Archive of Our Own

They end the season in Nogaro. Sonny should have won. He’s pretty sure the other drivers on the track — except maybe Damon and, sure, Eddie, but Eddie’s just a dick — know this, too, and if the car hadn’t started spewing smoke with 10 laps to go, he would have won by a literal mile. Ruben had finished in third, his car carrying a little more fuel and apparently a more reliable engine. With four points, he’d taken third in the Formula 3000 International Championship, meaning they were effectively tied. 

But there was supposed to be one more race: Dijon-Prenois, two weeks after Nogaro, a chance at redemption after the late DNF at Nogaro. Instead, they get a bullshit news release canceling the race due to global politics, and Sonny is out his final expected check and all of his plans for October.

Their team facility and test track is closed for resurfacing and because “Jesus Christ, Hayes, you have to go away for a while, or I may kill you,” Jean, the team leader, says.

Sonny had been planning to sneak in anyway and practice braking on the stretches they were going to demolish, but he takes the news stoically (well, he curses, but quietly, because he needs Jean not to actually kick him off the team). He’s 19 and stuck in Spain now for the next month with nothing to do, and not enough money to travel to anywhere he might find a good race. Great.

He clears the few things he keeps at the track from his locker — since Jean says they're going to "clean and maybe fucking fumigate" — and is slouching out toward the bus when Ruben stops him.

"Hello," he says, looking weirdly serious. "What are you doing?"

"Have to clear out, for the break," Sonny says.

"Just for the break, though, yes?"

"Yeah." He sees relief flicker over Ruben. "Hey, you're not getting rid of me that easy."

"No, I — of course not," he says, and pastes on a smile. He follows as Sonny changes routes toward the parking lot. "What will you do?"

"For the break?" He shrugs. To be honest, he's too broke to even think of something fun. "I dunno. Maybe go to Guillermo's, catch some American TV." Guillermo also sometimes throws him a few hours of work bartending, cash under the table.

Ruben tsks. He hates Guillermo's bar—another reason Sonny doesn't mind working there.

"What about you?"

"I have no plans yet," Ruben says. He shrugs with his hands in his pockets, body making a strange accordion-like fold. "If—if you want," he says slowly, as they approach Ruben's little running-around car "I was thinking—that is, I might, ah." He stops in front of the driver's door but shows no sign of getting in. Sonny slouches under the weight of his duffel.

"You got a key?"

"What? Oh, yes.” He unlocks his door, slides in, then reaches over to unlock Sonny's. Once he has his things settled in the back, Sonny sits.

Ruben is a smooth, easy driver. This is true on the track, too. Off track he's a bundle of nerves and contradictions: charming but quick to anger, snobby but delighted by simple things, beautiful and alluring but really crap at interactions with women.

And right now, Sonny thinks he falls a little into the "Ruben sucks at romance" category, too, since they started messing around a few months ago and now Ruben has days like this where just looking at Sonny, he turns sun-burn pink.

"So, you're goin' somewhere for the break?" Sonny says as they snake through narrow streets back to their apartment.

Ruben clears his throat. "I thought, you, ah. It could be nice to be somewhere alone. For a while."

Sonny nods, not sure whether to be hurt by that. He's mostly annoyed. "Yeah, all right. I get that. Have fun."

"What? I—oh," Ruben says, and tugs the car back onto the driving line. "I did not mean—hm," he says, then sighs. "I thought to visit my uncle's farm. There is no one there at this time of year."

"Yeah? Didn't know you had a farm in the family."

"Well. There's much you don't know," Ruben says, and Sonny smiles a bit because he sounds a little annoyed. "It is only a few hours from here. Driving." Ruben takes a breath. "We could leave tonight and spend the week."

Sonny turns to face him, but Ruben's eyes stay locked ahead, as though he doesn't have this road memorized. "We?" Sonny says.

"If you would like.” 

Sonny grins. "Ohhh. So, that kind of time alone.” He thinks about it for a moment, letting his annoyance from earlier fade. Ruben wasn't trying to get away from him: he was trying to set up a get away with him. It's kind of sweet. And a couple days where they don't have to shush for the neighbors... yeah. Sonny can work with that.

"Yeah, let's do it," he says, and Ruben smiles so big he almost steers into a postbox.

They arrive late, late into the night, two or three a.m., and Ruben unlocks the front door and points Sonny toward a second-floor bedroom at the end of a long hall. There's only one bed, but he doesn't care and doesn't even get excited, just shucks his clothes and tumbles into it.

Ruben falls down next to him. They rarely share a bed at home—at least not for longer than necessary—and Sonny thinks it will be weird. Instead, he curls over onto his side, gets one clumsy shoulder kiss from a half-asleep Ruben, mumbles good night, punches up his pillow, and fades right into dreamless sleep, too.

Bright sunshine streaming around the long curtains wakes him. He sits up, feet hitting soft floor, and stretches with a yawn. The bedroom has the big bed, tassled curtains, thick beige carpet, and a fresh laundry scent Sonny associates with hotels and money. His watch says it's almost nine, unless they went through a time zone or something.

The bed is empty, so Ruben must already be awake. Sonny shrugs on a sweatshirt against the morning chill and jams his feet into sneakers. He doesn't bother yet with jeans. Ruben's certainly seen him in less than boxers around the apartment. 

The woman he encounters in the kitchen, though, seems surprised to see a blonde American boy in his underwear. No more surprised than Sonny, who stammers back a "Buenos días," and then clears his throat. "Ah, Ruben? A dónde fue?"

"En la arboleda," she says, mouth starting to turn into a scowl.

Sonny doesn't know what that is, but when the woman points out the door, he nods and says a quick thanks. He detours to find his jeans and a baseball cap, then sneaks out through the front door in search of Ruben.

He didn't have a chance to really see where they were in the dark, and now he takes in the land and whistles to himself. This isn't a farm, not how Sonny would think of it. No rows of corn or hulking John Deeres; no cattle or limestone fenceposts dot the landscape. Instead he has stepped out of a sprawling stone manor house into a combed dirt courtyard, beyond which fruit trees bend and twist in neat lines. He squints and sees a broad, modern metal shed in the distance. No small family farm, this one: it's an operation.

He walks idly through the courtyard and then through a wooden gate into the orchard beyond. Oranges dangle from the trees around him, some heavy enough to bend their branches, and there's a thick scent, floral and citrus and sometimes, something darker and sweeter and slightly rotten.

