✓ | ✩ louis partridge imagines ✩

don't get much better / l.p.

daytona beach.

known for its annual wave of spring breakers, insane violent crime rate, but most importantly, its nightly street races. 

you were no stranger to the nit and grit of the fast paced lifestyle. you and your father owned and operated a body shop, but your father was also employed as a mechanic for the infamous daytona international speedway for as long as you could remember. he taught you to memorize every single road in daytona to the point where you knew the city like the back of your hand. 

but most importantly, he taught you to live your life a quarter mile at a time. 

from the moment you were eligible to get your permit, you made it a point to get it. the sooner you did, the sooner you would get your license. when the day finally came for you to take your driver's test, you passed on your first try and your dad gifted you what became your most prized possession:

a dark black, 1975 jaguar e-type that you named 'blackjack'. 

some elderly british couple that had settled in florida for retirement had sold it to him for fifteen grand, having no idea of what the car truly cost. it came in amazing condition, needing little to no repairs. after you threw yourself into the racing scene, your dad helped you modify the car to your advantage and your own customization. 

the car was modified just for you, from the grooves in the steering wheel to the accelerator enhanced to your liking, and you loved it more than anything else in the world. you took care of blackjack, and he took care of you. 

most street races in daytona consisted of young drivers between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five. starting out a month after you turned sixteen, you and blackjack had many wins under your belt. 

you were now seventeen, soon to turn eighteen, and nothing had changed. you still loved racing, you loved blackjack, and you loved the the adrenaline and excitement that came with seeing your opponents reactions when they realized they got smoked by a teenage girl. 

you squinted at the laptop infront of you, pausing the movie you were watching. you watched the corner of the display just in time to see the digital clock hit midnight. show time. 

throwing on a random cropped tank top, an oversized flannel, and shorts, you grabbed your keys off your desk and made your way out. you gave your father a half hearted wave as he sat in the living room watching tv. 

"i'm hitting the street tonight, dad!"

"sounds good, sweetie. i'll be here waiting when you get back, and don't forget-"

"it don't matter if you win by an inch or a mile. winning's winning."

"that's my girl. don't do nothing dumb trying to show off, you hear me?"

"me? dumb? you must have got the wrong girl."

he let out a hearty laugh as you shot him a playful grin. he never went to bed before knowing you were safe. having seen many drivers in his career crash and burn on the track, he wanted to know himself that you were okay. there was no use in trying to stop you, so he just supported you.

exiting the house, you ran over to blackjack who was parked by the curb. climbing in, you stuck your key into the ignition, igniting the adrenaline in your veins as the engine roared to life.

resting your hand at the top of the wheel, your fingers slid perfectly into the grooves like a missing puzzle piece. after taking an extra second to make sure everything was in place, you put the car in drive and sped down the street, diving into the festivities of daytona beach's night life.