fic: Let the Engines Roar
recipient: timeofnoreply
author: bergann
title: Let the Engines Roar
pairing: Ray/Brad
rating: PG-13
word count: 8 936
summary: "You realize we don't do bikes, right? Like, yours is a beauty and I'd fucking love to make an exception, dude, but we're an auto repair shop."
He starts walking inside to where Walt is manning the front, because hanging around by the Ducati is just awkward. He'd worry about being rude, except Ray kind of gave that up as a lost cause when he was fourteen. (Fast & Furious AU)
author notes: I love cars, but know shit about them. Terminology may be wrong, and so might the reality of the power of the cars in relation to each other as well.
Thanks to battleofhydaspe for looking this over for me ♥
There's a Ducati Multistrada parked outside Bravo when Ray pulls up. He squints at it in surprise as he parks, blinks a couple of times, but it's still there and he laughs a little as he steps out of the car.
It's a fucking beauty, that's for sure, and usually not the kind of vehicle they get at the shop. "Hey Walt," he calls out, giving the bike a quick walk around and an appreciative whistle. Fuck, who wouldn't he blow to be able to tinker around with the engine? "Who's gotten lost?"
"That would be me," a voice says, directly from behind Ray. The voice turns out to belong to a guy who looks like he just stepped out of the centerfold of Viking Hunks, and Ray almost gives him the same whistle he'd given the bike, but catches it in time. For all the homoeroticism in racing culture that Poke bitches without heat about, Ray knows it's another thing entirely to show actual attraction. He's not actually a complete moron. "And I'm not lost."
Ray arches an eyebrow and says, "You realize we don't do bikes, right? Like, yours is a beauty and I'd fucking love to make an exception, dude, but we're an auto repair shop."
He starts walking inside to where Walt is manning the front, because hanging around by the Ducati is just awkward. He'd worry about being rude, except Ray kind of gave that up as a lost cause when he was fourteen.
"I'm not here for a tune-up," the guy says, following him back in. "In case it escaped your notice, you also got a semi-diner going on in the front. I merely stopped for food."
"He ordered tuna," Walt says, and he looks a little surprised around the eyes as he gestures towards the empty plate. "He actually ate it too."
"Jesus," Ray says, "Did you surgically remove your taste buds beforehand?"
"It was good," the guy says, "I've eaten worse."
"Was it dog shit?" Ray asks curiously, and then ducks the swat Walt tries to take at his head. "Fuck, Hasser, you know the tuna here is shit. You got anger management issues, homes; I shouldn't have to stand for this fucking abuse."
Walt rolls his eyes and says, "Nate was looking for you earlier -- someone came with a Puma GTB. Something wrong with the radiator."
"Do I have time to eat a fucking sandwich first? Shit, you guys are running me to the bone, man. You guys know I've been out all day whoring myself out trying to get my hands on a fucking air outlet vent for my car."
Walt does know, which is probably the only reason why he actually prepares him a BLT and a coffee, topping up Viking's while he's at it. "No luck?"
Ray shrugs as he takes a bite, then says, "Griego's got his hands on them all, but I'd rather cut off my own dick than strike a deal with him."
"Jesus, didn't anyone ever teach you how to swallow what you got in your mouth before you open it again," Walt bitches and then points a finger in Ray's face and adds, "Don't you fucking dare make that joke, Ray, I will punch you."
Ray thinks Walt probably means it, so he takes a big bite of his sandwich instead and makes sure to chew so that Walt sees as much of the food as possible in between bites.
As it turns out, it's an unnecessary gesture, because Viking's voice cuts through Walt's glare with a completely dry, "That's what she said."
Ray laughs so hard he chokes at the expression on Walt's face, gulping coffee to clear the airways and burning his tongue in the process, and he points at Viking and says, "I don't even fucking know your name, but you're allowed to stay, even if you are a two-wheeler."
"I'm Brad," Viking says, "and the Ducati's just for getting around."
Ray kind of claps Brad on the shoulder in his excitement and asks, "So you've got a car too?"
"Yes," Brad answers, with a look at Ray that implies he's stupid for even asking.
Before Ray can prod for more information, like what car Brad has and if he races, Nate wanders in, frowning. "Ray, where the fuck have you been? You know Stafford and Christeson called in sick, I can't fucking do everything around here."
"Sure you can," Ray says, "You're magic, LT, remember?"
Nate's frown twitches slightly, because Ray is never going to let him live down the time he stumbled across a box filled with magic tricks for kids from Nate's childhood while they were cleaning up his attic. "Get to work, Person," Nate says, and then he seems to notice Brad for the first time. "Hi, sorry, I'm Nate Fick -- I own the shop."
"I'm Brad Campbell," Brad says, "Should I be worried about the fact that your trailer park mechanic is fondling my shoulder?"
Ray can't believe he didn't notice he'd left his hand on Brad's shoulder and since startling back would just dig his hole deeper, he instead squeezes and whimpers dramatically. "You're just so strong and manly, Brad, I just can't fucking help myself."
"Jesus Christ, Person," Nate says, "Stop scaring away our customers. They don't exactly grow on trees."
Ray lets his hand drop and jams the rest of his sandwich in his mouth as he slips off his stool and grabs the coffee cup. "Later, homes." He salutes them with it before he heads out back to the workshop to check out the Puma.
*
The race that night is Nate's, because Ray's car is still under repairs after Lilley slammed into him trying to drift through a corner, and Walt's got some thing against racing on workdays, the pussy, plus his girlfriend demanded dinner and a movie for once.
This means it's just Ray and Nate representing Bravo at the race. Stafford sends Ray a text begging him to film the finish so he can still enjoy everyone eating Nate's dust, while Christeson's text is really nothing more than :(((.
Nate, Darnold and Pappy all buy their way into the race, but Doc's still scouting around for a fourth when a sleek Nissan R35 GT-R, black with surprisingly tasteful green waves running across the sides, pulls up. Brad steps out, wearing tight jeans and a tight black-shirt that clings to every fucking curve of muscle, and Ray's not entirely sure his mouth goes dry for the car or Brad.
He bounds away from Nate's Mazda RX-8 without really giving it much thought, hoping to get a look at the engine, but Brad stills his hand on the hood and goes, "How about you act like a gentleman and buy me a drink first, before you go peeking under my hood?"
Ray smirks and drawls, "So you're a one-date kind of girl, Brad? Interesting."
Nate's followed Ray over and interjects with, "You're trying to keep it a surprise? If you're here to race, we're going to find out soon anyway."
"I'm here to race," Brad confirms, "Are you telling me a racer can't have his secrets?"
"You're not a racer yet," Nate says, "And it's not going to help unless you've got a better driver under the hood."
"Holy shit," Ray says, delighted. "Fick, are you trying to talk smack? Are you trying to strike fear into the heart of our dear newbie?"
"You racing?" Doc asks Brad, having made his way over. There's the usual sort of crowd gathered around them, looking at Brad's car, and Ray thinks a lot of them are trying to wrap their head around the idea of having a modern street racer that isn't dyed and painted in six different shades of neon.
"Yeah, I'm in," Brad says, "So long as the pink slip to my car is good enough?"
"For real, homes?" Ray asks dubiously, "What did your car ever do to you to be treated like some cheap gambling chip?"
Brad shrugs like it's really no big deal, and says, "Godfather's late with my salary, my car's what I got."
"If you're willing to risk it," Nate shrugs. "It's your loss. Pappy, Darnold, you mind?"
"Not at all," Darnold says.
"I look forward to having that ride," Pappy agrees. "I mean, if you feel like giving it away, I can just take it off your hands now."
"Enough chitchat, this is not some fucking stitch'n'bitch," Doc says, taking Brad's pink slip and adding it to the pile of cash in his hand. "Get in your cars and let's race before the police show up."
*
Brad loses kind of spectacularly -- he's neck-and-neck with Nate for a while there, then blows his NOS way too fucking early and ends up burning out his engine. He clutches like Ray's grandmother too, and fuck, losing a Skyline gotta hurt like a bitch.
"We tried to warn you, homes," Ray says as Brad finally crosses the finish line in a cloud of smoke. He pops open the hood of Brad's car, and the rise of smoke and steam makes the crowd around them whoop. "Jesus, maybe it's a good thing this is Nate's car now after all, you obviously don't know how to treat her worth shit."
"Nothing we can't fix, Ray," Nate says next to him, and his features are painted with the quiet pleasure that comes from getting substantially richer and a new car just for doing something you love. Nate's a good winner like that, no unnecessary gloating, while Ray usually likes to do some victory booty-shaking when he wins. "You're looking remarkably chipper for a guy who just lost his ten-second ride."
Ray casts a glance at Brad and is surprised to find him grinning, not wide or anything, but still more of a grin than should be on anyone's face after being humiliated and losing their car. "Did you take some happy pills today, homes? Is that why my grandmother could've beaten you in her shitty little Golf?"
"I almost had you," Brad says, "I guess that must mean you're not much better than Ray's grandmother either."
The laughter spreads out from Nate and Ray to the crowd, but it doesn't stop Brad from grinning. "Any racer worth their salt," he says, "and even Ray's grandmother, knows it doesn't matter if you win by an inch or a mile, winning's winning, and today I won your car."
"Cops!" Leon shouts out the window of his car where he's sitting with his police scanner, and it's echoed a second later by Garza. The crowd disperses like ants under siege, and Ray slams the hood of Brad's car closed. Nate's already over by his Mazda and sliding it, engines roaring to life around them, the sound mixing with distant-sirens. Ray's got Walt's Toyota Supra for the night, and he guns it down a side street, because Walt will never fucking forgive him if he loses his car to the impound lot.
He takes the long way back to Nate's place, slowing down once he's sure the cops aren't on his tail, but still doubling the drive time to make sure. It's not like the cops don't know about Nate or his involvement with racing, but Nate's fucking harmless compared to some of the assholes they race.
He's surprised to see that Nate's car isn't there when he pulls up, but figures maybe Nate stashed it someplace. Inside, though, there's only Stafford and Christeson -- all of whom haven't heard or seen Nate since dinner -- and when Ray tries Nate's phone, there's no answer.
"Shit," he says, and after calling around uselessly to Poke, Garza and Chaffin to see if they've heard about Nate getting caught or whatever, he gives up. Nate'll either come back eventually or call from jail for bail, and until then there's nothing Ray can do but transfer the video of the race over to Stafford's computer so they can watch.
*
Whatever Ray had been preparing himself for, it wasn't for Nate to step out of a cab an hour later with Brad in tow. "Homes," Ray shouts as they slam through the door. "Don't you know how to check a fucking phone?"
"It's in Brad's, or what would've been my, car," Nate says, "Which is currently a smoking shell in Schwetje territory."
"What the fuck? Why'd you go there?"
"We got lost," Nate says, "Brad picked me up after I'd stashed the car and ended up being chased by some eager cop. I wasn't paying attention to where we were going."
"They shot at my car," Brad says, with this look about him that suggests he'd like to return the favor. "I guess a bullet hit one of my NOS tanks."
