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Chase smashed into the wall and Dryden crashed into him. The car folded in on itself like a damn accordion, and, somehow, Chase’s long legs weren’t crushed. Then the massive fireball erupted with a scorching heat that felt like a furnace door opened and blasted him in the face with 1,000 degrees.
When Chase looked down, he was on fire. Caught in his seatbelt, unable to open it, he frantically patted at the flames. As his body burned, his skin blackening, he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch the horror any longer.
And, he screamed.
Chase bolted upright in bed, covered in sweat, breathing hard. Shaking from the goddamn nightmare.
“Fuck,” he hissed and raked a hand through his dark hair. Wearing only boxer shorts, he stumbled out of bed and walked out onto the condo’s open balcony doors. But, there was no relief. Outside felt just as sweltering and miserable as inside. It made his scars itch.
Hands clasped and hanging over the edge of the wrought-iron balcony, Chase leaned forward, trying to shake off the bad dream. As his breathing slowed, he looked down and watched a handful of drunken tourists make their way up the street.
Chase lived in the French Quarter so it was a fairly typical sight and normally made him chuckle. Not tonight, though. He straightened up then glanced down where flames had left their red-hot mark. The puckered scars ran down the outside of his right leg, mostly concentrated on the lower part of his calf and ankle where the fire had licked through his fire-retardant suit.
Yeah, it may have slowed the flames down, but it didn’t stop them altogether.
The accident had happened two years ago and he hadn’t raced since. Not professionally, anyway. The physical and emotional toll had left him unbalanced and exhausted. Also, pretty traumatized.
Since he had motored around in a go-kart as a kid, Chase knew he wanted to be a professional racer and never considered doing anything else for a career. Except maybe a jazz musician.
And, hell, with a name like Chase Ford, he figured he was destined to be a pro racer. Besides, he loved to go fast. Speed was like crack-- the more he got, the more he wanted.
But, Chase wanted to make money, too, so as much as he enjoyed playing the drums, he turned his focus to driving. He had no desire to be a starving artist playing on the corner in New Orleans. So, he used his drive and determination to pursue his childhood dream and found success. The path to becoming a NASCAR driver was long and arduous, but Chase was a natural. He developed his skills and started winning races which led to recognition and eventually sponsors.
Salaries and earnings of NASCAR drivers fall into two categories: those top drivers who make millions each year and those drivers who are only earning five or six figures and hoping to make millions.
By the time he was 25, Chase found himself in the first category.
Then, less than three years later, he retired early. The accident had left him scarred in every possible way and, quite honestly, terrified to get back on the track. Sometimes, he felt like a coward. He’d been in his share of wrecks over the years, but the intensity of that final one…
He had thought he was going to die in that hunk of burning metal.
Chase shook off the memory, looked up at the sliver of moon above and scratched his chest. He wished he could go back to when his bank account was padded and overflowing. Because now it was anorexic and he was living on his last dime. Literally, his last five grand.
When you have a lot of money, it seems like it will never run out. But, after starting his own business, breaking sponsorships and racing contracts when he left the circuit early and then some bad investments, the cash flow had dried up fast.
The garage he owned had become a moneypit and he had no idea how or if he could save it at this point. While he liked to design and build cars, his buddy Eric ran the actual business and did the oil changes and balanced the tires.
Chase rubbed his fists into his eyes and wondered once again if he should go into business with Dylan. His half-brother, almost five years older than Chase, moved to New Orleans a few months ago and opened the Lucky 13 Jazz Club. The place was always hopping and Chase hung out there constantly-- either getting to know his big brother better or up jamming on the drums with the band.
Their father, Frank Ford, had passed away about four months ago and Chase had met Dylan for the first time at the funeral. They didn’t even know each other existed until Frank’s best friend Robert told them. It was a welcome shock, though, and since Dylan had left Florida and moved to the Big Easy, the brothers had been pretty inseparable.
Apparently, they also had a younger sister, too, but neither had met Riley Ford yet. Every time they had plans, she canceled at the last minute. They were starting to get the impression that she didn’t want to meet them.
Dylan also spent the majority of his time with Hollis Quinn, his feisty, redhead. Before moving to New Orleans, they had been treasure hunters in Florida and had discovered a famous wreck off the coastline. The cargo was worth around half a billion so, of course, Florida stepped in and pulled salvage rights from them.
After quite an adventure and with a handful of priceless coins in his pocket, Dylan decided to pursue his dream and open a jazz club. Despite their father’s almost complete uselessness in life, he had taught them both a love for jazz and they had bonded over it since the moment they met.
But, their relationship was still so new that Chase didn’t want to screw it up. He had to figure things out himself, not ask his big brother for money. With a sigh, Chase wandered back into the hot bedroom and dropped down on his bed. Above him, a paddle fan rotated on high, but it barely gave off any breeze. The air conditioner was broken and he didn’t have any extra money to fix it.
Fucking Nola in July was the worst. But, he couldn’t imagine ever leaving the Big Easy with its easy-going, laid back attitude toward life that the jazz musicians and local residents indulged in there. Living in a fast-paced city up North didn’t appeal to him. He liked the traditions, cultures, food and music too much to ever leave.
And, not only did his mother live there, but also his brother did now, too.
Gabrielle Boudreaux, his Cajun mother, was a sweet woman who just wanted to see him settle down and have babies. She was tired of him living in the fastlane, she said, and wanted to see him find someone special. After his racing career ended, nothing filled that void and, for some reason, his mother thought a woman could do it.
Chase stretched an arm behind his head and knew with complete confidence that his Mom was wrong. He liked women, no doubt about it. He liked how they smelled and how soft their skin was and, most of all, the pleasure he felt when they visited his bed for an hour or two. Other than that, forget it.
Nothing but trouble.
