed Frankie Lamarque!

She had been a fan for months, had dated Frankie’s own drummer, and now she had finally kissed the star himself.

Frankie Lamarque!

Frankie, the boy all the girls wanted. What would Karen say? What would Jodie say? What would her mother say? Ha! She had kissed Frankie. Frankie, Frankie, Frankie.

It sounded like a song. Their song. Now Frankie would write songs about her, about his race to win her heart, about their very first kiss. Karen and Jodie and everyone at the soda shop would hear it on the radio, over and over. They’d hear Frankie sing his love for Samantha, and they would giggle and dance and be secretly jealous—or openly jealous. Wouldn’t that be a scandal!

The thought made Samantha quiver inside.

She could hear Frankie’s song already, hear it in the wind that rushed past her window. Even the wind sang like Frankie. It sang of the cars, the kiss, the scarf.

Samantha looked down at the yellow scarf in her hand, the scarf Frankie had held in his own hand only moments before. That would be in the song, too, maybe even in the title. “One Yellow Scarf.” Soon all the girls would be wearing yellow scarves. It would be a chart-topping hit for Frankie Lamarque, his biggest hit ever. He would love her for that moment, for that kiss. She had inspired Frankie to greatness. Frankie was already great, and no mistake, but that kiss would transform him into—what?—the greatest teen idol ever . Samantha would be his muse, his life, his…

Wife!

And why not? Why not Samantha and Frankie? Samantha Lamarque! It was like a romantic movie, like destiny, like some ancient prophecy fulfilled. Biblical, almost. So many nights Samantha had stayed awake, hugged her pillow tightly to her chest, wondering if she might ever dare kiss him, and now she had. She really had. Suddenly her life with Frankie seemed not only possible, but inevitable, and in that instant her whole new wonderful life flashed before her like—

A flash in the mirror.

She looked back and saw headlights behind them. A pair of strange headlights. Eerie. Gaining on them.

Another car from the diner?

It had to be. But whoever it was, he was going real fast, terribly fast.

No, she thought. Something was wrong. “Darren…”

“It’s okay, everything’s okay.” Darren didn’t look over at her, but at Frankie’s car straight ahead. Darren had hit the brakes at the last possible moment, his car had fallen back to avoid a collision with the truck, and now Frankie was winning. The two hot rods were only inches apart, speeding faster than Samantha had ever gone before. Darren looked grim with determination.

“I’m gonna win this,” he said. “Frankie’s mine.”

“There’s someone behind us.”

Darren glanced up at the mirror. Reflected light filled his face. His eyes went wide. “Hell.”

“He’s fast, whoever he is.”

“Too fast,” Darren said. He sounded worried. “That ain’t natural.”

Samantha turned back around to see the headlights barreling down on them.

Behind the headlights was a car like nothing she had never seen before. Older, like from the 1920s, maybe. It was sleek and black and looked like a demon with those bright headlights, that coffin-nosed hood, and a speed like nothing in this world.

The demon car was coming fast, coming close, coming straight for them.