"Jesus, brah," Stafford says, "That's insane."
"Why the fuck were they shooting at you?" Christeson asks. Ray goes to fetch a six-pack, because it seems like they're really going to fucking need some beer, and both Nate and Brad smile gratefully at him as he hands them out. "It can't be because of the parts, can it?"
"A little of that," Nate says, "A little of the fact that Trombley's with them."
It's completely silent for a long moment; Ray, Stafford and Christeson all stare at Nate in disbelief.
"Shit," Ray breathes, "Trombley went to fucking Encino Man?"
"Yeah," Nate says, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.
"Shit."
"Who the fuck is Trombley?" Brad asks, and they all startle.
"Who are you?" Stafford asks, and Ray laughs, because he'd totally fucking forgotten they hadn't met Brad yet. "And why should it be your business?"
Nate's mouth twitches. "His name is Brad, and while this isn't his business, he does owe me a ten-second car, so he'll be around."
"I feel like it should be my business when it's gotten me shot at," Brad protests.
Nate scoffs and takes a long pull of his beer. "You're wrong."
*
It's three days later when Brad shows up towing what really just amounts to the shell of a Subaru Impreza WRX STI, Stafford and Christeson both whistle, although Ray thinks it's more because that's one abused fucking car.
"Homes," Ray says, "If you couldn't pay your way into a race, you're not going to be able to afford having us repair that shit."
"It's not for me," Brad says, "It's Nate's new car."
"You realize you owe me a ten-second car, right?" Nate asks, "Not a ten-minute?"
Brad smirks a little and pops the hood, and this time it's Ray who whistles. "That is one sweet fucking engine. I mean, we're still going to need a lot of parts, but fuck, it'll be one heck of a sweet ride."
"You realize you're going to have to pay for all parts?" Nate asks Brad.
"I'm getting paid by Godfather," he says, shrugging. "I'll be able to make payment."
"Alright then," Nate says, "I'll take your car. From now on, I want you working here when you're not at Godfather's. If we have no other cars to deal with, we'll help, otherwise you're on your own."
"Welcome to Bravo, fucker," Ray says, "Your life now belongs to Nate Fick until you get this car on the road and race-worthy."
*
Having Brad in the garage is nothing like Ray would've expected. Ray is kind of a vocal fucker when he works, talking and singing and swearing, and definitely an acquired taste. He sings rap with Christeson and Stafford, country with Walt and can coax a line or two of classic rock out of Nate on his good days.
Trombley'd had issues with it, bitching and occasionally chucking things at Ray's head, but they'd still kept him around because the psycho was fucking brilliant with engines. Then the hit and run had happened, the fault of which did partly lie with them since they'd deemed the stretch of road as clear and secure, but even street racers remember and prepare for unexpected pedestrians, and Trombley should've hit the brakes or tried to swerve away. Instead two kids had been sent to the hospital while Trombley headed for jail.
At the end of his sentence, Nate had gone to pick him up only to find out he'd been let out early and no one had heard from him since. They'd waited, in a weird stasis of shock and guilt, until Nate had snapped one day and said, "If this is the kind of person he really is, who won't even face his friends, then he shouldn't have been at Bravo anyway."
Brad, however, surprises the fuck out of Ray by joining him as he sings Nirvana and Marilyn Manson or one memorable occasion Kylie Minogue, and while he sometimes throws things at Ray's head to get him to shut up when Ray's been talking too long, it's usually just a rag or instruction manual. Nothing that could seriously maim.
It doesn't take long before Brad's a regular at Nate's house too, joining them as they drink and watch shitty action movies. Sometimes Ray'll run into him at clubs, hanging out with Poke and Kocher. For a guy who now only drives a Ducati, Brad seems to be well and truly at home with the racers.
It's not all sunshine and daisies, though. Sometimes he seems to ask questions with more intensity than they deserve -- like he's trying to map out who keeps with whom, what each team does, and he'll throw out dangling questions about how they manage to keep the cars they do. Ray blows most of them off, figuring the ones about money are just Brad itching for a ride of his own again, since right now all his dough is going into giving Nate the car he owes him.
Not to mention Schwetje's sniffing around them more than he used to when he was just mad about Nate refusing to hide drugs in the car parts he's getting shipped over from Japan. Something's going to blow soon, Ray knows, because Griego's got a finger on every fucking parts supplier in town and making it nearly impossible to get parts, not just for Ray's car, but for their customers too. Their supplier in Japan went under with the earthquake, so they can't rely on trustworthy overseas shipping either.
They're lucky with the Subaru though -- between Nate, Ray and Brad, they seem to dig up every part needed and order them in before Griego can sniff out their supplier.
*
"This is unbelievable," Nate says from behind his newspaper. Ray makes a vague noise of interest, still not entirely awake but being helped towards it with a cup of coffee and some Cap'n Crunch. "Have you heard anything about these truck heists?"
"What?" Walt asks. Christeson and Stafford make noises of inquiry, but they're still pretty much dead to the world.
"There's been three so far," Nate says, "All with the same M.O. The last one was last night."
Ray snaps awake. "Someone's jacking trucks?"
"Empty stretches of road, late at night, three Honda Civics all with the same blue light under the body. A guy climbs out of the one in front, shoots a barbed spear into the windshield, pulls it out before the spear is shot into the seat so the guy can jump on the truck. A chemical grenade is thrown into the cabin and the trucker is knocked out. When he wakes up, he's back in the desert and the truck is empty." Nate summarizes quickly, his tone emotionless as he reads, and Ray's losing his appetite. "Sound familiar?"
"Fuck," Ray says, "Don't look at me, I didn't fucking share the idea with anyone."
"It's definitely our idea, though," Nate says. "Are you sure?"
Ray scoffs. "I was high on painkillers at the time, homes, and coming off too many episodes of the A-Team. I'm surprised I even fucking remember it. Who the fuck did you guys tell?"
"I generally try to avoid making myself an accomplice in grand larceny," Nate says.
"I was too busy wondering why on Earth no one at the VA ever recognizes Peck to really listen," Stafford admits. ìIt still blows my mind.î
"Who the fuck would we tell?" Christeson asks, and Walt adds, "Or, for that matter, who'd be stupid enough to go through with it?"
"So there's another guy out there who's had a similar idea," Ray says, shrugging with faked nonchalance. "It's no big deal, and I mean, it's not like we're the ones jacking rigs. This has nothing to do with us. We're fucking golden."
"Maybe," Nate says, but he doesn't look entirely sure.
After breakfast, he makes Ray and Stafford comb through the house for bugs while he, Christeson and Walt go through the shop and garage, just in case.
They find nothing, and Ray calls him a paranoid fucker, but he knows Nate can see through his bullshit.
*
Ray's practically given up on ever seeing his car back on the streets, because he's not stupid enough to order the parts online, and Griego's not just going to overcharge him for the parts anymore, that much is clear.
Then Brad comes up to him one day, while Ray's lying under a Ford Capri Perana. "Hey, the Subaru's done," Brad says, "You want to come with me for a trial run?"
Ray rolls out and squints at Brad, silhouetted against the overhead lights, "Shouldn't you be asking Nate? It's his car."
"I'll show Nate when I'm sure I'll have repaid the debt," Brad says, "Besides, Nate's up in San Francisco looking for parts for that Chevy."
"So that's where his ass went," Ray says, and doesn't know what to do with the fact that apparently Nate told Brad, but not Ray. Or maybe Nate told him last night, when Ray was too drunk to remember. "Then hell yeah, homes, I'll come test the ride. But first I gotta make sure I don't get oil stains all over Nate's upholstery."
Brad flashes him a grin and heads back to the Subaru. Ray returns after a couple of minutes, hands clean and still wearing the black v-neck muscle shirt he'd had on under his overalls, since he hadn't really expected the need to bring extra clothes. "Take me for a ride, Campbell," Ray says, "Amaze me with what you turned that shell of a car into."
"Don't demand much, do you?" Brad asks, and slides into the driver's seat. Ray settles in the passenger seat, opening up the laptop hooked in to monitor the internal combustion engine.
"I'm ready, homes," Ray says. "Driver, start your fucking engine."
*
The Subaru makes the quarter mile in just less than ten seconds. Ray whoops once he reads the results and Brad's laugh sounds a little relieved, like he hadn't really believed the Subaru could do it yet.
"Not bad, man, congratulations!" Ray cheers. He checks his watch and adds, "And all with time to spare for a celebratory lunch too."
"I gotta pick something up in Oceanside," Brad says, "You mind coming with? We can stop to eat on the way."
"What the fuck is there to pick up in Oceanside?" Ray asks, "Unless you're cruising for Marines, in which case, having me in the car is going to cramp your style a little."
Brad rolls his eyes and says, "Are you in or not, Person?"
"I'm in," Ray says, "If Nate gets to road trip then why shouldn't we? Besides, Walt hasn't gotten his hands dirty in a while, he'll appreciate me giving him this golden opportunity to fix that fuel line on the Ford."
"Alright," Brad says, smiling faintly as he heads towards the I-405 S.
At a stop light they pull up next to a Ferrari F50, owned by someone very much in a midlife crisis and sitting next to a girl who looks half his age. "Hey lady," Ray shouts, "Your father has a nice car."
The guy flips Ray off and the girl sinks a little down in her seat. Brad laughs, soft at first, but louder when the guy revs his engine in a clear challenge.
"Seriously?" Ray says, "You think the car you're overcompensating with can take us?"
"Fuck you, dude," the guy says, "At least I'm not a fag."
"Fuckin' smoke this motherfucker, Brad," Ray says, narrowing his eyes at the dick.
"With pleasure."
Ray shifts his gaze from the guy over to the girl and says, "Lady, you could do better than this dickhead."
The guy revs his engine again, like it's going to scare them, and then the light turns green and for a sickening moment Ray thinks the Ferrari might actually win, and then they reach traffic, and Brad starts to weave between the cars like he's got cops on his tail. The Ferrari is left in their dust and Ray can't help beaming as he looks up into the rearview mirror to check if he can see them or not. "Brad, you've never been more of a beautiful motherfucker to me than right now," he says, "If only you'd feed me too."
"No matter how many times you bring it up, I'm still not going to touch your hick ass," Brad drawls, but he pulls into the next beachside restaurant on their way.
"I know you like me," Ray crows, ten minutes later when his mouth is stuffed full of fries. "I've grown on you, admit it."
"Like fungus," Brad says agreeably, "Now eat like a human, Ray, we're in public. You might risk getting locked up in a zoo."
Ray sticks his tongue out and continues to happily devour his meal which Brad even paid for, because Ray's pout is irresistible, no matter how much Brad protested it was so that people wouldn't be put off their food.
The Subaru's done, they showed up some homophobic dude with more money than brains, they've got food, and it's not a bad fucking day for a road trip.
*
Brad still won't tell Ray what they're doing in Oceanside, so Ray entertains himself on the way by turning to one of the non-stop terrible pop channels and seeing how long it'll take Brad to crack, but it's Ray who breaks first when it comes to the radio -- he'll sing along to a lot of shitty songs, but Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber one after another is his limit.
