Chapter Text
The Financial District is muted after sunset. A haunting feeling permeates the empty four lane street, flanked by steel and glass that splashes headlights back onto the dark asphalt. It’s vastly different from what Max is used to in the Netherlands, where the roads are carved into their natural surroundings. The buildings here crowd together, reaching for impossible heights toward the sky. During the day, the offices and sidewalks are filled with people on their way to and from important places. He doesn’t understand the appeal of the nine to five and Max’s arrival in Los Angeles was fraught with culture shock. The street race was king all over the world, but he had to learn to navigate LA’s convoluted freeways, complex districts, and colorful players. The magnitude of its roadways are host to a multitude of unsanctioned street circuits.
It's the first time he's raced this downtown route and Max’s heart pounds in anticipation. The rules are simple: the car that makes it back to the start is the winner and tonight’s jackpot is cash. It’s just what Max needs for the beginning of the semester –books are expensive, rent is due, and he’s been eyeing a new set of chrome rims.
There is already a large crowd of people gathered in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station where the race will begin. It is the biggest turnout Max has seen since arriving on the Los Angeles racing scene; there are at least sixty people surrounding the run down convenience store. A generator feeds power to bright work lamps that illuminate the inky night and there are string lights lining the edges of a shabby awning. The flow of Reggaeton drifts through the open windows of his sparkling orange Honda Civic EP3. Max slides his balaclava over his head, deft fingertips adjusting the material until it sits just right on his face. The rumble of engines fills the air and it remixes MONACO by Bad Bunny as the other five cars take their place alongside Max perpendicular to the limit line of the three lane one way boulevard.
The energy is an electric current buzzing from his foot applying pressure on the brake pedal to his hands, the right resting on the steering wheel while the left firmly grips the handbrake.
The beginning of any race is the most thrilling and challenging aspect, the timing must be perfect to ensure a good start off the line. Max goes through the process in his mind, imagining each step. Release the clutch. Apply steady pressure on the accelerator. Manage the drop in RPMs. Each move is smooth, steady, practiced; remove your foot too quickly and you burn rubber. Go too hard on the throttle and you fishtail. A wrong move immediately puts you on the back foot in the race and he can’t afford that.
Max keeps his left foot pressed steadily on the clutch, the right firmly resting on the brake, confidence building in time with his anticipation. Racing is everything and any chance he's given, he’s in the driver's seat.
A long legged brunette glides past wearing tall gold stilettos, tan skin glowing under overhead street lights. A green flag drapes over her shoulder hanging like a cape down her back. Max rests his right hand on the gearshift, visualizing the pattern from neutral to first gear while his right foot gently pumps the gas pedal. He slides his visor down as he checks the rear view mirror, watching as the woman raises the flag high above her head, waving it from side to side, a verdant fluttering of cloth.
Steady, Max. It's the voice in his head reminding him to keep his cool. No one prevails with an unfocused mind. Confidence is key.
Time to show them you're the best.
Max hears the throaty purr of the engine as the clutch reaches its biting point. A deft right hand quickly releases the parking brake, his right foot applying pressure on the accelerator. The car takes off with the boom of the starting pistol and Max’s head is pulled back toward the headrest as he flies off of the line. He lifts his left foot slowly from the clutch, bringing it to rest on the floorboard as he quickly gathers speed. His eyes are trained on the road ahead as Max picks up speed. He’s the first off of the line and he’s beaming at his own proficiency.
“That’s it, mate,” his race engineer, GP’s, voice is even in its encouragement, “Don't let it get to your head.”
He's teasing, Max knows, and he checks his mirrors before responding.
“GP,” Max says, a smirk hidden under his helmet, “I know what I'm doing.”
Bright lights streak by his peripheral vision as Max upshifts, the engine’s roar timed perfectly with the lifting of his left foot from the clutch while his right applies more pressure to the accelerator. It’s music to his ears as he flies by empty buildings, the ferocity of the engine blasting through the open lanes, reverberating from the surrounding buildings.
There is no doubt in Max’s mind how this race will end. He's got this win in the bag; he knows he is the best. Excellence is zipped in the double helix of his DNA. His skill soars over the competition. He’s going to bring home the prize every time he gets in the car. Losing is not an option. The solitary headlights in his rearview are seconds away and it’s a familiar sight. The Ferrari behind is the only car to get this close to Max. It's been just them for the last mile and the other car is still pushing behind.
“Nearly there, mate,” his race engineer's voice remains calm over the radio, “just keep pushing. Your pace is good and the road is clear ahead.”
“Copy.”
Max glances at the GPS mounted to his dash to confirm he’s in the last sector of the course. An exciting series of right and left turns traverse through one way streets leading to the finish line. It’s the only thing digital about the car. The RPM, speed, and fuel are all analogue, three black circles ringed small white lines. The stock dash lights have been replaced, casting a golden glow over the dials. Adrenaline courses through his veins and his heartbeat is a constant pounding in his chest. He’s flying around the penultimate corner, drifting on rails.
