The Subaru had served its purpose well over the next three weeks. Chase drove it in two more circuit races—one at the docks, another through the warehouse district—both times placing in the money. Nick walked away with enough cash to not only catch up on rent but actually put something aside for the first time in months. He'd stopped asking Chase to race and started just assuming he would, which should have annoyed Chase more than it did.
But the truth was, Chase didn't need the convincing anymore.
The Eclipse had taken two weeks of nights and weekends to rebuild. Chase had pulled the 4G63 engine, replaced the clutch that had been slipping since 2001, upgraded the turbo to a 20G, installed a front-mount intercooler he'd gotten at cost through Apex Performance, and spent an entire Saturday with a laptop and a wideband sensor dialing in the fuel maps. The result was a car that put down just over 300 horsepower to the wheels—not a monster by any means, but more than enough for Olympic City's street circuits in late 2004.
The Turquoise Green Pearl paint still needed work, but under the sodium vapor lights of the industrial district, it looked mean enough. Chase had kept the modifications subtle—no ridiculous body kit, no underglow, just aggressive wheels, lowered suspension, and an exhaust that announced the 4G63's presence without screaming for attention. It was a driver's car, built by someone who understood that lap times mattered more than magazine covers.
His first race in the Eclipse had been nerve-wracking. The car felt different than he remembered—more responsive, more aggressive, more willing to bite if he made a mistake. But by turn three of lap one, muscle memory had taken over, and he'd crossed the finish line in second place, beaten only by a heavily built Nissan 240SX that had at least fifty horsepower on him.
The second race, he'd won.
The third race, second place again, this time to an Acura Integra Type R that was basically a race car with license plates.
The fourth race, another win, this time beating the same 240SX that had taken him in his debut.
Four races in the Eclipse. Two wins, two second-place finishes. Not a bad record for someone who'd been out of the game for three years. More importantly, people were starting to notice. Starting to remember the name Chase Bennington. Starting to point when the Turquoise Eclipse rolled into the lot.
It felt good. Better than it should have.
Friday night, the races had moved to the airfield—an abandoned airport on the eastern edge of Olympic City that had been closed since the early nineties. The runways were still intact, long stretches of cracked pavement that made for fast, technical circuits when combined with the taxiways and service roads. It was one of Chase's favorite venues from back in 2000 and 2001, before Marco's crash, before he'd put everything away.
Chase pulled the Eclipse into the staging area around nine-thirty, Nick following behind in the Subaru. Nick wasn't racing tonight—he'd made that clear on the drive over—but he wanted to be there, wanted to be part of it. The Subaru had gotten some attention from the scene, some people asking if it was for sale, others wanting to know who'd built it. Nick was eating it up.
"Man, this crowd is way bigger than last month," Nick said as they climbed out of their cars. He wasn't wrong. There had to be sixty or seventy cars in the lot, everything from bone-stock Civics with fresh drivers hoping to make a name, to full race-prepped machines that probably had more invested than Chase made in a year at Apex Performance.
"Word spreads," Chase said, scanning the crowd. He recognized faces now—Marcus with his RX-8, the guy with the 240SX who'd beaten him in his first Eclipse race, a couple of the organizers. And there, near a pristine silver Acura RSX, was Samantha.
She spotted him at the same moment, raised a hand in acknowledgment. Chase walked over.
"Four for four," Samantha said without preamble. "Two wins. Not bad for someone who was 'just staying out of trouble.'"
"Five races if you count tonight," Chase corrected.
"You're entered?"
"Wouldn't be here otherwise."
Samantha smiled. "Good. The competition's stepped up. You've got some serious builds showing tonight. There's a Supra from the south side putting down almost four-fifty to the wheels. The 240SX you beat last week just installed a new turbo—I heard he's making over three-seventy now. And there's a new guy with an Evolution VIII that's been tearing up the drag strips."
"I've got three hundred," Chase said. "Give or take."
"Yeah, but you've got something they don't." Samantha tapped her temple. "You think. Half these guys just point it straight and hope the engine does the work. You actually know how to drive."
"Helped that you taught me the lines last month," Chase said, remembering how Samantha had walked him through the warehouse district circuit before his second Eclipse race, pointing out the fast lines, the hidden grip, the places where the pavement was too broken to push hard.
"I help people with talent," Samantha said. "No point wasting time on guys who'll wash out in a month."
Nick appeared, slightly out of breath, carrying two bottles of water from a cooler someone had set up. "Chase! Dude, the Supra guy wants to race you. Like, specifically called you out."
"Which Supra?"
"The silver one. Fat single turbo. Thing sounds insane."
