Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
The timing chain had snapped clean, and that single failure had turned into a disaster. The snout of the billet crankshaft was fractured. The custom-ground roller camshaft had its lobes sheared right off. This wasn’t a twenty-dollar fix at the auto parts store. I was staring at a new forged-steel stroker crank, a matching custom-profile cam, a billet double-roller timing set, and an SFI-approved harmonic balancer. Parts alone would easily clear two thousand five hundred dollars before I bought a single gasket or drop of oil.
I could fix every bit of it myself, but I didn’t have the right tools, lift, or parts. And no money beyond the couple hundred bucks in my pocket.
I braced my hands on the scorching fender and let my head hang for a moment, the sun baking my neck. Three nights on the run, and I’d had most of my cash stolen and now this. The universe really wanted me on my knees.
I straightened, wiped sweat from my eyes, and pulled out my phone. Time to find a garage that wouldn’t completely screw me over.
Leaning against the car, I squinted at my phone screen while the sun tried to bake my brain. A quick search for nearby performance shops pulled up The Pit almost immediately. They were one of the best in the South for race and performance work. Exactly what my poor Mustang needed, if I could somehow afford the repair.
I dialed before I could talk myself out of it.
A gruff voice answered on the second ring. I explained the breakdown in as few words as possible, and they said a tow truck was on the way. I thanked them and hung up, then shoved the phone back in my pocket.
While I waited, I wandered over to the gas station’s shaded front window. Race flyers for Brake Point Run were taped in a few spots, curling at the edges from the humidity.
Behind me, two older locals in faded ball caps stood by the ice machine, and bits of their conversation drifted toward me.
“…heard Nitro’s been dominating lately.”
“Yeah, well, no surprise there. Kane’s guys run this town when it comes to anything with wheels.”
The way they were talking, it sounded like the whole town revolved around engines, rubber, and racing reputation. My kind of place.
I stayed by the window, sweat trickling down my spine, and waited for the tow that would eat up most of my cash.
The driver didn’t say much when he pulled up next to the Mustang. “Called for a tow?”
“Yeah.”
I watched with a mechanic’s critical eye as he set the hooks. He positioned the wheel lift under the front tires first, then slowly raised the boom until the Mustang’s front end cleared the ground. Chains rattled, and ratchets clicked tight. He checked the rear straps twice, making sure nothing would shift on the drive.
The whole process was smooth and professional. The guy clearly knew what he was doing.
“Can I ride with you?”
He dipped his chin toward the truck, and I grabbed my bag from the trunk before I climbed into the passenger seat. After one final safety check, we were rolling.
The drive to The Pit was quick, and he quickly dropped my Mustang in an empty bay.
Jumping out of the tow truck, I felt right at home as I was surrounded by the familiar rhythmic thrum of aggressive camshafts and the thump of an air compressor turning on.
I stood beside my dead Mustang, my arms wrapped around myself, trying to take it all in.
Then he walked out from under a lifted truck on the far side of the bay.
He was easily 6’3” with broad shoulders and a powerful build. His dark brown hair was cut short, and his strong jaw was clean shaven. His dark green eyes scanned the shop with calm authority before landing on me. Racing flags were inked across his throat in black, and a tribal design wrapped around his right arm from elbow to wrist.
I noticed his hands were big, rough, and streaked with grease as he wiped them on a rag. And I could all too easily picture them on my body.
I’d spent my entire life surrounded by mechanics and drivers. Never once had my stomach flipped like this. Heat rushed up my neck that had nothing to do with the Florida heat, but I refused to let him see how rattled I was.
He stopped beside my Mustang, his head tilting slightly. Without a word, he reached down and popped the hood. The metal groaned as it lifted. He leaned in, and his hands moved with purpose, checking a few things by sight and touch.
Then he straightened, his gaze meeting mine. “You’ve got a small exhaust leak, probably a loose manifold bolt or gasket. And the serpentine belt is showing some wear. Idle was probably a bit rough. Right?”