Max takes a glance in his rear view mirror, headlights catching his attention, and he is surprised to see the flash of red nearly in his blind spot. When did it get so close? Max is distracted for a few beats too long and his eyes almost miss the pothole in his path. He jerks the wheel in an attempt to avoid the hole. The rear left tire grazes its edge and the car wobbles as he crosses over the double yellow lines. Vibrations rattle his chest, his heartbeat accelerating as he manages to keep his car facing forward. He pushes the gathering of self hatred from his chest with a deep exhale. The smallest mistake is unacceptable, Max knows and can hear his father's venom laced voice, filled with vehement rage, criticizing his lack of intelligence. A deep inhale is held momentarily, open mouth exhaling any shaken nerves that may have been built by the close call.
Being in the driver seat is natural, the gas pedal and steering wheel are extensions of himself. Max is one with his car and the near accident only feeds his desire for triumph. The only consequence of the mistake is the shrinking distance between him and the racer behind. It's part of the rush that comes with racing, knowing your biggest competition is there to watch you succeed where they couldn’t.
Max allows himself to focus on what’s ahead: winning . Images of himself standing in a crowd of people all cheering for his success inflating his ego as the road narrows ahead. The start finish line is a quarter mile away and the brilliant crimson car is now parallel to his own and Max knows it’s now or never. Sixth gear is easy to find, the transmission roaring as Max urges his car to its top speed. He pulls ahead, glancing to his left. A nineties Ferrari. It’s in lovely shape and he almost wishes they were racing for pinks. That would be a cherry trophy for an epic win.
The same long legged flag girl stands beside the limit line where the race began waving the checkered flag this time, and Max pumps his fist in celebration. He does not stop himself from shouting over the radio.
“Yes!” Max’s voice squeaks with delight, victory secured. “We did it, mate!”
“Another win under our belts, Max,” the voice on the radio is a subdued reflection of his own excitement, “See you in the winner’s circle.”
“I’ll see you there,” Max responds, “make sure you bring the champagne.”
Max takes the right turn into the parking lot and the audience parts as Max finds a parking spot under the lights. Vigilance has him scanning the parking lot for the driver of the Ferrari, his curiosity surrounding the elusive racer is taking up too much space in his mind and the anticipation of an introduction dances in the pit of his stomach.
Alex, the third person to cross the finish line, takes a parking spot near Max’s Honda, and joins him under the dilapidated awning. Max’s inquisitive nature has his body shifting until he is facing Alex, blue eyes study his tan skin gilded under the spotlights. Max tilts his head to one side before asking, “Who’s the guy in the Ferrari?”
***
Max is no stranger to a good time and tonight's win has him at an all time high. It started off with the celebratory champagne at the crowded parking lot and quickly moved to Christian’s house. It looks like a fucking castle, a large mansion with two cylindrical towers looming over the Hollywood Hills.
They have an arrangement: Max, his father, Jos, and Christian Horner. It’s what brought Max to sunny Los Angeles in California. The best state in the US, according to his younger sister, Victoria. Max will work for Christian Horner in his garage helping repair and maintain wealthy dickheads’ luxury sports cars because they don’t know how to operate the machinery. This will pay for his room and board. He will drive his car fast and win races to fill Christian’s pockets. It is in Max's best interest because, as long as the cash flows, the indulgence follows. Lastly, he will go to college and earn a degree in something more reputable than illegal motorsport. All in all, Max is happy to comply, and eager for a new beginning.
Max is familiar with the opulent lifestyle that comes with inherited wealth; money can buy anything or anyone. He’s seen the height of extravagance in Monaco. Abundance illustrated by crystal chandeliers, luxury sports cars, and lavish parties.
Christian’s house in the Hills is no exception. The man had a Midas touch and Max is enjoying a gin and tonic beside a sprawling infinity pool, twinkling fairy lights reflecting from the surface of the water. He’s being served by women in bikinis who ensure his glass is never empty. Max is well acquainted with mile high expectations, so he takes advantage of these good times when they come.
“God, I love winning !” Max has to shout over the music but it's all part of the excitement. GP nods, bringing a hand up to Max's shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. “We celebrate tonight,” GP takes a long drink from his glass, “tomorrow, it's business as usual.”
Of course GP has to remind Max that the world didn't end just because of one success. Max still has a lot to prove to himself. He has a lot more to learn about driving. Hard work does not describe the amount of drive Max has for racing, for winning. He thrives in adverse conditions, a dandelion growing from a crack in the sidewalk. For the first time in his young life, Max feels excited for what the future holds. He will not allow himself to become complacent –this is the dawn of his new life.
Life could be worse; he could be back in his condo under the watchful eye of his father.