"Ah, there you are!" Ruben says, emerging between two trees and grinning over at him. They're the same age, or close enough, but Ruben is still a little taller and broader, looks more like a grown man than Sonny feels he does on most days. That's equal parts infuriating and attractive, especially when Ruben grins like this, boyish and sweet. "I thought you might sleep all day."

Ruben is dressed in tan canvas pants and a long sleeved denim shirt. Sonny can't tell if he's been exercising or... doing farm work? Surely not. He rubs a hand over his own face, fingers snagging on beard bristles. "Uh, yeah, morning."

"Come this way," Ruben says, too awake and excited. Sonny follows, taking in the dirt on Ruben's boots as they go. He's comfortable here, clearly, though Sonny has never seen Ruben as anything but a rich city boy.

They walk a few rows over, Sonny ducking around branches and trying not to trip over roots. When he looks up, he sees Ruben has led him to a small building, another stone-fronted structure but this time with a rolling garage door on one side. Ruben taps a security code into a panel at the side. This piques his curiosity, and he follows, watching with appreciation as Ruben then pulls the door up and his shirt slips up his back.

"My uncle is in Greece for the holiday," he says, dusting off his hands. Sonny has no idea what holiday he means, but he suddenly doesn't care, either, because Ruben starts to roll the canvas cover off the slim bodied car inside.

"Holy shit," Sonny says, stepping inside to help. They peel back the cover slowly, gently, like undressing a lover, revealing scarlet skin and generous curves.

"750 Monza," Ruben says, beaming. "Car of the Scuderia España, at one time. They ran one in the Carrera Panamericana."

"This one?"

Ruben snorts. "No. That one they crashed."

Sonny's hand hovers above the car's rear slope, appreciating the reverse rocket look of the air intake, hiding... he's pretty sure this is a four-cylinder, 3 liter engine. A classic 50s racing Ferrari like this probably belongs in a museum, not an orange grove. But cars like this weren't built for display.

"Does she run?"

"Yes, of course." He grins. "I told my uncle we would drive it to town, to see his mechanic." Sonny grins back, and Ruben waves a finger. "Carefully, of course."

"Of course."

The car is a two seater, open top, built for the old endurance races and the days when they needed a co-pilot for everything. Sonny cedes the driver's seat to Ruben with a promise that he can take it back later. It smells like leather and dust and, once it's running, gasoline and thick exhaust. The windscreen only covers the driver's side, and if it ever had a safety harness, it's gone now. They roll out of the garage and listen to the engine hum and briefly stutter.

"Perhaps it does need the tune up," Ruben says, and Sonny nods.

As they roll carefully down to the paved driveway, Sonny glances up at the main house. "Hey, you said there wouldn't be anyone here this week."

"Yes," he says, speaking up over the engine, "my uncle is in Greece."

"Uh, there are people here," Sonny says. "I scared some poor lady in the kitchen today when I walked out."

Ruben glances over, face suddenly stern. "Tell me you wore trousers."

"Nope," Sonny says cheerfully, "but I did remember a shirt at least." Ruben groans, and Sonny slides on sunglasses. "Hey, you could have mentioned there's, like, servants or whatever."

"Servants?" Ruben frowns. "There are the caretakers, the housekeeper, the, mm, men who tend the land?"

"Gardeners?"

"No, not the flowers, the trees."

"OK. So when you said, let's vacation alone, you meant no family, just the help around?"

“The help?” Ruben pulls the car out onto the main drive, fingers drumming over the wheel. “I suppose. But they are loyal. To me, to the family. They do not care what I do."

"Uh-huh. Still bet you'd rather the housekeeper doesn't find my shorts in your bedroom, or that box of condoms you packed." He laughs when Ruben blushes. "Well, it is vacation."

"Señora de Gama is not able to be shocked, I think," he says after a moment. "She has five sons."

"Yeah?" He gives Ruben a sly glance. "Any of 'em hot?"

"I would not know," Ruben says. He pauses at the end of the driveway, surveying the road, waiting for a truck to lumber past. “I do not make a practice to notice the attractiveness of 'the help,' as you call them."

"Mm. No Lord of the Manor fantasies, then?" Sonny knows he's pushing, here, riling Ruben up in a way that could go great or could lead to a different, less pleasurable type of stiffness all day. For all that he's eager and excited in the bedroom, mentioning sex with guys still makes Ruben squirm. Sonny is sure he's totally the first man Ruben's acted on an attraction to, but he can't believe that Ruben hasn't noticed. Sonny notices. He doesn't usually act — doesn't usually have to, since there are girls enough around and he notices them plenty often, too. But he can't believe Ruben only has eyes for him or some shit like that. That's not how people work.

They pull out onto the main road, and Ruben starts to shift the car up, feeding it gas. It moves like a dream, roaring and hot. “Lord of the manor," Ruben mutters, hands flexing on the wheel. "What is this?"

"You know, like, big boss, calls his poor little worker over to... do a service for him." Sonny wiggles his eyebrows, but he's not sure Ruben can see it.

"Oh," Ruben says, softly, or Sonny thinks he does: he sees his mouth move but can't hear him over the wind. Ruben blushes again, teeth sinking briefly into his lip. "That, ah. No? I... unless, is that..." He swallows and Sonny watches his throat. "Would you like that?"

"Mm. No, not my kink," Sonny says easily. He waits for the obvious question, but it doesn't come. Instead Ruben's hands flex again, knuckles whitening even though the road ahead is straight and smooth. "I tried it once, with a girl I met in, uh, Sarasota? She was real into it, uh, wanted a maid outfit and all." He shrugs. This actually isn’t true: it’s a story he heard from a friend, and he’s never been sure it was true for him, either, but it gets the effect he wants: it looks like Ruben's eyes might pop out. "Pretty good blow job, don't get me wrong, but it felt... like too much. Like a lot of fuss for getting off."

Ruben shakes his head, and his lips press hard together. "Yes, of course," he says after a moment, as though Sonny has asked about lunch or the fuel level. He shifts again and floors it, zipping around the truck with ease, car purring. “I understand."

They drop the car off at a little corner garage with a mechanic who seems to curse at Ruben with words Sonny hasn't yet learned. Ruben laughs through the whole thing and claps the man on the shoulder before they leave. "Catalan," Ruben says, when Sonny asks what the man said. "It is different. You could learn, likely. You have an ear for language."

"Nah," Sonny says. He tries not to let on how much he understands. The mechanics in their own garage don't know he can follow their diatribes about the damage he sometimes does. Last month he learned about the Ferrari engine issue just by looking dumb at the right moment.