In Oceanside, Brad parks the car in the Oceanside Pier parking lot, and Ray follows him out of the car, feeling kind of dubious. "You realize we got piers and beaches in LA too, right, homes?"
Brad rolls his eyes and says, "It's a meeting place, Ray."
"For what?"
"You'll see soon enough."
"You know, Brad, this secretive act isn't as cute as you think it is," Ray says, "If you were Walt, I would've fucking punched it out of you by now, and if this turns out to be some sort of drug-thing, I will beat you up."
"You can try," Brad says, arching an eyebrow at him, and Ray changes the subject by going, "Dude, they got cotton candy. Sweet."
"I do actually have to meet someone," Brad says as Ray gets in line.
Ray flips him off and says, "He can hang on for five fucking seconds, geesh."
For reasons beyond Ray's understanding, the meet is set up at the very edge of the pier, and despite apparently not having enough time to stop for some cotton candy, Brad seems in no hurry to reach the end of the pier. Ray would call the pace they're going at sedate.
"Hey Campbell," a guy calls once they near the end of the pier. "You want this shit in this century or not?"
"Hold your horses, Schwarr, I'm here, aren't I?" Brad asks, and Ray eyes the bag at Schwarr's feet with suspicion. He doesn't seriously think Brad's dealing in drugs, but this entire deal seems shady. Ray should know, he's seen and done his fair share of shady shit over the years. There's a reason why the cops look speculatively in Bravo's direction every time something big goes down, after all.
"Yeah, and you brought a date," Schwarr says, giving Ray a weird look.
"Ray, this is Schwarr, an old buddy of mine. Schwarr, this is Ray. It's his car," Brad says, rolling his eyes. "Jesus, Schwarr, you're still a paranoid motherfucker."
"Yeah, well, how the fuck am I supposed to know what you're up to these days?" Schwarr asks, "You never call, you never write, I'm getting all these abandonment issues."
"Hey hold up, what's this about my car?" Ray asks, then turns to Brad and adds, "What kind of deals are you making with strangers regarding my car?"
"I'm no stranger to Brad," Schwarr says, attempting a leer but grinning too much to pull it off. "And hey, if you don't want these somewhat questionably obtained car parts, I can always take 'em back with me. I'm sure there's someone else out there with a Datsun willing to buy."
"You have parts?" Ray asks, disbelieving. "Like, for real, homes?" Schwarr leans down and opens up the bag, gesturing for Ray to go ahead, and Ray roots through it -- all the parts he needs are there, and he looks up at Schwarr and says, "I could fucking kiss you."
"I'm a married man," Schwarr says, "and kind of afraid of where you've been. I'd prefer it if you didn't."
"So they're all there?" Brad asks, and Ray nods, stroking a heat valve kind of reverently.
"Yeah, homes, they're all here."
"Great," Schwarr says, "Then I consider myself debt-free, Campbell. Not that this hasn't been fun, but I've gotta get home to the wife."
"Yeah," Brad says, "Thank you, man, I appreciate it."
Schwarr shrugs and says, "No problem. We should catch up again next time I'm stateside. I'll give you a call."
"Okay," Brad says, "Say hi to Kimmy."
"I will. Ray, it's been short and weird -- kind of like you, I guess, hey?" Schwarr laughs. "Hope you get your car up and running soon, man."
"Thank you," Ray says, zipping the bag closed again. "Seriously."
Schwarr waves it off and goes, leaving Ray standing with a bag full of car parts that Brad got for him. Brad's staring out towards the sea, like maybe Ray'll not bring it up if he doesn't make eye contact, but Ray knows Brad isn't that stupid.
"Why'd you do it?" Ray asks, "You didn't have to cash in a favor for this -- Griego would've backed down eventually."
Brad shrugs. "Your car's been in the shop the entire time I've known you and you don't have any alternate means of transport. I know you gotta be sick of bumming cars and rides off everybody."
"Well, yeah," Ray says, "That doesn't mean I'd keep doing it forever."
"Now it'll be even sooner," Brad says, and Ray doesn't really think, just drops the bag and puts his hands on Brad, pulling him in and planting one on him.
Their heads knock together because Ray miscalculates a little, but it's quick, because Ray's not a complete idiot, and once it's over Ray takes a step back out of immediate range, just in case. "Thank you," he says, while Brad's still frozen. "The minute I get her up and running again, you'll be the first one I'll take out -- she's going to blow your fucking mind."
"Stop talking about your car like it's a person," Brad says absently, wetting his lips. Ray can't really help following the movement.
"I named her Lindsay," Ray answers, and then Brad's hand is enclosed around his wrist and pulling him in, the other one tilting Ray's chin up and then they're kissing -- for real this time. This is Brad practically devouring Ray's mouth, and Ray sure as fuck doesn't mind. He'd be embarrassed about how he's clutching to Brad like a girl, but it's getting harder and harder to think with every slide of Brad's tongue.
A child screams with delight further down the pier, shattering whatever weird bubble they've stepped into, and they pull apart. "Uh," Ray says, "Um."
"So that's how to shut you up," Brad says, but his voice shakes a little like it was as unexpected for him as it was for Ray.
"I did not see that coming," Ray says, mostly to himself, but Brad hears him and huffs out a laugh.
He raises an eyebrow. "You saying you didn't want it to?"
"Shit, homes, did it look like I was objecting?" Ray asks, "I was just more prepared for like... a punch or a polite reminder of boundaries."
"You thought I was going to punch you?" Brad asks, frowning, and Ray shrugs.
"It's happened," he says, "No worries though. I definitely like your reaction better. Feel free to react some more."
Brad's eyes dance around the pier, and Ray's follows his. There's people all around them, not really paying them much mind, but they're there, and Ray's nodding before Brad even says, "Not here."
"Let's go home and get these parts in my car," Ray crows, "I can't fucking believe you whored yourself out for parts for my car."
"I didn't whore myself out, you whiskey tango fuck," Brad says, "I made one fucking phone call."
"Aw Brad," Ray says, "You're sweet on me. Don't worry, I'll totally check 'yes' if you pass me a note during homeroom."
"There's an ocean right here," Brad says, "that your parts can very easily be swallowed by."
Ray waggles his eyebrows, "You keep talking about my parts and I'll start to think you don't respect me for my mind."
"No one respects you for your mind, Ray," Brad says.
"The compliments just keep raining in today," Ray says, delighted, "You're not too bad yourself, Campbell."
Brad gives him a look like he can't really believe Ray's real, but smiles back when Ray flashes him a smile, and bumps his shoulder into Ray's.
*
They're halfway back to LA and Ray's singing I might get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans because the radio stations all have a major hard-on for all these Glee cover songs, when Brad's phone rings.
"You want me to take it?" Ray asks, but Brad takes one look at the Caller ID and goes kind of white.
"Uh, no, that's fine, I can take it," Brad says, dropping down the speed a little. A car honks as it drives past and Ray flips him off, while trying not to make it so obvious that he's studying Brad out of the corner of his eye.
"Brad Campbell," Brad says, followed quickly by, "I thought we fucking agreed I'd call you, not the other way around." He pauses, and Ray can just barely make out the male voice on the other end, but not enough to actually catch any of the words. "What, when? Now? Where is it? I'm on the I-405 N... I'd rather not, sir... 'Cause I've got someone in the car with me... Yes... Yes, sir, I understand, I just hope you do... You're wrong about them, it just can't be... I know because I've been there, okay, I would've noticed... Yes, sir, I'll go right away."
"What the fuck was that all about?" Ray demands, "Did you ditch work at Godfather's or something?"
"Or something," Brad says, and the sideway glances he's suddenly giving Ray makes Ray feel like bad shit is about to go down.
"Seriously, homes, what's up?" Ray asks.
"We're going to need to take a detour," Brad says, "There's another one of those truck heists going on."
"What the fuck does that have to do with us?"
"You tell me, Ray!" Brad says, "Because the police think it's Bravo pulling the heists, so you tell me, whether or not I should be prepared to arrest Christeson, Walt, Stafford and Nate for heisting trucks."
"You're a cop?" Ray shouts, and lashes out with one hand to strike at Brad. "Jesus fucking Christ, I should've fucking known you weren't fuckin' real. You fucking asshole!"
Brad catches Ray's hand and twists it back on itself, not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to make it clear that it can. "Ray, this is fucking important, is it Bravo or not?"
"No, you motherfucking bastard, it's not Bravo," Ray spits, rubbing at his wrist once Brad releases it. "You think we're fucking idiots? I have no idea who the fuck is stupid enough to pull those heists, but it's not us, and Nate wouldn't fucking know either. So what, you lost the race on purpose to keep an eye on us?"
"Ray, how about we save this conversation until after the heist is over?" Brad asks as he completely ignores the lights and weaves his way through the traffic. "Because if it's not Bravo, it means that someone else is out there about to be killed by a pissed off fucking trucker."
"Yeah, well, you can let me off any time," Ray says. "Since I'm fucking innocent."
"I can't," Brad says, "I need to get there as quickly as possible. I'm under direct orders."
"Under orders," Ray repeats with disbelief, "Jesus, you actually are a fucking cop. Is your name even Brad Campbell?"
"No," Brad says, and glances sideways at him. "It's Brad Colbert. But that's the only thing I actually lied about."
"Yeah," Ray scoffs, "Except for the fact that you're a cop and you've been using m-- Bravo to climb ranks."
Brad laughs; an ugly, twisted version of the laugh he had on the pier less than an hour ago. "I nearly got fired over this job," he says, "They wanted me to tail you to the storage facility for the heist goods and I kept telling them you weren't it, we were looking at the wrong guys, but both you and Nate have records for previous larceny--"
"Yeah, when we were fucking seventeen and too dumb to know better," Ray protests.
"-- and you're smart enough to pull it off, I only had another 36 hours before they'd move in anyway."
"Well thank you," Ray says, "It's always nice to know the police believe I'd be willing to risk my life for some stolen goods."
"You risk your life by racing," Brad says, "It wasn't a huge leap."
"I race because it's my life," Ray says, "Life is dangerous, so what's the point of doing something you don't love? I'd rather fucking race and crash than get my kicks out of lying to people for a living."
"Ray --"
"Shut up, Colbert," Ray snaps. "I've lived through worse injuries than if I leap out of this car right now, so just shut up and drive. Get your men and your medal so you can get the fuck out of our lives."
"Ray --"
"Seriously," Ray says, "I'm not fucking joking. You try me, Colbert, you'll see how fucking serious I am."
"Fine," Brad says.
Neither of them speaks again until they have the truck in their sights, currently surrounded by three Honda Civics. As Ray watches in shock, one of the Civics veers dangerously and rolls off the road. A second Civic pulls a full U-turn and speeds back towards the other car. As the Subaru speeds past, Ray thinks he makes out Griego running towards the crashed Civic and thinks, Of fucking course, they're the only ones stupid enough to do this.
Then, realizing there'd been someone passed out on the floor when they'd talked about this, Nate and the others drunk off their ass while Ray was just high on painkillers, he thinks, Oh shit, Trombley, you stupid motherfucking psycho.