Chase looked over. The Supra in question was a fourth-generation, probably a 1998 or 1999 model, sitting on expensive wheels with a front splitter that looked like it belonged on a Time Attack car. The driver stood next to it, mid-thirties, arms crossed, watching Chase with the particular intensity of someone who had something to prove.
"He's fast," Samantha said quietly. "Won three straights this month. Hasn't run a circuit yet, but on paper, he should destroy you."
"On paper," Chase repeated.
"On paper," Samantha confirmed. "But paper doesn't account for driving talent. You want my advice? Race him. Even if you lose, you'll learn something. And if you win..." She smiled. "People will remember."
The airfield circuit was brutal—two miles of runway, taxiway, and service roads that combined high-speed straights with technical sections that punished any mistake. Chase walked it before the races started, noting the rough patches, the places where the pavement had heaved from years of neglect, the turns that tightened more than they appeared.
By the time the first heat started at ten-thirty, the temperature had dropped into the low fifties, which meant better air density, which meant more power. Chase's Eclipse sat in the staging area for heat three, engine warm, fuel tank full, tire pressures checked. He'd drawn the Supra in his heat, along with two other cars—an Integra GSR and a Mitsubishi 3000GT VR-4.
Nick was bouncing with nervous energy. "You've got this, man. I mean, the Supra's fast, but you're—"
"Nick. Breathe."
"Right. Breathing. I'm breathing." Nick took a dramatic breath. "You've got this."
The first two heats ran without major incident. The Evolution VIII that Samantha had mentioned won heat one convincingly, pulling away from the pack like they were standing still. The 240SX won heat two, confirming that the new turbo was doing its job.
"Heat three!" someone called.
Chase fired up the Eclipse, felt the 4G63 settle into its aggressive idle. The turbo spooled slightly just from engine vibration, a whistle that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat over the past month. He pulled up to the line, the Supra on his right, Integra on his left, 3000GT further down.
The Supra's driver—Chase had heard someone call him Derek—revved his engine. The sound was massive, a deep basso rumble that spoke of serious displacement and serious boost. Chase didn't respond, just kept his revs steady at two thousand, waiting.
The starter stood between them, flashlight raised.
Chase's mind went quiet, the way it always did before a race. No thoughts about money or Nick's rent or whether he should be doing this at all. Just the circuit, the car, and the space between heartbeats where decisions got made.
The flashlight dropped.
Chase launched hard, felt the front wheels scrabble for a heartbeat before the all-wheel-drive system sorted itself out and rocketed him forward. The Supra got a better start—more power, better traction from wider rear tires—but Chase didn't panic. The first turn was coming, and that's where he'd make up ground.
The Supra pulled ahead on the runway straight, exactly as expected. Chase tucked in behind, using the draft to stay close. The Integra was falling back already, the 3000GT somewhere behind. It was just Chase and Derek now, Eclipse and Supra, 300 horsepower versus 450.
First turn—a ninety-degree right onto the taxiway. Derek braked late, muscled the Supra through on power. Fast, but not clean. Chase braked later, turned in smoother, used less steering angle, got on the throttle earlier. He exited half a car length closer.
The taxiway section was technical—a series of connected turns that flowed into each other if you got the rhythm right. Derek was fighting the Supra through each one, the big turbo causing lag between corners, the rear-wheel-drive layout requiring careful throttle management. Chase's AWD system just worked, letting him be aggressive where Derek had to be cautious.
By turn five, they were side-by-side.
Turn six, Chase was ahead by a nose.
Derek wasn't giving up. The second runway straight was coming—a full half-mile of cracked pavement where the Supra's power advantage would shine. Chase pushed hard through the final taxiway turn, trying to build as much gap as possible.
The straight. Derek pulled alongside, then ahead, the Supra's single turbo finally hitting full boost. Fifty horsepower advantage, a hundred and fifty horsepower advantage, it didn't matter—physics was physics. Chase maxed out at 135 miles per hour. The Supra walked away to 155.
But the straight ended.
The service road section was tight and bumpy, the kind of surface that upset big-power cars and rewarded precise inputs. Chase braked hard, downshifted to third, turned in. The Eclipse danced through the bumps, suspension soaking them up, chassis communicating every detail through the steering wheel. Derek braked earlier, turned in tentatively, the Supra's stiff race suspension getting unsettled.
Chase passed him on the inside of turn nine.
Two laps to go.
They traded positions three more times—Derek taking him on the straights, Chase taking him back in the technical sections. The crowd at the finish line was going insane, Chase could hear them even over the exhaust note and turbo whistle. This was what street racing was supposed to be—two drivers pushing each other, learning each other's cars, finding the absolute limit.
