Leo blinked. “So… you two know each other?”
Leo caught the cold can. He looked at the two Lamborghinis—one dark as a bruise, one bright as a promise. Then he looked at his own car, which suddenly didn’t feel like a failure anymore. It felt like a beginning.
Leo gripped the wheel of his rented sedan and pulled to the side. He’d been driving for three hours, fleeing a failed business and a failed marriage, heading nowhere in particular. But now, he watched as two Lamborghinis screamed past. 2 lamborghini
The Huracán’s driver was a woman, maybe thirty, with a messy bun and a paint-stained hoodie. She stretched like a cat and yawned.
The old man nodded slowly. “Best reason to drive.” Leo blinked
Leo pulled in fifty yards behind them. The engines idled with a guttural, wet purr that vibrated in his chest.
The woman pulled two sodas from the machine and tossed one to Leo. “We’re heading to the Valley of Fire. Sunset hits the red rocks like stained glass. You’ve got four wheels and a full tank.” Then he looked at his own car, which
Leo felt a pang he couldn’t name. Not jealousy. Something older. Recognition.
He pulled back onto the road and, against all reason, floored the sedan. It groaned and shuddered, but he kept the two Lamborghinis in sight, tiny specks that grew smaller by the second. Then, ahead, he saw them slow down. They pulled over at a derelict gas station—a relic with cracked pumps and a single working soda machine.