"Shit, Brad," he says, suddenly noticing the flailing figure on the side of the truck. "Someone's stuck to it."
"Fuck," Brad says, and then he has to swerve as the last Honda Civic loses control due to a blown tire, and Ray gets a flash of Encino Man's terrified expression.
"What the fuck is your plan?" he asks Brad.
"I didn't exactly draw up a five-step plan," Brad snaps, pulling up alongside the truck. With a lurch, Ray realizes the flailing figure is Trombley, and Trombley's arm is wrapped up in his zip line with blood streaming down it.
"Fuck," Ray says to himself, then to Brad as he unbuckles his seatbelt, "Get closer to the truck."
"What?"
"Just fucking do it," Ray snaps, lowering the window and starting to climb out.
"Ray! Get the fuck back inside!"
"Fuck you and do what I told you to!" Ray shouts, "That's Trombley, I'm not going to let him die on the side of a fucking truck just because he's a stupid little psycho." The last part is delivered in through Brad's open window, as Ray clings to the top of the car. "Get closer."
Brad swears but does as Ray tells him to, and then Ray launches himself at the side of the truck and Trombley, incredibly enough finding purchase and not ending up under the wheels of the truck.
"You're such a fucking idiot, Trombley," Ray says, peeking through the fucking shotgun hole in the door to take stock of the driver, who seems to be trying to reload with one hand. "How the fuck is this worth it?"
"It's not," Trombley cries, and Jesus, Ray hadn't noticed he was fucking crying, but it makes sense. If ever there was a reason to cry, this would be fucking it. "Just help me, Ray, I'm about to fucking die."
Ray starts to unwind the zip line from around Trombley's arm, feeling sick at the blood and the gashes, and he can't believe anyone's stupid enough to have thought this was a good fucking idea. "Trombley, I'm going to need you to jump onto the roof of that Subaru and climb in, okay?"
"What? I'll fall!"
"It's your only fucking option!" Ray shouts, "You can jump or you can stay here with Trigger McHappy. But if you jump you gotta do it fucking now before he reloads."
"Okay," Trombley says, voice small, and Ray waves Brad closer.
"On three," Ray says, "One, two, and three."
Trombley jumps. For a moment Ray's certain he just killed him, that Trombley's going to miss or not be able to hold on, but somehow he manages, and he drags himself over to the passenger side and slips out of Ray's sight for a terrible second, then he reappears inside the car, next to Brad.
"C'mon!" Brad shouts, and Ray takes another look at the driver who, oh fucking hell, has the shotgun loaded again, and Ray doesn't even count, just launches himself towards the Subaru and hopes for the motherfucking best.
The breath is knocked out of him, but he holds on for dear life and nearly swings off as Brad brakes and turns away from the truck, hurtling off the side of the road and coming to an abrupt halt.
Ray slides off and winces as his ribs fucking scream at him, but aside from a hiss of pain, he ignores them and opens up the side-door, pulling Trombley out of the car. It's only then that he notices Trombley is bleeding from the leg too, and he swears as he realizes that on top of everything else, Trombley's gotten shot too.
"He needs a hospital," Brad says, and Ray's stripped out of his muscle shirt to press it to Trombley's leg.
"Then fucking call someone," Ray says, and feels so fucking wrung out and exhausted as he listens to Brad identify himself as Officer Brad Colbert, listing his badge number and their location.
"He's a cop?" Trombley rasps, his eyes closed but twitching like he's trying to open them, but doesn't have the strength. "You've been hanging with a fucking cop?"
"Better fucking company than Captain fucking America and Encino Man," Ray snaps, "What the fuck were you thinking, Trombley?"
"I needed a place," Trombley says, "They gave it to me."
"Jesus," Ray says, "We would've taken you back, you psycho. It was a horrible fucking accident that could've been prevented, but it was still a fucking accident. You just had to ask."
"Yeah, right," Trombley says, "None of you came looking."
Ray can't help but laugh a little at that, but it's tinged with frustration. "We didn't fucking know we were supposed to, Trombley, you fucking disappeared. Nate went to pick you up from jail and you were gone."
"He did?" Trombley asks, and Ray sighs, "Yeah, he did. Of course he did, he's the LT. Since when doesn't he see the best in people?"
"Ray," Brad says, touching at Ray's shoulder, and Ray flinches away.
"What?"
"I need to go look after the others," he says, "The medical chopper will be here soon."
"Well, I'm not leaving Trombley," Ray says, and finds it in himself to meet Brad's eyes. "But you should definitely go arrest those motherfuckers."
Brad looks at him, then nods, once. "Okay."
"Okay," Ray repeats, then Brad is running towards the Subaru and is gone. When he looks back down, Trombley's eyes are open, pained but curious.
"He doesn't seem bad for a cop," he says.
"Yeah, well," Ray says, "It doesn't make him less of an asshole."
*
Once they reach the hospital, Trombley's whisked off to surgery and Ray is checked out by a doctor and diagnosed with a couple of busted ribs. By the time she's done wrapping them and handing him some painkillers, there are armed guards at the door. One of them asks the doctor if he's well enough to go down to the station and his partner handcuffs him roughly when she informs them he's technically free to go.
"Fuck, homes, I did not have anything to do with this," Ray protests, but of course they don't listen. It sounds weak even to his ears, no matter if it is true, and he slouches down in the backseat of the police cruiser and catalogues every fucking question and comment belonging to Brad over the past couple of weeks that should've tipped Ray off to the fact that he's a cop, to the fact that he was being lied to.
He wonders what the fuck Brad thought he was doing at the pier, wonders what he thought he was doing, falling for anyone in the first place. The cops drag him out of the car and through the station, sling him into an interrogation room and ignore Ray's hiss of pain as his ribs get jostled.
"We'll process you once we've talked to Colbert," Cop #1 says, and Ray shrugs.
"Hey, don't I get a phone call?" he asks, because he should call Nate or some else in Bravo, let everyone know about Brad and about Trombley.
"No," Cop #2 says, "Not unless we charge you with something."
"Great," Ray says, "So, how about something to drink, then?"
They give him a plastic cup with water, which he nurses for the forty-five minutes it takes Brad to come bursting through the door.
"Ray, I'm sorry --"
"I'm so not interested," Ray says, "Can I leave, now? Have you told them how I had nothing to do with the fucking heists?"
"They want a statement," Brad says, his shoulders sinking. "But other than that, you're free to go."
"Great," Ray says, "Did you catch them?"
"Yeah," Brad says, "Griego, Schwetje and McGraw are all under arrest. They'll be arresting Trombley too, once he gets out of surgery."
"I guess that's it, then." Ray says, and stares at the empty plastic cup in his hands. Then he chances a quick look at Brad's face as he says, "Thank you for not letting Trombley die in the desert."
Brad says, "I wouldn't do that."
"I know," Ray says, "But still. Thank you. He's not really that bad, you know. He's an asshole and a psycho, yeah, but who the fuck isn't occasionally? He just fucks up bigger than most of us do, and this time it was even bigger than usual."
"Do you want me to be the one to take your statement?"
"No offense, Brad Colbert," Ray says, "but there's nothing in the world I'd like less right now."
"Here," Brad says, dropping the keys to the Subaru onto the desk. "Take it back to Nate. Tell everyone I'm sorry I lied, but I'm not sorry I did my job and I'm not sorry I was right about Bravo being innocent."
"I'll pass that message along," Ray agrees.
"Take care, Ray," Brad says, "I'm -- I'm sorry about all of it, but what I said in the car was true. I only lied about my name and my job, everything else was real."
"I feel like I know this cliché," Ray answers, trying to make his voice as flat as possible, but it's hard. Ray thinks Brad knows from the way he narrows his eyes, but he looks away before he can break. "Bye, Brad."
Then Brad's gone and replaced by Cop #1, who settles down and grills Ray for a full two hours before he's willing to let him go.
The Subaru is parked outside the station, easily recognizable in a sea of white and blacks, and Ray slides behind the wheel and feels more tired than he has in his entire life.
*
It's a little over a month and a half later before Ray gets around to dragging Schwarr's bag from Oceanside out of the closet where he'd shoved it and down to the garage.
He'd been down for five weeks with broken ribs, three of which he spent lying on the couch at Nate's house with ice packs, water and painkillers all within easy reach, watching shitty daytime TV and turning the last couple of weeks over in his mind.
The last two weeks of healing time he dragged himself down to the garage; taking over for Walt in the shop and helping Nate with the paperwork. Stafford and Nate offered to fix up his car for him, but he'd turned them down, because she's his car and he's fixed her up this far, he'll finish the job too even if it meant she wouldn't be done for a couple of weeks yet.
Ray is well aware he's been a brooding little bitch since he last saw Brad in the interrogation room, even if everyone didn't insist on bringing it up every fuckin' time they see him, like they're not pissed off about being lied to as well.
Nate doesn't drive the Subaru, parks it out the back of the garage and won't talk about what he's planning to do with it, just shrugs and says it's his car and none of their business.
Ray goes with Nate and Walt to visit Trombley in the hospital twice, spends too long with his finger hovering over the 'call' button on his cell phone, but at the end of the day, he ends up back on the couch.
Then Poke drops by, on his way to pick up one of his girls from ballet class, and says, "Brad's up at Godfather's still, you know. Came back after a week and asked for his job back. I heard from Rudy he's a civilian now."
"The fuck are you coming to me with it for?" Ray demands, and Poke slaps him on the head, hard.
"You white boys make me sad for the world, dawg," he says, "I'll see if I can't find some Simple Plan or Good Charlotte CDs for you at the store next to where my baby's dancing. Give your tears some tunes so your angst isn't cheapened."
"How do you even know who they are?" Ray shouts, but Poke's out the door and out of answering range.
"Fuck it," he declares after only six hours pretending like the conversation never happened, so fucking sick of his own company, and goes upstairs to get the bag.
It takes him a week to fix her up right, back to where she was before she got slammed between Lacey and a wall, and another day before he finally nuts up.
The text he sends Brad contains nothing but the coordinates for an intersection and a time, but he thinks it's better than being a complete fucking pussy and texting something like as an asshole, i forgive you for being one too.
He figures Brad's smart enough to figure it out anyway.
*
There's no homophobic asshole in a Ferrari at the intersection this time, just Ray and an empty stretch of road and the sound of an engine in the distance.
The Datsun 240Z practically fucking purrs beneath him, smooth where the Ducati engine that's pulled up next to him fucking roars.
"Strangely symbolic," Brad shouts, "Where's the finish?"
"Pier," Ray says, "I'm not taking it easy on you just 'cause you lost the only real race you were in."
"What's the prize when I win?"
Ray laughs, feeling like something's been lifted off his chest. "You haven't seen me race, homes," he shouts back, "There ain't no way I'm going to lose."
"Put your money where your mouth is," Brad suggests.
"Loser buys dinner," Ray agrees. "Unless you're still a dirt poor cop?"
Brad's face twists. "I'm a dirt poor mechanic, but I think I can spring for some fries should it come to that."