Ruben shrugs, then looks up and down the street. Sonny sees a bead of sweat trickle toward his collarbone. "It will be a few hours. We can have something to eat."

Sonny's glad Ruben suggested it because that means he'll pay. They find a little cafe two blocks away where the sweet girl at the counter tries to give Ruben a discount on two sandwiches, fluttering her eyelids and leaning over the counter just so. Ruben looks like a lamppost switched off for daylight: stock still, straight, and dark, registering nothing. Sonny sighs as they take a table outside.

"That girl would play maid for you right now," he says, and Ruben glances around, frowning.

"What girl?"

"The one inside. At the counter." Sonny leans on the table. "Nice rack on her, too. You could be behind the counter getting a good look."

Ruben sighs and leans back in his chair. "I don't understand," he says after a moment. "You would like me to go... be with this woman?"

"Uh, not be with, like no one's saying get married," Sonny says. Ruben looks away, toward the street where two pigeons are nibbling at scraps. His jaw is tense, and Sonny can see, now, that he's done something wrong. That this isn't just friendly teasing. "Uh," he says, but the girl walks out and delivers their lunch with a flirty flourish, and Sonny watches Ruben switch on the charm.

And it is something to behold. Ruben smiles slow and warm, taking his plate from the girl with an easy, assured reach that brushes his fingers against her wrist. "Gracias," he says with a thick, slurred "eth," a man suddenly fully in his Latin lover role. "Señorita, ¿la había visto antes? Recuerdo sus hermosos ojos."

Sonny turns sideways and looks out at the street himself. Her beautiful eyes? Jesus Christ, he thinks, even as the girl giggles.

"Señor Cervantes," she says, smiling, tripping through a reply, and Ruben hasn't introduced himself. This girl just knows him by reputation, or family, knows his place here and his wealth.

Sonny sighs, grabbing his sandwich. "Thanks," he says, harsh as he can, and the girl looks startled, like she's just remembering he's there.

"Un corredor?" she asks, looking at Ruben.

"Sí,” Ruben says, now studying Sonny.

"I thought we were going to have lunch," Sonny says, taking a bite. He talks with his mouth full. "But if you two want me to give you some space, I can take it to go."

Ruben frowns, then turns to smile again at the girl. "Gracias. Me disculpo por mi amigo. Es nuevo aquí."

"Ahhh," she says, then looks at Sonny, blushes, and dips her head in quick thanks to Ruben before disappearing back inside.

"What is this?" Ruben hisses, leaning in, head ducked down only an inch over his plate. "You said I should—"

"I didn't mean it," Sonny whispers back, and they both flinch. "Uh."

"You..." Ruben starts, but he sits back, rubs a hand over his cheek.

"Let's just eat."

They finish lunch in silence.

It takes a couple of hours to get the car tuned up. They spend the time wandering through the town, and Sonny is afraid they’re going to have to really fight to break the tension when Ruben stops, suddenly, and stares down the street.

“What is it?”

“Come,” Ruben says, and he starts off at a brisk pace. They pass a few older houses with close, fenced yards, and then the street turns a bit around a hill and reveals a long, flat parking lot with a low structure at one end and a long awning stretching for probably a hundred feet out to the side.

It’s a karting track.

“Huh,” Sonny says, following Ruben with more interest. “You’ve been here before?”

“Not for many years,” he says. “Never for a real competition. It’s more of a, ah, neighborhood track? For the regionals, the nearby people.” As he says it, though, Sonny can see he’s assessing the space. The awning looks new, built to allow teams to work under cover in sunshine or mild rain; the parking lot has a few cars with long trailers, the kind that bring karts in from miles away. 

“You think there’s a race or something?”

“Could be,” Ruben says. They reach the building and find a cluster of people around a small, flat blue kart, a knock-kneed kid standing off to the side and muttering to his coach.

“Ah, hello,” Sonny says, before Ruben can pitch in, and everyone turns to look. One of the guys blinks. “Hey, do you all have a karting race coming up?”

“You’re on the Lotus team,” the guy says, pointing at Ruben, then Sonny.

“F3000, yes,” Ruben says.

The kid looks surprised, now, too, and he moves closer. “You race F2?”

“For now,” Sonny says, and the kid grins bigger and looks back at his coach.

“We are getting ready for a meet this weekend,” the coach says, her accent strong but not bad. She sounds like Ruben, a little, Sonny thinks. “Today is open track, though.”

Ruben looks over, and Sonny grins. 

This is how they end up in what feels like an endless, but delightful, race around the Centro de Valencia Karting Track. The manager is happy to rent them two lackluster machines, and while Sonny is prepared to complain his way into better gear, Ruben says, smirking, “The driver is what matters, not the car.”

So they race. Ruben pays for two karts for an hour, and they take a few test laps each, then set themselves on the grid and go. Sonny hasn’t been in a kart for years, and he didn’t grow up on them, either; he started driving cars as soon as he could reach the pedals and started racing them the minute his parents couldn’t keep him home. He learned karting for a year in a European track because the team that wanted to hire him paid for the training, but that’s his whole experience.

Ruben and most of the guys on their team came up through karting, racing through a European circuit in their preteens, and those manners are definitely intact. “Ahhhh, what is this, what is this, are you even trying?” Ruben shouts, gritting past him on a medium curve. 

Sonny floors it and nearly sweeps them both off the track.

It starts off fun but gets serious quick: Sonny mashes the gas pedal and grinds the kart up and down its gears, eeking new fractions of a second with each lap. He's gaining. He knows Ruben can see it, watches him hunker further down, follows along as he tries to brake later, tries to accelerate quicker. They're neck and neck within the last two laps and Sonny floors it again, cutting around the outside on a curve where it shouldn't be possible — maybe isn't legal, who knows — and Ruben defends like a champ, swinging wide so the rear of his kart kisses the front wheel of Sonny's. They both spin, Ruben into the dirt, Sonny on the track, and they lock eyes for half a second — and then they scramble to keep going.

It's a photo finish, but no one has a camera. "I was totally ahead," Sonny says, laughing and panting, sweat soaking his hair and arm pits.

"I do not think so, my friend," Ruben says, smiling, too. He runs a hand theough his hair and it sticks up in clumps and spikes, dark and wet at the nape and above his ears where the helmet smashed it.

"Well. Agree to disagree," he says, just as the kid runs over.

"That was amazing!" he says, lit up with delight. "Can you teach me?"

