Peyton Moormeier - Race

I've never been a fan.
Racing. These late-night gatherings, the roar of engines, the crowds of dangerous guys—not my thing. But a friend begged me to go with her to another underground meeting in an industrial zone, and I agreed. Just to get out of the house.

The industrial zone was noisy and dirty. It smelled of gasoline, burnt rubber, and sweat. I stood by the side of the road, wrapped in my light jacket, and felt like an outsider. Everyone around me was like one of us: girls in leather, guys with tattoos, bets, shouts. And I simply yawned, sipping warm coffee from a cup.

Then a black Mustang pulled out onto the makeshift track. It was in first place by a wide margin. As the car sped past, I instinctively glanced at the driver. He turned his head in my direction for a second—and then quickly looked away. Indifferently. As if I didn't exist.

"That's Peyton," said her friend. "The best racer. He doesn't notice anyone. They say he has dozens of girls falling at his feet, and he doesn't even look at them."

“Lucky girls,” I grinned and lost interest in him.

After the race, we walked to my friend's car. I was already opening the door when a voice came from behind me:

• Hey.

I turned around. Peyton was standing three meters away, leaning against his Mustang, looking somewhere past me.

“You lost,” he nodded downwards.

I looked down - my scarf was lying on the asphalt.

mysterious