Final lap. Final straight. Derek was right on his bumper, the Supra's massive hood filling Chase's mirror. They hit the service road section together, side-by-side, neither giving an inch.
Final turn. A decreasing radius left-hander that got tighter at the exit. Chase knew this turn, had walked it earlier. He braked at his marker, turned in, felt the Eclipse rotate perfectly. Derek came in too hot, had to scrub speed mid-corner, washed wide.
Chase crossed the finish line three car lengths ahead.
The crowd surrounded both cars immediately. Chase climbed out, legs shaking from adrenaline, hands still tingling from gripping the wheel. Derek approached, and for a moment Chase wasn't sure if he was about to get congratulated or punched.
Derek extended his hand. "Hell of a drive."
Chase shook it. "You too. That Supra's a monster."
"Yeah, well, monsters aren't worth shit if you can't drive them." Derek grinned. "I got a lot to learn about technical circuits."
"I got a lot to learn about building power," Chase countered.
They both laughed, the tension breaking. This was the part of racing Chase had forgotten—the mutual respect, the understanding that competition made everyone better.
Marcus appeared with his characteristic timing. "That was the best race I've seen all month. You two need to do that again."
"Finals?" Derek asked.
"Both of you. Plus the Evo and the 240SX." Marcus clapped Chase on the shoulder. "This is going to be interesting."
Nick found Chase in the chaos, practically vibrating with excitement. "Dude! DUDE! That was—I don't even have words! The way you passed him on turn nine, I thought—"
"Nick—"
"—and then he almost got you back but you held the inside line and—"
"Nick!"
Nick stopped, took a breath. "Sorry. I'm just really hyped."
"I noticed."
They walked back toward the Eclipse, Chase needing a moment to decompress before the finals. That's when he saw her—a woman leaning against a pearl white Lexus IS300, watching him with obvious interest. Early twenties, dressed in designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Chase's car insurance. Her IS300 was pristine, sitting on expensive wheels, with just enough modification to be tasteful without being flashy. Everything about her screamed money and Olympic City's east side, where the doctors and lawyers lived.
Nick noticed her too. "Oh man, she's been watching you all night."
"Don't," Chase warned.
"Don't what? She's clearly interested."
"Nick, I swear—"
But Nick was already walking over, and Chase had no choice but to follow or look like an idiot. The woman smiled as they approached, a smile that suggested she was used to getting attention and knew exactly how to use it.
"That was impressive," she said, her attention entirely on Chase. "The way you handled Derek—most people would have tried to out-power him."
"Can't out-power what you don't have," Chase said. "Had to out-drive him instead."
"I'm Nick," Nick announced, apparently deciding that Chase wasn't moving fast enough. "This is Chase. He's basically the best driver on this side of Olympic City right now. Four races in his Eclipse, two wins, two second places. And that's after being out of the scene for three years."
Chase wanted to die. "Nick—"
"I'm Victoria," the woman said, still focused on Chase. "And your friend here is quite the promoter."
"He's enthusiastic," Chase managed.
"I race too," Victoria said. "Mostly drag. Circuit's not really my thing—too much thinking, not enough straight-line speed." She patted the IS300. "This car's better suited for quarter miles anyway. Three-fifty to the wheels, sequential transmission, built bottom end."
Nick's eyes lit up with the particular gleam of someone about to make a terrible decision. "Chase should race you!"
"Nick, no—"
"Right now! Drag race. Eclipse versus IS300. Power versus—uh, slightly less power but better driving."
Victoria's smile widened. "That could be interesting. What do you say, Chase? One run. Winner takes bragging rights."
"And?" Nick asked. "Come on, there's got to be stakes. That's half the fun."
Victoria studied Chase for a long moment, something calculating in her expression. "Alright. If Chase wins, I'll warm his bed tonight. If I win..." She paused. "He has to help me build my car for next month's circuit races. I want to learn technical driving."
Chase felt his face heat up. "That's—I don't think—"
"Come on, man!" Nick was practically bouncing. "Win-win situation! You get either—" He made a gesture that Chase really wished he hadn't made. "—or you get to teach someone how to build a proper circuit car. Those are both wins!"
"I haven't agreed to this," Chase said.
Victoria tilted her head. "Scared?"
And there it was—the trap that every street racer knew intimately. The challenge disguised as a question, the dare wrapped in a smile. Chase could walk away, should walk away, but everyone was watching now, and backing down from a woman in a Lexus because he was "scared" wasn't exactly going to help his rapidly growing reputation.
"One run," Chase said. "Quarter mile. That's it."
Victoria's smile was triumphant. "That's all I need."