Sonny ducks out to deal with the property owner, who surveys the karts with the sanguine eye of a man used to racing hijinks. They agree on a price for Ruben to pay — not too many pesetas over the original — and Sonny thinks this was a good day. 

“That kid’s gonna be in F1 in ten years kicking our asses,” Sonny says as they leave, and Ruben laughs. He glances around. 

“That kid,” he says, “has a fear of crashing. If he does not get it over with soon, he won’t make it past regionals.”

They walk back to town, and the air between them is clearer, lighter somehow; if there’s tension now it’s the usual kind. Watching Ruben race — even in a fucking go-kart — is hotter than Sonny can explain. It's a perfect language between them, a beautiful fight.

Ruben introduces the mechanic when they return, speaking too slow in clear Spanish so Sonny can follow along. He was a mechanic for Ferrari for eight years, it turns out, but missed Spain too much to live in Maranello.

The car purrs when they get in. Ruben drives them to the edge of town, then pulls over, and Sonny stares out the windshield, afraid he will want some kind of emotional moment.

Instead, he says, "You still want to drive, yes?"

Sonny looks over, and Ruben's gaze is steady and cool. "Yeah. Yes."

"OK, then."

He drives them back, following Ruben's directions down a sculpted twisting road, taking the turns quick but not at racing speed. Beneath him he feels the car's power, knows it is meant to go faster, to dig deeper, to cling to these mildly banked turns. It is meant for more.

They pull into the garage and then sit with the car for a moment, and Sonny is breathing a little quick. He lets himself look over and sees Ruben has his palms down on his thighs, fingers spread and tips curled slightly in. He draws his head up and looks over at Sonny, gaze dark and hot.

And Sonny dives in, tips Ruben's head and kisses him, hand still warm from gripping the leather-wrapped wheel. Ruben surges up against him, hands tangled in his hair, holding Sonny in close.

"The door," Sonny pants, pulling back a few inches, resisting as Ruben tries to latch on again. "The garage door. Ruben."

"Yes. I... yes," he says, and sits back against the seat. His chest heaves, and he laughs, almost a giggle, and wipes his mouth with one hand. "One moment."

Sonny sits in the car and listens to the creak of the door slipping down, watches the light fade from gray to amber, sun penetrating through the nearly opaque fiberglass door. He climbs out slowly, turns, and sees Ruben leaning against a narrow, wooden saw horse, hands over his face and elbows tucked against his chest. For a moment, Sonny thinks he's crying, and then he steps closer and realizes it's laughter spilling out and shaking him.

"What's so funny?" he asks, smiling though he can't help it.

"Nothing. Nothing. Just this morning you want me to, to, to dress up a girl and be her lord, and then..." he waves at the car, grinning and shaking his head. "I don't understand you, my friend."

Sonny walks closer, steps into Ruben's space. "I think you get me OK."

"Mm?"

They kiss again, and again, and Sonny slips his hands under the denim shirt, and then back and under his waistband. He starts to nudge the pants down, and Ruben nods. "No one will come here, no one will find us," he says, and that wasn't really Sonny's first concern but he will take it as a yes.

"Turn around."

There's only a moment of hesitance before Ruben does this, bracing his hands on the tool bench to their left, a heavy old thing with a scrubbed wood top and a half-dozen ratchets swinging gently from gleaming hooks.

"Is... are you... I mean, did you want..." Ruben asks, shy again, as Sonny gets his pants to the floor and hooks his thumbs on the elastic of Ruben's underwear. He pauses and caresses his ass through the fabric, thumb trailing over the thin stretch of fabric at his cleft.

"No," Sonny murmurs against his neck, sliding the underwear off. He takes Ruben's hard cock into his hand. Even over the exhaust and the dust and the fuel smell from the car, he catches a whiff of Ruben's sweat and musk. "Not today."

He pumps him for a bit, feeling Ruben's whole body shudder and clench against him, and it's good but not quite what he needs. So he holds Ruben back against him and shucks his own pants, and Ruben groans when Sonny's dick pops out and jabs him in the thigh.

"Still not gonna fuck you," Sonny says, though at this moment he doubts Ruben would say no. But the first time for that isn't going to be in a dusty garage against a creaking tool bench. He gets that. 

This, though, this is vacation fun and the best way to get off. So he grabs the pre-slicked condom from his own pocket—swiped from Ruben's supply—and the little packet of lube, too, and then he slicks his hand and his cock and the tender insides of Ruben's upper thighs. "Tighten up for me," he says, and Ruben groans and does exactly as he's asked, and—“That. Is. Awesome," he says, stroking forward with each word. The head of his dick tucks against Ruben's balls with one thrust, and they both gasp.

"Babe," Sonny mutters, pulling Ruben back by the waist, so he's bent forward more and the angle is—"Nnh. Ahhhh."

"Next time is my turn," Ruben says, breathy, straining. He's stripping his own dick. "I want... ahhhh."

He comes before Sonny and goes slack, and Sonny groans, frustrated, and turns to lean on the bench beside him, looking Ruben in the eye as he gets himself off.

"I would have finished that for you," Ruben murmurs, smiling. His eyes flutter closed. "For you, I would do many things."

Ruben often gets a little sappy after sex. Sonny doesn't hold it against him. "Later," Sonny says, and kisses him again.

They have two days of peace and quiet. They take Ruben’s car to a nearby beach and spend the day swimming and climbing the rocky shores. One night they walk the entire length of the orchard, back and forth, and play a juvenile game of hide and seek until Ruben finds Sonny crouched below the bucket of a loader, curses him until he crawls out, and then kisses him senseless under an ageless tree, invisible under falling dusk. When they return that night, late, Sonny trying so hard to be quiet while Ruben just breezes into the house, they both have leaves stuck in their hair. Sonny notices this while Ruben is making his apologies to Señora de Gama, who has swished out to the kitchen in a voluminous night dress to find out what the emergency is.

“She’s gonna tell your uncle that you’re a pest,” Sonny says, grinning, as they tiptoe up the stairs.

Ruben shakes his head. “My uncle does not care. I have always been his favorite.”

And he’s both right and wrong. Maybe his uncle wouldn’t have cared, but Señora de Gama doesn’t just call him: she calls Ruben’s mother, who arrives on their third day, along with his father and a small retinue of their own help.

“I thought you were in Madrid,” his mother says as a greeting.

Sonny has just watched Ruben’s spine turn from reasonably human to robotic alien steel rod. “I was,” Ruben says. “Mother, Father. I thought you were in Barcelona.”

“We were.”

