Faux Chic by Lou Cox
A large complex came into view. Not the beginning of a multipurpose development, not the construction site, but a completed, immaculate minipolis in the middle of nowhere. He could not believe it.
He slowed down and followed the red car. He tried to draw together all details that could possibly make sense out of it all. Had he ever heard anything about this place?
Published by Freedom Dawn Press
Copyright 2017 Lou Cox
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The car shot through the valley like a cheetah on crack.
It was a good day to die on Canyon 90 road, the road that led to nowhere.
Canyon 90 actually had some other name, some boring name. He chose a more fitting name based on what it was to him, a winding road that connected the bases of two mountains, where he could do 90 mph or more and still enjoy the view. That drive reminded him of his favorite video games from childhood. He no longer played video games. His games were all played out in life where the stakes were higher and the risks came with real consequences. That didn’t bother him. It excited him. He still liked taking risks and going up levels.
He made a point to drive up C-90 at least once a week even though it was out of his way and went nowhere. The cops had abandoned it altogether, leaving the perfect spot for street racing and all kinds of crime. While he didn’t shy away from skirting the law, he had far to much in his favor to start breaking it. He made a point to only take that route by day and leave it for the other set at night.
”Why do you drive a road that goes to nowhere?” His assistant asked him weekly.
She managed his calendar, and it seemed to bother her every time she saw his drive time reminder there. Her name : Miranda. She was young, pretty, an Ivy League know it all trying to learn the business the long and legit way while her classmates were sleeping their way to the boardroom. He’d have fired her on day two if she wasn’t so good at handling everything he threw at her. He’d have stuffed a sock in her mouth if he thought it would do any good.
Why should he waste gas and money, which were no objects to him, and his own time, which was extremely valuable to pursue a dead end?
The road headed off toward undeveloped desert land. That was no place he wanted to go. Even so, something drew him, something more than the thrill of driving the narrow road with one lane in each direction. He thought it was the feeling that he had reached the end of the earth, and could anytime he wanted.
He looked into his rear-view mirror. Another vehicle had come out of nowhere. That meant that it was traveling quite a bit faster than he was driving. He smiled. Other cars on the C-90 was rare. Cars out-driving him were rarer still. He thought maybe someone was looking for a race.
He accelerated. Speeds of 90 or 95 were only his averages. He’d once driven the entire route at 105. That had been fun. He’d never hit anything above 110, but he’d never had a reason.
He recognized the look of the other car’s front end on one glance. It was an Italian sports car that few people knew about in the states, even car enthusiasts. That let him know that whoever it was who was doing his best to run him down was no thug street racer, and no joker stuffed with hot air. He checked his speedometer. 115.
In less than a minute, the red Italian sports car was nearly at his bumper. He laughed as he glanced from his rear-view to his side-view, to the road to his dash. How much further could he push it? Much further if they weren’t nearing the end of the road. Signs were already warning them to turn back. He eased his own Ferrari over the weak center median to block the other car from passing.
To his satisfaction, the other driver floored the gas and attempted to squeeze past him. He cackled riotously. He loved it. He looked at his speedometer. 125.
He gave in. He hadn’t prepared himself for a race. Besides that, he wanted to see for himself who was driving the red car more than he wanted to win. This wad someone, he was certain, he wanted to meet. He coaxed his black Ferrari back to his side, glancing over every few seconds, not wanting to miss a thing.
He nearly lost control. At that speed, had he not recovered, he very likely would have died on Canyon 90. Even after running off the road slightly and sending pebbles and arid dirt flying into the air, he had trouble pulling himself together. The sight of the other car’s driver had thrown him hard.
She was gorgeous. He could tell that even at speeds over 100. She handled that sports car like a pro without flinching. She presented him with an entirely new game that he couldn’t resist. He accelerated again and followed her.
Coming next: Inside the Hotel
~About the Author~
Dark, deep and weird describe Cox’s fiction. He writes about the unseen things beneath the surface, but he lives in the crazy world.
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