Quater-Mile// Dominic Toretto

15

Brian and I pull up to where the race is. We look around at all the other racers. One guy has a blonde mullet and still he has girls hanging all over him.

I make a face. "That guy looks like a magician."

"Hey!" the guy laughs. "What are you looking at, nutsack?"

"I don't know. You tell me," Brian counters.

"The racer wants what Dwight's got. See, but, ladies, Dwight's already on the team. You got to be fast if you want to drive for Braga," the guy, Dwight, says.

A girl along with two men walk over to us. "Is there a problem here?"

"No," Dwight tells her.

She turns to Brian. "You one of Park's guys, blondie?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," Brian tells her.

"Follow me." the girl turns to me. "You too."

Brian and I follow the girl and her entourage. Of all the people who pull in while we're walking past it just has to be Dom. I haven't seen him in days and it drives me crazy to not be able to just run over to him and hug him.

The girl leads us up to where Campos is. He's hitting golf balls that land in a net suspended over the people below.

"Bull's-eye, coo, come on!" Campos shouts. "We can do this all day." Every guy in the room is staring at me. Dom can't even seem to look at me. "You all know why you're here. Good drivers are a dime a dozen. Man, every corner's got a chingadera tuner racing for pinks. That's not what Braga has got me looking for. Braga wants someone that would sell their abuelita to be behind the wheel. Someone that drives their 10-second cars not in a straight line but to push it and make it through places no one else would take it. Real drivers. Entiendes?"

"So, what are we hauling?" Dom asks.

"For the money Braga's paying, you don't need to know," Campos tells him.

"You just said you wanted real drivers. A real driver knows exactly what's in his car," Dom reasons.

A guy stands up from the chair beside Dom. "Mira, real driver, nobody's forcing you to race."

Dom turns to him. "You the boss?" he gestures to Campos. "Or am I talking to the boss?"

"Do I look like a boss?" the guy asks.

"Papi, my job is to find the best drivers, period," Campos tells Dom. "First to the cross the finish line get the info. We cool?" Dom watches the guy as the girl hands us all a GPS. "Are we cool?" Campos repeats.

"Yeah, we're cool," Dom tells him.

"No, we ain't cool, man. Who's closing these streets?" someone asks.

Campos chuckles. "No one. That's the point."

I sit in my car at the starting line. I haven't raced an open course since Miami.

The GPS starts to talk, "Please wait while directions are downloaded. Proceed to the highlighted route. Ten, nine, eight, Seven, six, five, four, three, two one, go!"

I step on the gas. Dom's car takes off in the lead followed by Brian and I.

"Right turn ahead." I gotta get used to follow a GPS while racing. "You are now five miles from your destination."

It's exhilarating driving through the streets so fast. Weaving in and out of traffic. This time the cops aren't chasing me. I stay hot on Dom's tail Brian and the rest somewhere behind me.

"Right turn ahead."

I take the turn drifting through the intersection. I hit a red car but keep going.