Ruben's mother speaks in clear, American-accented English when she turns toward him. She has Ruben's dark eyes and stylish, short black hair. In her slim black cigarette pants and a gauzy gray polka-dot top, she could be a women's wear model or an on-trend CEO. "You're Ruben's roommate. Sonny Hayes, right?"

"Yes, ma'am, nice to meet you."

Ruben's father—tucked in tailored button-up shirt, Rolex at his wrist even on vacation—mutters something in Spanish Sonny isn't supposed to hear. Ruben's jaw locks. His mother's face doesn't change at all.

Sonny smiles. "I'm sure you all want to catch up. I was about to go out anyway. Very nice to meet you, ma'am. Sir."

Ruben hisses something at his parents as Sonny jogs up the stairs. He swiftly shifts the rest of his things into the next-door room that shares the attached bathroom, then stops back in the other. Ruben's wallet is still on the dresser, and Sonny grabs a couple of bills, reasoning he's borrowing it for the moment. Then he takes Ruben's keys, as well, and escapes.

Ruben finds him three hours later, drinking an espresso with the Ferrari mechanic. He hops down off a bicycle, looking more worn than the easy ride from the farm would have required. The mechanic goes inside to fetch him a drink, and Ruben sits on the curb and rests his head in both hands.

"So, that good, huh?"

Ruben grunts. "You are not the only one who wishes I would become lord of the manor," he says, and Sonny has a laugh surprised out of him. Ruben looks up at the sound, half a smile lifting his lips.

“Café,” the mechanic says, appearing behind them.

"Gracias," he says, taking a small ceramic cup.

"I learned in Maranello," he says, his Spanish still a challenge for Sonny but clear enough when they keep the subject to cars.

"He was telling me about that Pan-american race for Scuderia España."

They sip their (delightfully bitter) espressos and listen to the mechanic for another half hour, until the sun begins to hover just over the trees. Then he closes his shop, Ruben's bicycle safely inside, and Sonny drives them back to the farm.

"Should I stay somewhere else?" Sonny asks as they pull up to the gates. The whole trip so far, the wide metal gate to the property has been open; now it is shut, and Ruben sighs.

"One moment." He climbs out and swings the gate wide, lets Sonny drive through, then closes up and joins him. "Where else would you go?" Ruben asks.

"Dunno," Sonny admits.

"You should stay. They don't suspect... that," Ruben says. "It is not you they're mad about. It is that, after a year, I still haven't gotten over my racing phase."

Sonny pulls Ruben's car into the courtyard and tucks it back into a safe space just past the gate. With the motor off, he says, "Anyone who thinks racing is a phase for you has no idea who you really are."

Ruben sighs. In the dark, his hand finds Sonny's leg, then his forearm, and he squeezes. "Thank you, my friend."

They sleep apart that night, which is fine except Sonny's not sure what to do in the morning. Ruben has already woken up and gone... somewhere, but Sonny worries rolling downstairs will situate him in the middle of Angry Spanish Parent Brunch. He'd rather eat the bedspread.

By the time Ruben comes upstairs again, Sonny has considered climbing out the window twice. "Where have you been?"

Ruben blinks. "When you were not up yet, I went for a jog through the orchard, then showered before returning."

"Your folks still here?"

"Yes. They plan to stay through the weekend." He scowls. "Unfortunately, I told Señora de Gama we would be here at least that long, too."

"Oh, great."

"Yes."

"We could... make up an emergency?"

Ruben rolls his eyes. "A racing emergency? Come now."

Sonny shrugs. "Maybe my, uh, girlfriend needs something."

Ruben lifts one eyebrow. "You don't have a girlfriend."

"Uh-huh. They don't know that. Even nosy Mrs. de Gama doesn't."

"Mm." Ruben shrugs. "I am not such a good liar to my parents. I'm not sure they would believe it, and—I don't wish to cause more strife at the moment."

"Yeah, alright. Offer stands, though."

"Thank you. Now, if you would, let us get out of here. We'll need to store up some fun before this evening."

Sonny pauses as he's gathering his things. "What's this evening?"

"Dinner with my parents."

For fun that day they try an epically long hike around the hilly borders of the orange groves, at the outer limit of Elias Cervantes's farm. They tote along a picnic and even a blanket, but Ruben has gone basically chaste in the presence of his parents and won't hear of an afternoon make-out session in the sun. Instead they find their way through probably four miles of thickets and brambles and weird worn old trails until they circle back to the little garage.

Sonny briefly gets his hopes up that they might take the car out, but instead Ruben closes the garage behind them and walks past the car to the gray, plain door just behind it. "Look at this," he says, then walks through.

Sonny follows and finds himself in a small apartment. The one-room flat runs the length of the building, with a sink and hot plate kitchen at one end and a double bed at the other. High windows let in light but offer no view. A narrow table with two chairs holds a book of crossword puzzles, and a chunky television balances on a small dresser near the bed as the only visible means of entertainment.

Sonny snorts. "There was a bed here the whole time and you let me put you up against a tool bench?"

"That was hot," Ruben says, smiling over at him, and Sonny laughs.

“So what is this place, then?” Sonny asks, stepping inside. "Mechanic quarters?" Even as he says it, he thinks the room feels too neat, too hidden.

"My great uncle, and perhaps now my uncle, kept women here."

Sonny grimaces, tracing his finger over a spotless shelf. "Against their will?"

"What? No, no," Ruben says. He's walked to the other end of the room, where he's peering into a small bathroom. "They would visit for the weekend, say. And he would be busy, ah, with his car, for the day, and then return to the house—and family and wife—by night."

“Ahh.” It makes a little more sense, then, though it’s not luxury digs for an honored mistress by any means.  "Is your dad like that, too?" Sonny asks before he can really think it through.

Ruben shrugs. "I... don't know," he says, looking a bit pained. "There have been times, I have wondered."

Sonny nods.

"We went, once, on an errand together. I wanted to go. I was bored of being home and with my sister, you understand." Sonny nods, thinking of his own sister, the ways they'd fought and ignored each other for years. "My mother said he had to take me. Had to. And we went — he took me to the library, told me I was to wait. But I... " He shrugs, fingers dancing on the counter. "I did not want to be inside. And outside, I saw—" He freezes, then shakes his head. "She was beautiful. Red hair. White dress. And laughing with him in a way my mother does not."

"Huh." Sonny tries to picture this, what it would take for someone to cheat on a woman as severe and knowing as Ruben's mother. No way she didn't know, he thinks. No way, especially if she told him to take his son along. Especially if they were out in daylight in a town like this, where the cafe waitress knows Ruben by sight.

