Starting Line

TRACE

I met Wendy Cole on a Friday night when the bar was packed wall-to-wall with the usual degenerates—racers, mechanics, trust fund kids slumming it for thrills, and girls who liked the smell of burnt rubber and bad decisions. She was leaning against the bar in cutoff shorts that barely qualified as clothing and a tank top that left nothing to the imagination. Blonde hair, sharp eyes, legs that went on forever.

I was three beers deep and feeling good. The night’s races had gone well—some kid from Peoria had brought his Mustang thinking he was hot shit, and I’d smoked him in my Chevelle without breaking a sweat. Money in my pocket, adrenaline still buzzing.

“You’re Trace, right?” she said when I sidled up next to her. “Megan’s kid?”

“Guilty,” I said, signaling the bartender. “And you are?”

“Wendy.” She smiled, all teeth and trouble. “I’ve seen you race. You’re pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” I laughed. “Sweetheart, I’m the best thing on four wheels in this state.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. “Cocky much?”

“Only when it’s justified.”

The bartender slid me a beer, and Wendy leaned in closer. I could smell her perfume mixed with cigarette smoke and something sweeter underneath. “You party?” she asked, voice low.

“Depends on the party.”

She reached into her purse and palmed something, showing me just enough—a little baggie of white powder and what looked like molly. “My car’s out back.”

I should’ve known better. I did know better. But I was twenty-one and stupid and she was hot, so I followed her out to a beat-up Honda Civic parked in the shadows behind the strip.

We did lines off her phone screen in the backseat, and the coke hit fast and clean. Everything sharpened—the sound of distant engines, the bass thumping from the bar, the way her pupils dilated when she looked at me.

“You do this a lot?” I asked.

“Often enough.” She popped two pills, handed me one. “You scared?”

“Of what? A little MDMA?” I dry-swallowed it. “Please.”

Twenty minutes later we were making out like teenagers, hands everywhere, her straddling me in the cramped backseat. The molly made everything feel electric—every touch, every breath. We fucked right there with the windows fogging up and someone’s headlights sweeping across the parking lot.

Afterward, she laughed and fixed her hair. “Well, that was fun.”

“Yeah,” I said, still catching my breath. “It was.”

“Same time next week?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Next week turned into the week after, and the week after that. Wendy became a regular fixture—showing up at the strip on Friday nights with her little baggies and her tight clothes and that smile that promised nothing good. We’d get high, fuck in her car or sometimes in the office at the shop when everyone had gone home, then she’d disappear until the next weekend.

It was perfect. No strings, no drama, just good times and better drugs.

Until it wasn’t.

About a month in, she started texting. Not just “you around?” texts, but paragraphs. Long, rambling messages about her day, her feelings, asking what I was doing and who I was with. I’d ignore most of them, respond with one-word answers when I bothered at all.

Then she started showing up on weeknights.

“Hey, baby,” she said one Tuesday when I was under a Camaro, elbow-deep in an engine rebuild. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

I rolled out from under the car, wiping grease on my jeans. “I’m working, Wendy.”

“I can see that.” She crouched down, ran a finger along my jaw. “When are you done?”

“Couple hours. Maybe more.”

“I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

She did wait. Sat in the office scrolling through her phone, occasionally coming out to watch me work. When I finally finished, she had coke already laid out on the desk.

“You’re the best,” I said, because free drugs are free drugs.

We got high and fucked on the couch in the office, and it was good—it was always good with Wendy—but afterward, she didn’t leave. She curled up against me, playing with my hair.

“I really like you, Trace,” she murmured.

Warning bells went off in my head. “Yeah, you’re cool too.”

“No, I mean... I really like you. Like, I think about you all the time.”

Fuck.

“That’s... nice,” I said, trying to extract myself without being a complete asshole. “But you know this is just casual, right? Just fun?”

Her face fell. “Is that all I am to you? Fun?”

“I mean, yeah. I thought we were on the same page.”

She sat up, pulling her shirt back on. “So what, I’m just some girl you fuck when you’re bored?”

“Wendy, come on—”

“No, fuck you, Trace.” She was crying now, mascara running. “I thought we had something.”

“We do have something. We have fun together. But I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“I never lied to you about what this was.”

She left in a huff, and I figured that was the end of it. Good run while it lasted.

But she was back the next Friday. And the Friday after that. Each time a little more emotional, a little more demanding. She wanted to know where I’d been, who I’d been with. Started asking about other girls. Got jealous when I talked to anyone female.

The sex was still good. The drugs were still free. But the cost was getting higher.

“Why don’t you ever take me out?” she asked one night, post-coital and clingy. “Like on a real date?”

“Because we’re not dating,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

“We could be.”

“But we’re not.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Wendy. I’m just not interested in that.”

More tears. More drama. She’d leave angry, swear she was done with me, then show up three days later like nothing happened.

My cousin Colton found it hilarious. “Dude, you’ve got a stage-five clinger.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Just cut her loose.”

“I know, I know. I will.”

But I didn’t. Because despite the emotional baggage, Wendy still showed up with party favors and no expectations beyond my attention. And I was selfish enough to keep taking what she offered, even knowing it was making things worse.

One night she showed up at the strip absolutely wasted, stumbling and slurring. She’d clearly been drinking before she arrived, and she had that wild look in her eyes that meant trouble.

“Trace!” she yelled across the parking lot. “Trace, baby, I need to talk to you!”

I was with a customer, going over specs on a build. “Wendy, not now.”

“Yes, now!” She grabbed my arm. “We need to talk about us.”

“There is no us,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “Go home. Sleep it off.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She was crying again, making a scene. People were staring.

I pulled her aside, away from the customer. “You need to leave. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I love you,” she sobbed. “Don’t you get it? I fucking love you.”

And there it was. The words I’d been dreading.

“Wendy, you don’t love me. You’re just high and drunk and confused.”

“I do love you! And you love me too, you’re just too scared to admit it!”

“I don’t love you,” I said, and I watched something break behind her eyes. “I like hanging out with you. I like sleeping with you. But that’s it. That’s all this is ever going to be.”

She slapped me. Hard. The crack echoed across the parking lot.

“Fuck you, Trace Anderson,” she spat. “Fuck you and your whole fucking family.”

She stormed off to her car, and I let her go. Probably should’ve stopped her from driving, but I was done. So fucking done.

My face stung where she’d hit me. Colton walked over, shaking his head.

“That looked fun.”

“Shut up.”

“You gonna call her?”

“Fuck no.”

But I knew she’d be back. They always came back. And I’d probably let her, because I was young and stupid and didn’t know any better yet.

That was the thing about being a third-generation Wisnewski. We were good at building engines and winning races.