The makeshift drag strip was the main runway, a straight stretch of pavement that ran for almost two miles before ending at a chain-link fence. Someone had spray-painted a starting line and a quarter-mile mark earlier in the night, and enough people had been running heads-up races that the surface was prepped reasonably well.
Chase pulled the Eclipse up to the line, Victoria's IS300 beside him. The crowd had grown—word had spread about the race, about the stakes, and now at least forty people lined the runway to watch. Chase could see Nick near the finish line, phone out, probably trying to record it.
"You good?" Victoria called from her window.
"Fine," Chase said, though his heart was hammering. This wasn't like circuit racing, where skill and line choice could make up for power differences. This was pure acceleration, pure traction, pure power. The IS300 had fifty horsepower on him and a sequential transmission that could bang gears faster than his manual. On paper, he should lose.
But Chase hadn't won two circuit races by worrying about paper.
The starter—same guy who'd been running races all night—stood between them. "First to cross the quarter mile. No bullshit, no contact. Ready?"
Chase nodded. Revs at three thousand. First gear. Clutch foot hovering. His launch technique had always been decent, but he hadn't drag raced in three years. Hopefully muscle memory was enough.
The starter raised his flashlight.
Chase's world narrowed to the patch of pavement ahead, to the revs climbing, to the moment of perfect balance between clutch and throttle.
The light dropped.
Chase dumped the clutch and fed in throttle simultaneously, a technique he'd learned in 2000 that let the AWD system engage smoothly rather than shock-loading the drivetrain. The Eclipse launched hard, all four tires biting, the front end lifting slightly before settling.
Victoria's IS300 launched harder—rear-wheel-drive with drag radials and way more power. She was ahead immediately, the white Lexus pulling like it was attached to a rocket sled.
First to second gear. Chase's shift was clean but not fast enough. Victoria was already two car lengths ahead.
Second to third. The Eclipse's powerband was coming on now, turbo fully spooled, boost hitting maximum. Chase started reeling her in, inch by inch, the gap closing.
Third to fourth. The IS300's sequential transmission meant Victoria could keep her foot flat while shifting. Chase had to clutch in, shift, clutch out—a process that took maybe half a second but felt like an eternity. The gap opened slightly.
They crossed the quarter mile with Victoria ahead by exactly one car length.
Chase let off the throttle, coasting to a stop at the end of the runway. His hands were shaking, heart pounding, the particular mixture of disappointment and exhilaration that came from a close loss. Victoria pulled up beside him, rolled down her window.
"Good race," she said. "I mean, I won, but still. Good race."
"You've got the better car for drags," Chase admitted.
"Yeah, but you've got the better skills for circuits." Victoria pulled out her phone—a Motorola Razr similar to Chase's. "Give me your number. I'm serious about learning technical driving. And hey, maybe I can teach you how to launch better."
Chase hesitated for only a moment before rattling off his number. Victoria punched it in, then immediately called him so he'd have hers.
"There. Now you can't disappear back into your garage." She smiled. "I'll call you next week. We'll set something up—maybe I buy you dinner, and you explain to me why you took that weird line through turn six in your race with Derek."
"That's not—we didn't agree to—"
"Consider it consulting fees. I pay for dinner, you teach me to drive." Victoria's smile turned mischievous. "And who knows? If you're a good enough teacher, maybe I'll warm your bed anyway. I reward talent."
She drove off before Chase could respond, the IS300's exhaust note fading into the night.
Nick appeared moments later, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "Dude. DUDE. You just got played so hard."
"I noticed."
"She basically got you to agree to teach her for free, and you don't even get the consolation prize!"
"The consolation prize was never on the table," Chase said firmly. "That was your stupid idea."
"But you've got her number," Nick pointed out. "And she's clearly into you. And she's loaded. And she wants to learn from you. This is, like, the best possible outcome."
Chase looked at his phone, at Victoria's number glowing on the screen. Nick wasn't wrong—this was probably better than the alternative. Teaching someone to drive, sharing knowledge, building cars together—that was the part of the scene he'd always loved, the part that had nothing to do with ego or money or proving something.
"Maybe," Chase admitted.
"Definitely," Nick corrected. "Now come on, you've got finals to run. And after that performance, everyone's going to be watching."
Chase looked back at the crowd, at the Eclipse sitting on the runway, at the airfield lights reflecting off the Turquoise Green Pearl paint. His phone buzzed—a text from Victoria: Looking forward to our first lesson. And for the record, you drive better than anyone I've met. - V
Chase smiled despite himself.
Yeah. This was definitely better than the alternative.
Finals could wait five more minutes.