He turns to look at the television and its spotless stand. "This place is so clean, your pal Mrs. de Gama has got to know about it."

"Undoubtedly," he says, and then his smile turns wicked. "Perhaps she was even a guest here, once, before there was a Señor de Gama. Her granddaughters are very beautiful.”

"Thought you all didn't notice the help," Sonny says.

Ruben leans against the kitchen counter. "Not everyone is so good as I am," he says, and Sonny snorts again. Ruben looks around. "You know, I do not understand this."

"Keeping your mistress secret from the missus?"

He nods, then shrugs. "Would you do it, you think?"

"Ah." Sonny glances around the room, feels the loneliness, the separation of it. Appearances to the contrary, he's not really into being a secret or forcing one on someone else. "Cheat on a—my wife, you mean?"

Ruben nods.

"Don't think it'll ever come to that," he says. "Honestly, it's hard for me to imagine getting married." Ruben keeps watching him, and Sonny looks away, up to the high windows. Light, but no view. It's grim. "I mean, corny as it sounds — my pop used to say he was basically married to the race car." And cheating with his family, in one memorable turn of phrasing from his mother. "Figure that's probably the big serious relationship of my life, too."

"Yes," Ruben says, a gentle whisper. Then he turns and walks toward Sonny, liquid hipped and strutting as he strips off his shirt in one swift pull.

"Oh yeah?" Sonny says, as Ruben pushes him toward the bed. Sonny falls back, and Ruben kneels before him. 

"Let us cheat on her together, mm?" he whispers, already his mouth against the thin trail of hair beneath Sonny's navel.

"She's right there in the next room," Sonny says, unbuttoning his jeans.

Ruben grins, briefly traces his tongue over Sonny's taut skin. "Then you will need to be quiet, hmm?"

They've always been a secret, always been a bit furtive and cautious, but that afternoon in the affair quarters, staring up at a gray-beamed ceiling while Ruben sucks and teases him, Sonny feels it in a whole new way. He rubs his thumb over Ruben's cheek and wonders if this is where he's headed. Will he wander through someday and park his car here, draw his old friend away from a sweet wife just long enough to mess up these sheets? It's an appealing fantasy: fit and famous and free, roaming between races and lovers. His stomach clenches and he half sits up, tries to warn Ruben, but he flattens his hands on Sonny's thighs and swallows while Sonny groans.

Then Ruben climbs up over him, smug and grinning. "I am sure you woke her," he says, and Sonny laughs against his mouth, and they kiss. 

They kiss, and kiss, Ruben settled into the vee of his thighs but not, apparently, in urgent need of anything but this. Sonny's hands cradle the swell of his back, fingers against his spine, and he thinks this will be OK. They will be OK, when Ruben moves on from experimenting and Sonny moves up and up and away.

Ruben has started a gentle rocking motion against him, and Sonny bites his lip, grinning, and lifts a little to improve the grind.

"Dios," he says, groaning, and Sonny laughs.

"C'mon," Sonny says.

"Mm," he says, smiling, too, eyes lit up and lovely. "I will need—“

Clang.

They both freeze.

"What, uh," Sonny whispers, body tight, ears humming as he tries to listen to silence. There’s a shuffle and then a rattle: someone trying the outside door.

Ruben's eyes go wide as saucers. "Did you lock the door?" Sonny whispers.

"I don't know," he says, just as they hear a voice call, "Who is there?"

"Shit!" Sonny basically shoves Ruben off of him, sitting up and reaching around frantically for his pants. Ruben sits still, bare chested and dazed, and Sonny shoves him again. "Get in the bathroom! That's your mother!"

"Why—"

“You can't lie to your parents, but I can," Sonny says, and Ruben flinches as the noise from outside changes to the rolling up of the garage door. He bolts into the small bathroom and closes the door; Sonny straightens himself up and is neatening the bed when he hears the garage door slide home, and that's when he spots Ruben's shirt on the ground.

He sprints for the bathroom, yanks open the door, tosses the shirt in and then closes it as quickly and quietly as possible.

Perhaps ten seconds later, Mona Cervantes rounds the corner, eyes narrowed and one accusatory finger already out. "Again, you have—“

She stops, clearly startled to see Sonny before her.

"Uh, hi, Mrs. Cervantes," he says, smiling and running his hands through his hair. He hopes she can't smell sex on him or in the air.

Her eyes take in the room in a quick snap. "Where is my son?"

"Oh, ah, he went back to town," Sonny says.

Now she stares at him. "Without his car?"

"Uh-huh, he left his bicycle there yesterday." The up-and-down evaluation she gives him is so unimpressed that Sonny grins. There's no way to win with Ruben's mother, but that's his favorite kind of race. "Were you looking for him just now? I could drive over to relay the message."

She shakes her head, just once. He still isn't sure what she's looking for, but her eyes are roaming the room, though she hasn't left the doorway. It makes him look, too: is there proof of what they were just doing? Maybe in the sweat rolling down Sonny's spine, but unless Ruben rolls out of the bathroom red-faced and shirtless, they're probably OK.

"What are you doing in here?" she asks.

"I was admiring the car."

"From the apartment?"

Sonny keeps his smile on. “Had to use the bathroom."

It's very clear she doesn't believe him, but Sonny doesn't care. So she thinks he's a nosy nuisance—so what? "It's a real nice car." He gestures toward it, hoping she'll walk out with him, but she stays in the doorway.

"Who let you in here?"

"Ruben showed me the door code earlier this week." He raises an eyebrow. "Did you think I broke in?"

"Of course not." He's not sure how her own suspicions have led to her being offended, but there they are. "I didn't know Ruben knew the code," she says, eyes narrowing. "And no one else was... here, when you came to see the car?"

"No," he says, not looking toward the bathroom. "Just me."

She nods and seems to gather herself back into full sternness. "This area really should only be for family. Come on. I'll walk back to the house with you. Perhaps Gordon can run up to town and fetch Ruben and the bike in his truck."

"Oh, uh, yeah, actually—that's a good idea. Maybe I could borrow the truck and pick him up." He smiles his easiest smile and follows her out, and even though her boots have heels, she keeps a pace that makes conversation impossible.

It takes almost nothing for Sonny to convince the already overworked landscaper to let him borrow the truck, and then he drives it slowly enough past the old garage that Ruben can sneak inside.

"Jesus, that was weird," Sonny says, as Ruben stays hidden in the seat. He only sits up once they're outside the farm.