Ray grins, and the light turns green.
author: bergann
title: Let the Engines Roar
pairing: Ray/Brad
rating: PG-13
word count: 8 936
summary: "You realize we don't do bikes, right? Like, yours is a beauty and I'd fucking love to make an exception, dude, but we're an auto repair shop."
He starts walking inside to where Walt is manning the front, because hanging around by the Ducati is just awkward. He'd worry about being rude, except Ray kind of gave that up as a lost cause when he was fourteen. (Fast & Furious AU)
author notes: I love cars, but know shit about them. Terminology may be wrong, and so might the reality of the power of the cars in relation to each other as well.
Thanks to battleofhydaspe for looking this over for me ♥
There's a Ducati Multistrada parked outside Bravo when Ray pulls up. He squints at it in surprise as he parks, blinks a couple of times, but it's still there and he laughs a little as he steps out of the car.
It's a fucking beauty, that's for sure, and usually not the kind of vehicle they get at the shop. "Hey Walt," he calls out, giving the bike a quick walk around and an appreciative whistle. Fuck, who wouldn't he blow to be able to tinker around with the engine? "Who's gotten lost?"
"That would be me," a voice says, directly from behind Ray. The voice turns out to belong to a guy who looks like he just stepped out of the centerfold of Viking Hunks, and Ray almost gives him the same whistle he'd given the bike, but catches it in time. For all the homoeroticism in racing culture that Poke bitches without heat about, Ray knows it's another thing entirely to show actual attraction. He's not actually a complete moron. "And I'm not lost."
Ray arches an eyebrow and says, "You realize we don't do bikes, right? Like, yours is a beauty and I'd fucking love to make an exception, dude, but we're an auto repair shop."
He starts walking inside to where Walt is manning the front, because hanging around by the Ducati is just awkward. He'd worry about being rude, except Ray kind of gave that up as a lost cause when he was fourteen.
"I'm not here for a tune-up," the guy says, following him back in. "In case it escaped your notice, you also got a semi-diner going on in the front. I merely stopped for food."
"He ordered tuna," Walt says, and he looks a little surprised around the eyes as he gestures towards the empty plate. "He actually ate it too."
"Jesus," Ray says, "Did you surgically remove your taste buds beforehand?"
"It was good," the guy says, "I've eaten worse."
"Was it dog shit?" Ray asks curiously, and then ducks the swat Walt tries to take at his head. "Fuck, Hasser, you know the tuna here is shit. You got anger management issues, homes; I shouldn't have to stand for this fucking abuse."
Walt rolls his eyes and says, "Nate was looking for you earlier -- someone came with a Puma GTB. Something wrong with the radiator."
"Do I have time to eat a fucking sandwich first? Shit, you guys are running me to the bone, man. You guys know I've been out all day whoring myself out trying to get my hands on a fucking air outlet vent for my car."
Walt does know, which is probably the only reason why he actually prepares him a BLT and a coffee, topping up Viking's while he's at it. "No luck?"
Ray shrugs as he takes a bite, then says, "Griego's got his hands on them all, but I'd rather cut off my own dick than strike a deal with him."
"Jesus, didn't anyone ever teach you how to swallow what you got in your mouth before you open it again," Walt bitches and then points a finger in Ray's face and adds, "Don't you fucking dare make that joke, Ray, I will punch you."
Ray thinks Walt probably means it, so he takes a big bite of his sandwich instead and makes sure to chew so that Walt sees as much of the food as possible in between bites.
As it turns out, it's an unnecessary gesture, because Viking's voice cuts through Walt's glare with a completely dry, "That's what she said."
Ray laughs so hard he chokes at the expression on Walt's face, gulping coffee to clear the airways and burning his tongue in the process, and he points at Viking and says, "I don't even fucking know your name, but you're allowed to stay, even if you are a two-wheeler."
"I'm Brad," Viking says, "and the Ducati's just for getting around."
Ray kind of claps Brad on the shoulder in his excitement and asks, "So you've got a car too?"
"Yes," Brad answers, with a look at Ray that implies he's stupid for even asking.
Before Ray can prod for more information, like what car Brad has and if he races, Nate wanders in, frowning. "Ray, where the fuck have you been? You know Stafford and Christeson called in sick, I can't fucking do everything around here."
"Sure you can," Ray says, "You're magic, LT, remember?"
Nate's frown twitches slightly, because Ray is never going to let him live down the time he stumbled across a box filled with magic tricks for kids from Nate's childhood while they were cleaning up his attic. "Get to work, Person," Nate says, and then he seems to notice Brad for the first time. "Hi, sorry, I'm Nate Fick -- I own the shop."
"I'm Brad Campbell," Brad says, "Should I be worried about the fact that your trailer park mechanic is fondling my shoulder?"
Ray can't believe he didn't notice he'd left his hand on Brad's shoulder and since startling back would just dig his hole deeper, he instead squeezes and whimpers dramatically. "You're just so strong and manly, Brad, I just can't fucking help myself."
"Jesus Christ, Person," Nate says, "Stop scaring away our customers. They don't exactly grow on trees."
Ray lets his hand drop and jams the rest of his sandwich in his mouth as he slips off his stool and grabs the coffee cup. "Later, homes." He salutes them with it before he heads out back to the workshop to check out the Puma.
*
The race that night is Nate's, because Ray's car is still under repairs after Lilley slammed into him trying to drift through a corner, and Walt's got some thing against racing on workdays, the pussy, plus his girlfriend demanded dinner and a movie for once.
This means it's just Ray and Nate representing Bravo at the race. Stafford sends Ray a text begging him to film the finish so he can still enjoy everyone eating Nate's dust, while Christeson's text is really nothing more than :(((.
Nate, Darnold and Pappy all buy their way into the race, but Doc's still scouting around for a fourth when a sleek Nissan R35 GT-R, black with surprisingly tasteful green waves running across the sides, pulls up. Brad steps out, wearing tight jeans and a tight black-shirt that clings to every fucking curve of muscle, and Ray's not entirely sure his mouth goes dry for the car or Brad.
He bounds away from Nate's Mazda RX-8 without really giving it much thought, hoping to get a look at the engine, but Brad stills his hand on the hood and goes, "How about you act like a gentleman and buy me a drink first, before you go peeking under my hood?"
Ray smirks and drawls, "So you're a one-date kind of girl, Brad? Interesting."
Nate's followed Ray over and interjects with, "You're trying to keep it a surprise? If you're here to race, we're going to find out soon anyway."
"I'm here to race," Brad confirms, "Are you telling me a racer can't have his secrets?"
"You're not a racer yet," Nate says, "And it's not going to help unless you've got a better driver under the hood."
"Holy shit," Ray says, delighted. "Fick, are you trying to talk smack? Are you trying to strike fear into the heart of our dear newbie?"
"You racing?" Doc asks Brad, having made his way over. There's the usual sort of crowd gathered around them, looking at Brad's car, and Ray thinks a lot of them are trying to wrap their head around the idea of having a modern street racer that isn't dyed and painted in six different shades of neon.
"Yeah, I'm in," Brad says, "So long as the pink slip to my car is good enough?"
"For real, homes?" Ray asks dubiously, "What did your car ever do to you to be treated like some cheap gambling chip?"
Brad shrugs like it's really no big deal, and says, "Godfather's late with my salary, my car's what I got."
"If you're willing to risk it," Nate shrugs. "It's your loss. Pappy, Darnold, you mind?"
"Not at all," Darnold says.
"I look forward to having that ride," Pappy agrees. "I mean, if you feel like giving it away, I can just take it off your hands now."
"Enough chitchat, this is not some fucking stitch'n'bitch," Doc says, taking Brad's pink slip and adding it to the pile of cash in his hand. "Get in your cars and let's race before the police show up."
*
Brad loses kind of spectacularly -- he's neck-and-neck with Nate for a while there, then blows his NOS way too fucking early and ends up burning out his engine. He clutches like Ray's grandmother too, and fuck, losing a Skyline gotta hurt like a bitch.
"We tried to warn you, homes," Ray says as Brad finally crosses the finish line in a cloud of smoke. He pops open the hood of Brad's car, and the rise of smoke and steam makes the crowd around them whoop. "Jesus, maybe it's a good thing this is Nate's car now after all, you obviously don't know how to treat her worth shit."
"Nothing we can't fix, Ray," Nate says next to him, and his features are painted with the quiet pleasure that comes from getting substantially richer and a new car just for doing something you love. Nate's a good winner like that, no unnecessary gloating, while Ray usually likes to do some victory booty-shaking when he wins. "You're looking remarkably chipper for a guy who just lost his ten-second ride."
Ray casts a glance at Brad and is surprised to find him grinning, not wide or anything, but still more of a grin than should be on anyone's face after being humiliated and losing their car. "Did you take some happy pills today, homes? Is that why my grandmother could've beaten you in her shitty little Golf?"
"I almost had you," Brad says, "I guess that must mean you're not much better than Ray's grandmother either."
The laughter spreads out from Nate and Ray to the crowd, but it doesn't stop Brad from grinning. "Any racer worth their salt," he says, "and even Ray's grandmother, knows it doesn't matter if you win by an inch or a mile, winning's winning, and today I won your car."
"Cops!" Leon shouts out the window of his car where he's sitting with his police scanner, and it's echoed a second later by Garza. The crowd disperses like ants under siege, and Ray slams the hood of Brad's car closed. Nate's already over by his Mazda and sliding it, engines roaring to life around them, the sound mixing with distant-sirens. Ray's got Walt's Toyota Supra for the night, and he guns it down a side street, because Walt will never fucking forgive him if he loses his car to the impound lot.
He takes the long way back to Nate's place, slowing down once he's sure the cops aren't on his tail, but still doubling the drive time to make sure. It's not like the cops don't know about Nate or his involvement with racing, but Nate's fucking harmless compared to some of the assholes they race.
He's surprised to see that Nate's car isn't there when he pulls up, but figures maybe Nate stashed it someplace. Inside, though, there's only Stafford and Christeson -- all of whom haven't heard or seen Nate since dinner -- and when Ray tries Nate's phone, there's no answer.
"Shit," he says, and after calling around uselessly to Poke, Garza and Chaffin to see if they've heard about Nate getting caught or whatever, he gives up. Nate'll either come back eventually or call from jail for bail, and until then there's nothing Ray can do but transfer the video of the race over to Stafford's computer so they can watch.
*
Whatever Ray had been preparing himself for, it wasn't for Nate to step out of a cab an hour later with Brad in tow. "Homes," Ray shouts as they slam through the door. "Don't you know how to check a fucking phone?"
"It's in Brad's, or what would've been my, car," Nate says, "Which is currently a smoking shell in Schwetje territory."
"What the fuck? Why'd you go there?"
"We got lost," Nate says, "Brad picked me up after I'd stashed the car and ended up being chased by some eager cop. I wasn't paying attention to where we were going."
"They shot at my car," Brad says, with this look about him that suggests he'd like to return the favor. "I guess a bullet hit one of my NOS tanks."
"Jesus, brah," Stafford says, "That's insane."