"Yes," Ruben agrees. He laughs. "I thought for sure we were going to be discovered!" His laugh is a little too high, a little hysterical, Sonny realizes. And, yeah, being stuck in a bathroom when your mom was right outside, on the verge of discovering — whatever this all is, yeah. Nerve-wracking.

"So your folks have no idea you, uh," Sonny says, then he shrugs, keeping his eyes ahead.

"Sometimes do more than share an apartment with my roommate? No," Ruben says. "And it is none of their business. They — they have some big visions for me, but they have little to do with my own interests." He takes a deep breath and sighs it out. "You? Your parents? I mean, your mother and stepfather?"

"Aaron doesn't give two shits what I do as long as it's nowhere near him. Though, uh, pretty safe to say he'd beat my ass if he thought I even looked at another guy funny."

"Then it is good you're here," Ruben says after a moment. "You may look at me funny with no danger."

Sonny laughs in spite of himself. "Thanks, amigo."

That night at dinner, he watches Ruben. The two of them have fit together so neatly, after some initial resentments and adjustments, but Sonny had figured that was just the way Ruben was. He’d figured he was the kind of guy who everyone got along with, smooth and generous, quick, sharp, always ready to argue, surprisingly sweet. Ruben doesn’t exactly fit in at the track—he’s sometimes too demanding, sometimes too stiff and formal—but people warm up to him, and by now the whole team loves him. Sonny, on the other hand, never has trouble making new friends, but usually everyone gets tired of him. Everyone except Ruben, so far.

That night at dinner, though, he understands something else: Ruben doesn’t fit in here, either.

“So you had how many races this season?” his mother asks. 

They’re seated outside at a long wooden table. Just in front of Sonny sits a platter more fancy than the Easter dishes back home holding a giant, grilled whole fish. It still has the head on, and Sonny keeps staring at the one blank eye, in sympathy or horror. 

“Eleven within the championship series. Should have been twelve,” Ruben says, and Sonny nods.

“All here in Spain?”

Sonny looks at Ruben, surprised, but he’s not meeting Sonny’s gaze. Everyone is speaking in English for Sonny’s benefit, and he doesn’t bother to correct them about this; neither does Ruben. “No, Mother,” Ruben says. “We practice here, but we race — the last one was in France.”

“They’re all in Europe, though,” his father says, reaching forward for more fish. As he slides some to his plate, Sonny stares at the bones left behind.

His own family doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing, but when he was racing in America they at least knew the basics. He’d figured Ruben’s parents were into this—especially after seeing that Ferrari in the garage—and that was why they’d been sponsoring Ruben for so long.

“Yes, for the International series,” Ruben says, eyes down on his plate. “Though we did travel to South America and probably will again. Where we go — it’s often a political issue,” he says, and his father groans.

“Ah, do not get me started,” he says, and then diverts into a long screed about some deal he is trying to make and the many barriers to its completion. When he switches to Spanish halfway through, Sonny takes it as permission to zone out, concentrating on his food and the wine, staring out into the orchard, and wondering what to think of it all.

He likes Ruben, is the thing. It took him a while, but they’re friends now, maybe even best friends, and Sonny thinks he’s a decent guy and a kick-ass driver. Maybe at first he thought he was a rich, spoiled asshole, but now he knows better.

Does he benefit from having a friend with a shit-ton of cash on hand? Sure. Would it be a deal-breaker if he didn’t? Nope, not for Sonny.

“Enough of the business for now,” Mona says, back in English, and Sonny looks up and smiles. “The boys are here for a vacation. They do not need to learn about business permits.”

Matteo laughs. “Yes, right. I suppose your attention at the moment is more on the pretty girls, eh?”

“Ah, speaking of,” Mona says, and Ruben sighs, very softly.

“What now?” he says, but he smiles a bit as he says it.

The thing is — Sonny’s started to wonder if Ruben might actually be gay. Maybe that's a dumb thing to wonder about the guy who's been pretty enthusiastically sucking his cock for the last few months, but Sonny had figured Ruben was just like him: 19, horny, and hot for every lithe, willing body around him. Sonny has screwed his share of girls across the circuits and has only recently noticed that Ruben never takes anyone home. Well, never takes anyone else home, at least.

He's not... worried about it, really. Ruben's a cool guy no matter what, and he's also not who anyone would suspect. He swaggers, he curses, he bench presses some stupid amount and last month kicked half the team's ass in pick-up soccer. Ruben's tough, too: just before the season opener, he got his finger caught under a wrench someone dropped, and he drove three hours of practice, sweating from pain, before he let them take him to the hospital where they figured out it was broken. He'd driven the next day anyway without a splint because it would interfere with his grip.

In short, Ruben's nothing like the gay guys they see on TV. He's not into music or art, not likely to have an opinion on shoes (though he does have thoughts about men's fashion, but that's all typical snobby rich boy stuff). Sonny doesn't think he knows any gay guys personally, but he imagines them the way sitcoms and movies show them: slight and effeminate, not the kind of dudes who risk death and injury on the track. That's not Ruben.

But Ruben also just doesn't click with women. And plenty, plenty of them would give him the chance. They hit parties after their races and girls in tiny little skirts beeline for Ruben, practically inviting his hand to their warm sweet thighs, and time and again Ruben turns to Sonny and talks racing instead.

So. Maybe he's gay, or maybe he's just obsessed with racing. It's not really something Sonny needs an answer to, except that he worries for him, a little. If Sonny charges up to F1 and Ruben stays another year in Formula 3000, he's not sure who he'll hang out with. He's not sure if there will be anyone else safe for Ruben to be himself around.

That night at dinner he starts to wonder if Ruben's eagle-eyed mother has the same question. She peppers them both with inquiries, but asks Ruben most pointedly about the women who are around. Who do they see the most of? What about Daniela's daughter? This woman he mentioned, the model, where is her family from?

"Mother," Ruben says, with a half-amused sigh. "Please. I am nineteen!”

"I was that age when I met your father," she says, and Ruben rolls his eyes.

"Yes, yes, and she was just as focused then," his father says, laughing. "Let the boys be boys, Mona. They have years to settle down. Next year, when he is in Barcelona with us, you can play matchmaker all you want."

Sonny glances over and sees Ruben looks just as surprised. "Next year?" he says. "I am committed again to the team next year."

"Yes, but you will turn 20. It will be time to pursue your real career," his father says, like a finished argument. "I have told you I will need your assistance in the Barcelona office before."