"Why the fuck were they shooting at you?" Christeson asks. Ray goes to fetch a six-pack, because it seems like they're really going to fucking need some beer, and both Nate and Brad smile gratefully at him as he hands them out. "It can't be because of the parts, can it?"
"A little of that," Nate says, "A little of the fact that Trombley's with them."
It's completely silent for a long moment; Ray, Stafford and Christeson all stare at Nate in disbelief.
"Shit," Ray breathes, "Trombley went to fucking Encino Man?"
"Yeah," Nate says, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.
"Shit."
"Who the fuck is Trombley?" Brad asks, and they all startle.
"Who are you?" Stafford asks, and Ray laughs, because he'd totally fucking forgotten they hadn't met Brad yet. "And why should it be your business?"
Nate's mouth twitches. "His name is Brad, and while this isn't his business, he does owe me a ten-second car, so he'll be around."
"I feel like it should be my business when it's gotten me shot at," Brad protests.
Nate scoffs and takes a long pull of his beer. "You're wrong."
*
It's three days later when Brad shows up towing what really just amounts to the shell of a Subaru Impreza WRX STI, Stafford and Christeson both whistle, although Ray thinks it's more because that's one abused fucking car.
"Homes," Ray says, "If you couldn't pay your way into a race, you're not going to be able to afford having us repair that shit."
"It's not for me," Brad says, "It's Nate's new car."
"You realize you owe me a ten-second car, right?" Nate asks, "Not a ten-minute?"
Brad smirks a little and pops the hood, and this time it's Ray who whistles. "That is one sweet fucking engine. I mean, we're still going to need a lot of parts, but fuck, it'll be one heck of a sweet ride."
"You realize you're going to have to pay for all parts?" Nate asks Brad.
"I'm getting paid by Godfather," he says, shrugging. "I'll be able to make payment."
"Alright then," Nate says, "I'll take your car. From now on, I want you working here when you're not at Godfather's. If we have no other cars to deal with, we'll help, otherwise you're on your own."
"Welcome to Bravo, fucker," Ray says, "Your life now belongs to Nate Fick until you get this car on the road and race-worthy."
*
Having Brad in the garage is nothing like Ray would've expected. Ray is kind of a vocal fucker when he works, talking and singing and swearing, and definitely an acquired taste. He sings rap with Christeson and Stafford, country with Walt and can coax a line or two of classic rock out of Nate on his good days.
Trombley'd had issues with it, bitching and occasionally chucking things at Ray's head, but they'd still kept him around because the psycho was fucking brilliant with engines. Then the hit and run had happened, the fault of which did partly lie with them since they'd deemed the stretch of road as clear and secure, but even street racers remember and prepare for unexpected pedestrians, and Trombley should've hit the brakes or tried to swerve away. Instead two kids had been sent to the hospital while Trombley headed for jail.
At the end of his sentence, Nate had gone to pick him up only to find out he'd been let out early and no one had heard from him since. They'd waited, in a weird stasis of shock and guilt, until Nate had snapped one day and said, "If this is the kind of person he really is, who won't even face his friends, then he shouldn't have been at Bravo anyway."
Brad, however, surprises the fuck out of Ray by joining him as he sings Nirvana and Marilyn Manson or one memorable occasion Kylie Minogue, and while he sometimes throws things at Ray's head to get him to shut up when Ray's been talking too long, it's usually just a rag or instruction manual. Nothing that could seriously maim.
It doesn't take long before Brad's a regular at Nate's house too, joining them as they drink and watch shitty action movies. Sometimes Ray'll run into him at clubs, hanging out with Poke and Kocher. For a guy who now only drives a Ducati, Brad seems to be well and truly at home with the racers.
It's not all sunshine and daisies, though. Sometimes he seems to ask questions with more intensity than they deserve -- like he's trying to map out who keeps with whom, what each team does, and he'll throw out dangling questions about how they manage to keep the cars they do. Ray blows most of them off, figuring the ones about money are just Brad itching for a ride of his own again, since right now all his dough is going into giving Nate the car he owes him.
Not to mention Schwetje's sniffing around them more than he used to when he was just mad about Nate refusing to hide drugs in the car parts he's getting shipped over from Japan. Something's going to blow soon, Ray knows, because Griego's got a finger on every fucking parts supplier in town and making it nearly impossible to get parts, not just for Ray's car, but for their customers too. Their supplier in Japan went under with the earthquake, so they can't rely on trustworthy overseas shipping either.
They're lucky with the Subaru though -- between Nate, Ray and Brad, they seem to dig up every part needed and order them in before Griego can sniff out their supplier.
*
"This is unbelievable," Nate says from behind his newspaper. Ray makes a vague noise of interest, still not entirely awake but being helped towards it with a cup of coffee and some Cap'n Crunch. "Have you heard anything about these truck heists?"
"What?" Walt asks. Christeson and Stafford make noises of inquiry, but they're still pretty much dead to the world.
"There's been three so far," Nate says, "All with the same M.O. The last one was last night."
Ray snaps awake. "Someone's jacking trucks?"
"Empty stretches of road, late at night, three Honda Civics all with the same blue light under the body. A guy climbs out of the one in front, shoots a barbed spear into the windshield, pulls it out before the spear is shot into the seat so the guy can jump on the truck. A chemical grenade is thrown into the cabin and the trucker is knocked out. When he wakes up, he's back in the desert and the truck is empty." Nate summarizes quickly, his tone emotionless as he reads, and Ray's losing his appetite. "Sound familiar?"
"Fuck," Ray says, "Don't look at me, I didn't fucking share the idea with anyone."
"It's definitely our idea, though," Nate says. "Are you sure?"
Ray scoffs. "I was high on painkillers at the time, homes, and coming off too many episodes of the A-Team. I'm surprised I even fucking remember it. Who the fuck did you guys tell?"
"I generally try to avoid making myself an accomplice in grand larceny," Nate says.
"I was too busy wondering why on Earth no one at the VA ever recognizes Peck to really listen," Stafford admits. ìIt still blows my mind.î
"Who the fuck would we tell?" Christeson asks, and Walt adds, "Or, for that matter, who'd be stupid enough to go through with it?"
"So there's another guy out there who's had a similar idea," Ray says, shrugging with faked nonchalance. "It's no big deal, and I mean, it's not like we're the ones jacking rigs. This has nothing to do with us. We're fucking golden."
"Maybe," Nate says, but he doesn't look entirely sure.
After breakfast, he makes Ray and Stafford comb through the house for bugs while he, Christeson and Walt go through the shop and garage, just in case.
They find nothing, and Ray calls him a paranoid fucker, but he knows Nate can see through his bullshit.
*
Ray's practically given up on ever seeing his car back on the streets, because he's not stupid enough to order the parts online, and Griego's not just going to overcharge him for the parts anymore, that much is clear.
Then Brad comes up to him one day, while Ray's lying under a Ford Capri Perana. "Hey, the Subaru's done," Brad says, "You want to come with me for a trial run?"
Ray rolls out and squints at Brad, silhouetted against the overhead lights, "Shouldn't you be asking Nate? It's his car."
"I'll show Nate when I'm sure I'll have repaid the debt," Brad says, "Besides, Nate's up in San Francisco looking for parts for that Chevy."
"So that's where his ass went," Ray says, and doesn't know what to do with the fact that apparently Nate told Brad, but not Ray. Or maybe Nate told him last night, when Ray was too drunk to remember. "Then hell yeah, homes, I'll come test the ride. But first I gotta make sure I don't get oil stains all over Nate's upholstery."
Brad flashes him a grin and heads back to the Subaru. Ray returns after a couple of minutes, hands clean and still wearing the black v-neck muscle shirt he'd had on under his overalls, since he hadn't really expected the need to bring extra clothes. "Take me for a ride, Campbell," Ray says, "Amaze me with what you turned that shell of a car into."
"Don't demand much, do you?" Brad asks, and slides into the driver's seat. Ray settles in the passenger seat, opening up the laptop hooked in to monitor the internal combustion engine.
"I'm ready, homes," Ray says. "Driver, start your fucking engine."
*
The Subaru makes the quarter mile in just less than ten seconds. Ray whoops once he reads the results and Brad's laugh sounds a little relieved, like he hadn't really believed the Subaru could do it yet.
"Not bad, man, congratulations!" Ray cheers. He checks his watch and adds, "And all with time to spare for a celebratory lunch too."
"I gotta pick something up in Oceanside," Brad says, "You mind coming with? We can stop to eat on the way."
"What the fuck is there to pick up in Oceanside?" Ray asks, "Unless you're cruising for Marines, in which case, having me in the car is going to cramp your style a little."
Brad rolls his eyes and says, "Are you in or not, Person?"
"I'm in," Ray says, "If Nate gets to road trip then why shouldn't we? Besides, Walt hasn't gotten his hands dirty in a while, he'll appreciate me giving him this golden opportunity to fix that fuel line on the Ford."
"Alright," Brad says, smiling faintly as he heads towards the I-405 S.
At a stop light they pull up next to a Ferrari F50, owned by someone very much in a midlife crisis and sitting next to a girl who looks half his age. "Hey lady," Ray shouts, "Your father has a nice car."
The guy flips Ray off and the girl sinks a little down in her seat. Brad laughs, soft at first, but louder when the guy revs his engine in a clear challenge.
"Seriously?" Ray says, "You think the car you're overcompensating with can take us?"
"Fuck you, dude," the guy says, "At least I'm not a fag."
"Fuckin' smoke this motherfucker, Brad," Ray says, narrowing his eyes at the dick.
"With pleasure."
Ray shifts his gaze from the guy over to the girl and says, "Lady, you could do better than this dickhead."
The guy revs his engine again, like it's going to scare them, and then the light turns green and for a sickening moment Ray thinks the Ferrari might actually win, and then they reach traffic, and Brad starts to weave between the cars like he's got cops on his tail. The Ferrari is left in their dust and Ray can't help beaming as he looks up into the rearview mirror to check if he can see them or not. "Brad, you've never been more of a beautiful motherfucker to me than right now," he says, "If only you'd feed me too."
"No matter how many times you bring it up, I'm still not going to touch your hick ass," Brad drawls, but he pulls into the next beachside restaurant on their way.
"I know you like me," Ray crows, ten minutes later when his mouth is stuffed full of fries. "I've grown on you, admit it."
"Like fungus," Brad says agreeably, "Now eat like a human, Ray, we're in public. You might risk getting locked up in a zoo."
Ray sticks his tongue out and continues to happily devour his meal which Brad even paid for, because Ray's pout is irresistible, no matter how much Brad protested it was so that people wouldn't be put off their food.
The Subaru's done, they showed up some homophobic dude with more money than brains, they've got food, and it's not a bad fucking day for a road trip.
*
Brad still won't tell Ray what they're doing in Oceanside, so Ray entertains himself on the way by turning to one of the non-stop terrible pop channels and seeing how long it'll take Brad to crack, but it's Ray who breaks first when it comes to the radio -- he'll sing along to a lot of shitty songs, but Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber one after another is his limit.
In Oceanside, Brad parks the car in the Oceanside Pier parking lot, and Ray follows him out of the car, feeling kind of dubious. "You realize we got piers and beaches in LA too, right, homes?"
Brad rolls his eyes and says, "It's a meeting place, Ray."
"For what?"
"You'll see soon enough."
"You know, Brad, this secretive act isn't as cute as you think it is," Ray says, "If you were Walt, I would've fucking punched it out of you by now, and if this turns out to be some sort of drug-thing, I will beat you up."
"You can try," Brad says, arching an eyebrow at him, and Ray changes the subject by going, "Dude, they got cotton candy. Sweet."
"I do actually have to meet someone," Brad says as Ray gets in line.
Ray flips him off and says, "He can hang on for five fucking seconds, geesh."
For reasons beyond Ray's understanding, the meet is set up at the very edge of the pier, and despite apparently not having enough time to stop for some cotton candy, Brad seems in no hurry to reach the end of the pier. Ray would call the pace they're going at sedate.
"Hey Campbell," a guy calls once they near the end of the pier. "You want this shit in this century or not?"
"Hold your horses, Schwarr, I'm here, aren't I?" Brad asks, and Ray eyes the bag at Schwarr's feet with suspicion. He doesn't seriously think Brad's dealing in drugs, but this entire deal seems shady. Ray should know, he's seen and done his fair share of shady shit over the years. There's a reason why the cops look speculatively in Bravo's direction every time something big goes down, after all.
"Yeah, and you brought a date," Schwarr says, giving Ray a weird look.
"Ray, this is Schwarr, an old buddy of mine. Schwarr, this is Ray. It's his car," Brad says, rolling his eyes. "Jesus, Schwarr, you're still a paranoid motherfucker."
"Yeah, well, how the fuck am I supposed to know what you're up to these days?" Schwarr asks, "You never call, you never write, I'm getting all these abandonment issues."
"Hey hold up, what's this about my car?" Ray asks, then turns to Brad and adds, "What kind of deals are you making with strangers regarding my car?"
"I'm no stranger to Brad," Schwarr says, attempting a leer but grinning too much to pull it off. "And hey, if you don't want these somewhat questionably obtained car parts, I can always take 'em back with me. I'm sure there's someone else out there with a Datsun willing to buy."
"You have parts?" Ray asks, disbelieving. "Like, for real, homes?" Schwarr leans down and opens up the bag, gesturing for Ray to go ahead, and Ray roots through it -- all the parts he needs are there, and he looks up at Schwarr and says, "I could fucking kiss you."
"I'm a married man," Schwarr says, "and kind of afraid of where you've been. I'd prefer it if you didn't."
"So they're all there?" Brad asks, and Ray nods, stroking a heat valve kind of reverently.
"Yeah, homes, they're all here."
"Great," Schwarr says, "Then I consider myself debt-free, Campbell. Not that this hasn't been fun, but I've gotta get home to the wife."
"Yeah," Brad says, "Thank you, man, I appreciate it."
Schwarr shrugs and says, "No problem. We should catch up again next time I'm stateside. I'll give you a call."
"Okay," Brad says, "Say hi to Kimmy."
"I will. Ray, it's been short and weird -- kind of like you, I guess, hey?" Schwarr laughs. "Hope you get your car up and running soon, man."
"Thank you," Ray says, zipping the bag closed again. "Seriously."
Schwarr waves it off and goes, leaving Ray standing with a bag full of car parts that Brad got for him. Brad's staring out towards the sea, like maybe Ray'll not bring it up if he doesn't make eye contact, but Ray knows Brad isn't that stupid.
"Why'd you do it?" Ray asks, "You didn't have to cash in a favor for this -- Griego would've backed down eventually."
Brad shrugs. "Your car's been in the shop the entire time I've known you and you don't have any alternate means of transport. I know you gotta be sick of bumming cars and rides off everybody."
"Well, yeah," Ray says, "That doesn't mean I'd keep doing it forever."
"Now it'll be even sooner," Brad says, and Ray doesn't really think, just drops the bag and puts his hands on Brad, pulling him in and planting one on him.
Their heads knock together because Ray miscalculates a little, but it's quick, because Ray's not a complete idiot, and once it's over Ray takes a step back out of immediate range, just in case. "Thank you," he says, while Brad's still frozen. "The minute I get her up and running again, you'll be the first one I'll take out -- she's going to blow your fucking mind."
"Stop talking about your car like it's a person," Brad says absently, wetting his lips. Ray can't really help following the movement.
"I named her Lindsay," Ray answers, and then Brad's hand is enclosed around his wrist and pulling him in, the other one tilting Ray's chin up and then they're kissing -- for real this time. This is Brad practically devouring Ray's mouth, and Ray sure as fuck doesn't mind. He'd be embarrassed about how he's clutching to Brad like a girl, but it's getting harder and harder to think with every slide of Brad's tongue.
A child screams with delight further down the pier, shattering whatever weird bubble they've stepped into, and they pull apart. "Uh," Ray says, "Um."
"So that's how to shut you up," Brad says, but his voice shakes a little like it was as unexpected for him as it was for Ray.
"I did not see that coming," Ray says, mostly to himself, but Brad hears him and huffs out a laugh.
He raises an eyebrow. "You saying you didn't want it to?"
"Shit, homes, did it look like I was objecting?" Ray asks, "I was just more prepared for like... a punch or a polite reminder of boundaries."
"You thought I was going to punch you?" Brad asks, frowning, and Ray shrugs.
"It's happened," he says, "No worries though. I definitely like your reaction better. Feel free to react some more."
Brad's eyes dance around the pier, and Ray's follows his. There's people all around them, not really paying them much mind, but they're there, and Ray's nodding before Brad even says, "Not here."
"Let's go home and get these parts in my car," Ray crows, "I can't fucking believe you whored yourself out for parts for my car."
"I didn't whore myself out, you whiskey tango fuck," Brad says, "I made one fucking phone call."
"Aw Brad," Ray says, "You're sweet on me. Don't worry, I'll totally check 'yes' if you pass me a note during homeroom."
"There's an ocean right here," Brad says, "that your parts can very easily be swallowed by."
Ray waggles his eyebrows, "You keep talking about my parts and I'll start to think you don't respect me for my mind."
"No one respects you for your mind, Ray," Brad says.
"The compliments just keep raining in today," Ray says, delighted, "You're not too bad yourself, Campbell."
Brad gives him a look like he can't really believe Ray's real, but smiles back when Ray flashes him a smile, and bumps his shoulder into Ray's.
*
They're halfway back to LA and Ray's singing I might get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans because the radio stations all have a major hard-on for all these Glee cover songs, when Brad's phone rings.
"You want me to take it?" Ray asks, but Brad takes one look at the Caller ID and goes kind of white.
"Uh, no, that's fine, I can take it," Brad says, dropping down the speed a little. A car honks as it drives past and Ray flips him off, while trying not to make it so obvious that he's studying Brad out of the corner of his eye.
"Brad Campbell," Brad says, followed quickly by, "I thought we fucking agreed I'd call you, not the other way around." He pauses, and Ray can just barely make out the male voice on the other end, but not enough to actually catch any of the words. "What, when? Now? Where is it? I'm on the I-405 N... I'd rather not, sir... 'Cause I've got someone in the car with me... Yes... Yes, sir, I understand, I just hope you do... You're wrong about them, it just can't be... I know because I've been there, okay, I would've noticed... Yes, sir, I'll go right away."
"What the fuck was that all about?" Ray demands, "Did you ditch work at Godfather's or something?"
"Or something," Brad says, and the sideway glances he's suddenly giving Ray makes Ray feel like bad shit is about to go down.
"Seriously, homes, what's up?" Ray asks.
"We're going to need to take a detour," Brad says, "There's another one of those truck heists going on."
"What the fuck does that have to do with us?"
"You tell me, Ray!" Brad says, "Because the police think it's Bravo pulling the heists, so you tell me, whether or not I should be prepared to arrest Christeson, Walt, Stafford and Nate for heisting trucks."
"You're a cop?" Ray shouts, and lashes out with one hand to strike at Brad. "Jesus fucking Christ, I should've fucking known you weren't fuckin' real. You fucking asshole!"
Brad catches Ray's hand and twists it back on itself, not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to make it clear that it can. "Ray, this is fucking important, is it Bravo or not?"
"No, you motherfucking bastard, it's not Bravo," Ray spits, rubbing at his wrist once Brad releases it. "You think we're fucking idiots? I have no idea who the fuck is stupid enough to pull those heists, but it's not us, and Nate wouldn't fucking know either. So what, you lost the race on purpose to keep an eye on us?"
"Ray, how about we save this conversation until after the heist is over?" Brad asks as he completely ignores the lights and weaves his way through the traffic. "Because if it's not Bravo, it means that someone else is out there about to be killed by a pissed off fucking trucker."
"Yeah, well, you can let me off any time," Ray says. "Since I'm fucking innocent."
"I can't," Brad says, "I need to get there as quickly as possible. I'm under direct orders."
"Under orders," Ray repeats with disbelief, "Jesus, you actually are a fucking cop. Is your name even Brad Campbell?"
"No," Brad says, and glances sideways at him. "It's Brad Colbert. But that's the only thing I actually lied about."
"Yeah," Ray scoffs, "Except for the fact that you're a cop and you've been using m-- Bravo to climb ranks."
Brad laughs; an ugly, twisted version of the laugh he had on the pier less than an hour ago. "I nearly got fired over this job," he says, "They wanted me to tail you to the storage facility for the heist goods and I kept telling them you weren't it, we were looking at the wrong guys, but both you and Nate have records for previous larceny--"
"Yeah, when we were fucking seventeen and too dumb to know better," Ray protests.
"-- and you're smart enough to pull it off, I only had another 36 hours before they'd move in anyway."
"Well thank you," Ray says, "It's always nice to know the police believe I'd be willing to risk my life for some stolen goods."
"You risk your life by racing," Brad says, "It wasn't a huge leap."
"I race because it's my life," Ray says, "Life is dangerous, so what's the point of doing something you don't love? I'd rather fucking race and crash than get my kicks out of lying to people for a living."
"Ray --"
"Shut up, Colbert," Ray snaps. "I've lived through worse injuries than if I leap out of this car right now, so just shut up and drive. Get your men and your medal so you can get the fuck out of our lives."
"Ray --"
"Seriously," Ray says, "I'm not fucking joking. You try me, Colbert, you'll see how fucking serious I am."
"Fine," Brad says.
Neither of them speaks again until they have the truck in their sights, currently surrounded by three Honda Civics. As Ray watches in shock, one of the Civics veers dangerously and rolls off the road. A second Civic pulls a full U-turn and speeds back towards the other car. As the Subaru speeds past, Ray thinks he makes out Griego running towards the crashed Civic and thinks, Of fucking course, they're the only ones stupid enough to do this.
Then, realizing there'd been someone passed out on the floor when they'd talked about this, Nate and the others drunk off their ass while Ray was just high on painkillers, he thinks, Oh shit, Trombley, you stupid motherfucking psycho.