"But," Ruben says, then shakes his head. "I have never said yes to this. I made commitments, I — I was third place this year!"

Sonny watches his father's mouth tighten. He sets down his wineglass, smiling across even though Mona is frowning, and says, "He really is about the best guy out there. Our sponsors love him, too. Everyone wants his picture for the ads. The guys say he's worth a 10K bonus when he makes a cover somewhere."

He'd thought the mention of the business side would strengthen Ruben's case; instead he sees his father's face close, eyes and mouth turning down, and Ruben flushes red.

"You have been doing advertising?" Matteo says, voice low.

"Not often," Ruben says. "It is part of the contract. We help to market the team."

"But why would you do this?" Matteo leans forward, bare forearms on either side of his plate. Sonny notices that Mona crosses her arms—not afraid of Matteo, but letting him lead the fight. "Lowering yourself as some kind of model? Is this what my money has done? Turned my respectable son into a centerfold?"

"It's not like that," Ruben says. "It's not anything like that. I make an appearance, I wear the brand name on my sleeve—"

"Ah, how is that better?" his mother asks. "Your clothes are for sale, then?"

"This is what we raised you for?" Matteo says. "To use your brains and all that we can give you, everything we have handed down, to go race your silly cars and sell your shirts to sponsors? Bah."

Mona says, “Enough of this, both of you. Matteo, help me in the kitchen a moment.”

His father sighs and tosses his napkin down, but he does follow Ruben’s mother inside. Sonny looks over at Ruben, who is toying with a small pile of rice on his plate.

“So,” Sonny says. “Family dinner here seems fun.”

“What does your family argue about?” Ruben asks.

“Oh, you know. Money, mostly. What my sister is wearing. Why I don’t go to church more.” He shrugs. “Guess we all fight with our parents. It’s…” He wants to say it’s fine, but what he means is, this doesn’t bother me, this doesn’t make my opinion of you change. Instead he just reaches over and rests one hand on Ruben’s shoulder for a second, feels him sigh. “It’s all right, man.”

“Yes, yes,” Ruben says, and sighs again. “Why did they have to come this week?”

“I, uh, got a theory about that,” Sonny says, but then he notices Ruben’s hands are shaking. He’s never seen him this angry or upset, not even after major crashes or the one time DeVine hit his car on purpose in the team parking lot. “Hey, we could just leave,” he says.

Ruben reaches for his wine glass and gulps it down. “I do not run from a fight.”

“This, uh, sure, but this is more like an ambush.” Ruben shrugs one shoulder. “And, also, man, I’m sorry I brought up the marketing stuff.”

“None of this is your fault,” Ruben says. Sonny hears the doors open behind them, and Ruben clears his throat, then reaches for the wine bottle, giving his cup a few splashes. 

“Here we are,” Mona says, setting a wooden platter covered with nuts and cheese before them. Matteo, one hand now holding a glass with amber liquid in it, sets down a bowl of pears.

"Now," Matteo says, as he takes his seat, and Sonny lifts his fingers up from the table, a gentle interruption motion.

"Can I, uh, just ask, have you all ever had a chance to see Ruben race?" Both parents suddenly wear matching masks of impatience. "No, I mean, I understand, I know you're busy. Ruben's said a lot about the work you do." None of it has been positive, but that's not pertinent. "So I know maybe you haven't had a chance, but like, I have. I get to watch him race all the time." He smiles genuinely, warmed by how true this is. "He's great. I mean, a real, like, a natural talent. And— that's pretty rare. It's something we all look up to—all of the team, even the other drivers."

"We understand he can drive well," Matteo says, sitting forward. He moves a few crumbles of cheese to his plate. "Who do you think showed him?"

"No offense, sir, but that's not the kind of driving I mean. He races well. Like he can read the road and the car and figure out what's going to happen." He grins over at Ruben, who's looking at him in wonder. "Your mind, man, your racecraft, it's something to behold."

Ruben smiles back at him, then runs a hand over his face, probably embarrassed.

"Just, I think, if you could see him race, you'd get it. You could see what I—what we see. Why it's so important to him," Sonny says, looking from Matteo's incredulous face to Mona's calculating gaze. "He was born for it, really. He'll be world champion some day."

Mona shakes her head, just once. "No. There, you are wrong. Ruben was born to take up the family work and to honor the family name. And we have allowed for this gap, for this diversion, but grown men in this family have a duty to put away their toys and work for what is ours."

Silence settles over the table. Matteo shifts, lifting his fork and then resettling it; Ruben stays frozen, staring out, unseeing, toward the orchard.

"Enough of this tonight," Matteo finally says. “As your mother said, plenty of time to discuss this week."

"No, I—" Ruben says, then pauses and rubs a hand briefly over his neck, rubbing his throat. His voice is low and steady when he speaks, almost flat. "While you were inside, Sonny let me know—we must return to Madrid as soon as possible.

Mona's eyes flicker toward him, and Sonny nods. "Yeah. I'm sorry. My girlfriend, I called her earlier and turns out she's moving. She needs my help. As soon as we can get back." He watches Mona's eyebrow tick up in surprise as he says "girlfriend."

"So, you see," Ruben says, "there will not be time to discuss more on this trip."

"Then we will come to you," Mona says. "I would like to open the house in Madrid for a bit, anyway." She glances briefly, again, at Sonny, then looks back at Ruben. "We'll invite you to dinner when we arrive. There are some people I would like you to meet."

They go upstairs not long after and walk into separate rooms, and then a moment later Sonny hears the lightest tap against the bathroom door. He lets Ruben in and says nothing when he collapses, face first, onto Sonny's bed.

"They're horrible," he says, muffled by the bedspread.

Sonny knows better than to agree. "Have they ever seen you race?" he asks, sitting on the bed.

Ruben rolls over. His long legs dangle off the side. "Maybe my father at a karting race, once. Uncle Elias or my godfather, Tío Leo, have always been the ones to go along. Leo might have raced Formula One except for Franco." He opens his eyes. "What you said was... very kind."

"All true," Sonny says. "Well, I mean, unless I get the championship first. After I have four in a row—“

"Four!"

“—I can probably let you get one."

"I would never want it if I didn't have to fight for it," Ruben says, and Sonny grins.

He stares down at his best friend and sees it all plain as day, the years ahead, all the races they'll both win and lose, the dirt and grease and exhaust, and the sprays of champagne. "It's gonna be a good fight," he says, and Ruben smiles back. "We're gonna be great."

"Yes," Ruben agrees. "I think so, too."