"Shit, Brad," he says, suddenly noticing the flailing figure on the side of the truck. "Someone's stuck to it."
"Fuck," Brad says, and then he has to swerve as the last Honda Civic loses control due to a blown tire, and Ray gets a flash of Encino Man's terrified expression.
"What the fuck is your plan?" he asks Brad.
"I didn't exactly draw up a five-step plan," Brad snaps, pulling up alongside the truck. With a lurch, Ray realizes the flailing figure is Trombley, and Trombley's arm is wrapped up in his zip line with blood streaming down it.
"Fuck," Ray says to himself, then to Brad as he unbuckles his seatbelt, "Get closer to the truck."
"What?"
"Just fucking do it," Ray snaps, lowering the window and starting to climb out.
"Ray! Get the fuck back inside!"
"Fuck you and do what I told you to!" Ray shouts, "That's Trombley, I'm not going to let him die on the side of a fucking truck just because he's a stupid little psycho." The last part is delivered in through Brad's open window, as Ray clings to the top of the car. "Get closer."
Brad swears but does as Ray tells him to, and then Ray launches himself at the side of the truck and Trombley, incredibly enough finding purchase and not ending up under the wheels of the truck.
"You're such a fucking idiot, Trombley," Ray says, peeking through the fucking shotgun hole in the door to take stock of the driver, who seems to be trying to reload with one hand. "How the fuck is this worth it?"
"It's not," Trombley cries, and Jesus, Ray hadn't noticed he was fucking crying, but it makes sense. If ever there was a reason to cry, this would be fucking it. "Just help me, Ray, I'm about to fucking die."
Ray starts to unwind the zip line from around Trombley's arm, feeling sick at the blood and the gashes, and he can't believe anyone's stupid enough to have thought this was a good fucking idea. "Trombley, I'm going to need you to jump onto the roof of that Subaru and climb in, okay?"
"What? I'll fall!"
"It's your only fucking option!" Ray shouts, "You can jump or you can stay here with Trigger McHappy. But if you jump you gotta do it fucking now before he reloads."
"Okay," Trombley says, voice small, and Ray waves Brad closer.
"On three," Ray says, "One, two, and three."
Trombley jumps. For a moment Ray's certain he just killed him, that Trombley's going to miss or not be able to hold on, but somehow he manages, and he drags himself over to the passenger side and slips out of Ray's sight for a terrible second, then he reappears inside the car, next to Brad.
"C'mon!" Brad shouts, and Ray takes another look at the driver who, oh fucking hell, has the shotgun loaded again, and Ray doesn't even count, just launches himself towards the Subaru and hopes for the motherfucking best.
The breath is knocked out of him, but he holds on for dear life and nearly swings off as Brad brakes and turns away from the truck, hurtling off the side of the road and coming to an abrupt halt.
Ray slides off and winces as his ribs fucking scream at him, but aside from a hiss of pain, he ignores them and opens up the side-door, pulling Trombley out of the car. It's only then that he notices Trombley is bleeding from the leg too, and he swears as he realizes that on top of everything else, Trombley's gotten shot too.
"He needs a hospital," Brad says, and Ray's stripped out of his muscle shirt to press it to Trombley's leg.
"Then fucking call someone," Ray says, and feels so fucking wrung out and exhausted as he listens to Brad identify himself as Officer Brad Colbert, listing his badge number and their location.
"He's a cop?" Trombley rasps, his eyes closed but twitching like he's trying to open them, but doesn't have the strength. "You've been hanging with a fucking cop?"
"Better fucking company than Captain fucking America and Encino Man," Ray snaps, "What the fuck were you thinking, Trombley?"
"I needed a place," Trombley says, "They gave it to me."
"Jesus," Ray says, "We would've taken you back, you psycho. It was a horrible fucking accident that could've been prevented, but it was still a fucking accident. You just had to ask."
"Yeah, right," Trombley says, "None of you came looking."
Ray can't help but laugh a little at that, but it's tinged with frustration. "We didn't fucking know we were supposed to, Trombley, you fucking disappeared. Nate went to pick you up from jail and you were gone."
"He did?" Trombley asks, and Ray sighs, "Yeah, he did. Of course he did, he's the LT. Since when doesn't he see the best in people?"
"Ray," Brad says, touching at Ray's shoulder, and Ray flinches away.
"What?"
"I need to go look after the others," he says, "The medical chopper will be here soon."
"Well, I'm not leaving Trombley," Ray says, and finds it in himself to meet Brad's eyes. "But you should definitely go arrest those motherfuckers."
Brad looks at him, then nods, once. "Okay."
"Okay," Ray repeats, then Brad is running towards the Subaru and is gone. When he looks back down, Trombley's eyes are open, pained but curious.
"He doesn't seem bad for a cop," he says.
"Yeah, well," Ray says, "It doesn't make him less of an asshole."
*
Once they reach the hospital, Trombley's whisked off to surgery and Ray is checked out by a doctor and diagnosed with a couple of busted ribs. By the time she's done wrapping them and handing him some painkillers, there are armed guards at the door. One of them asks the doctor if he's well enough to go down to the station and his partner handcuffs him roughly when she informs them he's technically free to go.
"Fuck, homes, I did not have anything to do with this," Ray protests, but of course they don't listen. It sounds weak even to his ears, no matter if it is true, and he slouches down in the backseat of the police cruiser and catalogues every fucking question and comment belonging to Brad over the past couple of weeks that should've tipped Ray off to the fact that he's a cop, to the fact that he was being lied to.
He wonders what the fuck Brad thought he was doing at the pier, wonders what he thought he was doing, falling for anyone in the first place. The cops drag him out of the car and through the station, sling him into an interrogation room and ignore Ray's hiss of pain as his ribs get jostled.
"We'll process you once we've talked to Colbert," Cop #1 says, and Ray shrugs.
"Hey, don't I get a phone call?" he asks, because he should call Nate or some else in Bravo, let everyone know about Brad and about Trombley.
"No," Cop #2 says, "Not unless we charge you with something."
"Great," Ray says, "So, how about something to drink, then?"
They give him a plastic cup with water, which he nurses for the forty-five minutes it takes Brad to come bursting through the door.
"Ray, I'm sorry --"
"I'm so not interested," Ray says, "Can I leave, now? Have you told them how I had nothing to do with the fucking heists?"
"They want a statement," Brad says, his shoulders sinking. "But other than that, you're free to go."
"Great," Ray says, "Did you catch them?"
"Yeah," Brad says, "Griego, Schwetje and McGraw are all under arrest. They'll be arresting Trombley too, once he gets out of surgery."
"I guess that's it, then." Ray says, and stares at the empty plastic cup in his hands. Then he chances a quick look at Brad's face as he says, "Thank you for not letting Trombley die in the desert."
Brad says, "I wouldn't do that."
"I know," Ray says, "But still. Thank you. He's not really that bad, you know. He's an asshole and a psycho, yeah, but who the fuck isn't occasionally? He just fucks up bigger than most of us do, and this time it was even bigger than usual."
"Do you want me to be the one to take your statement?"
"No offense, Brad Colbert," Ray says, "but there's nothing in the world I'd like less right now."
"Here," Brad says, dropping the keys to the Subaru onto the desk. "Take it back to Nate. Tell everyone I'm sorry I lied, but I'm not sorry I did my job and I'm not sorry I was right about Bravo being innocent."
"I'll pass that message along," Ray agrees.
"Take care, Ray," Brad says, "I'm -- I'm sorry about all of it, but what I said in the car was true. I only lied about my name and my job, everything else was real."
"I feel like I know this cliché," Ray answers, trying to make his voice as flat as possible, but it's hard. Ray thinks Brad knows from the way he narrows his eyes, but he looks away before he can break. "Bye, Brad."
Then Brad's gone and replaced by Cop #1, who settles down and grills Ray for a full two hours before he's willing to let him go.
The Subaru is parked outside the station, easily recognizable in a sea of white and blacks, and Ray slides behind the wheel and feels more tired than he has in his entire life.
*
It's a little over a month and a half later before Ray gets around to dragging Schwarr's bag from Oceanside out of the closet where he'd shoved it and down to the garage.
He'd been down for five weeks with broken ribs, three of which he spent lying on the couch at Nate's house with ice packs, water and painkillers all within easy reach, watching shitty daytime TV and turning the last couple of weeks over in his mind.
The last two weeks of healing time he dragged himself down to the garage; taking over for Walt in the shop and helping Nate with the paperwork. Stafford and Nate offered to fix up his car for him, but he'd turned them down, because she's his car and he's fixed her up this far, he'll finish the job too even if it meant she wouldn't be done for a couple of weeks yet.
Ray is well aware he's been a brooding little bitch since he last saw Brad in the interrogation room, even if everyone didn't insist on bringing it up every fuckin' time they see him, like they're not pissed off about being lied to as well.
Nate doesn't drive the Subaru, parks it out the back of the garage and won't talk about what he's planning to do with it, just shrugs and says it's his car and none of their business.
Ray goes with Nate and Walt to visit Trombley in the hospital twice, spends too long with his finger hovering over the 'call' button on his cell phone, but at the end of the day, he ends up back on the couch.
Then Poke drops by, on his way to pick up one of his girls from ballet class, and says, "Brad's up at Godfather's still, you know. Came back after a week and asked for his job back. I heard from Rudy he's a civilian now."
"The fuck are you coming to me with it for?" Ray demands, and Poke slaps him on the head, hard.
"You white boys make me sad for the world, dawg," he says, "I'll see if I can't find some Simple Plan or Good Charlotte CDs for you at the store next to where my baby's dancing. Give your tears some tunes so your angst isn't cheapened."
"How do you even know who they are?" Ray shouts, but Poke's out the door and out of answering range.
"Fuck it," he declares after only six hours pretending like the conversation never happened, so fucking sick of his own company, and goes upstairs to get the bag.
It takes him a week to fix her up right, back to where she was before she got slammed between Lacey and a wall, and another day before he finally nuts up.
The text he sends Brad contains nothing but the coordinates for an intersection and a time, but he thinks it's better than being a complete fucking pussy and texting something like as an asshole, i forgive you for being one too.
He figures Brad's smart enough to figure it out anyway.
*
There's no homophobic asshole in a Ferrari at the intersection this time, just Ray and an empty stretch of road and the sound of an engine in the distance.
The Datsun 240Z practically fucking purrs beneath him, smooth where the Ducati engine that's pulled up next to him fucking roars.
"Strangely symbolic," Brad shouts, "Where's the finish?"
"Pier," Ray says, "I'm not taking it easy on you just 'cause you lost the only real race you were in."
"What's the prize when I win?"
Ray laughs, feeling like something's been lifted off his chest. "You haven't seen me race, homes," he shouts back, "There ain't no way I'm going to lose."
"Put your money where your mouth is," Brad suggests.
"Loser buys dinner," Ray agrees. "Unless you're still a dirt poor cop?"
Brad's face twists. "I'm a dirt poor mechanic, but I think I can spring for some fries should it come to that."
Ray grins, and the light turns green.