Stripped (Stripped #1)(32)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

“Um. A lot of things. Before I got serious about acting, I was a street racer. You ever see Fast and Furious? Kind of like that. Except we weren’t gangs and street kids. We were rich and privileged brats with too much money and no one to tell us not to be stupid. We’d drag up and down Sunset at midnight, or in the poorer areas where cops don’t like to go. We’d take our dads’ Ferraris and Lamborghinis out into the desert and race. We’d go up and race the curves in the mountains. So driving was what I did anyway. And then I got the role of Anderson in Redlight Gods, and they wanted me to take, like, actual race-car driving lessons. Like, with government defensive and offensive-driving course instructors and NASCAR guys and shit. The funniest part was when they wanted to have me take this tutorial on street racing with some supposedly reformed racer who decided to become a Hollywood consultant or something. And it turns out it was a guy I’d raced—and beaten—half a dozen times over the years.” He’s talking as he drives, and I notice he’s slowed down and is driving more sanely. For my sake? “So yeah, I know how to drive. You don’t have to worry.”

“Have you ever been in a wreck?”

Dawson laughs. “Of course. You don’t street race and not crash. I totaled this NSX I had. I mean, totaled. It was the kind of wreck you don’t expect anyone to live through, but I walked away without a scratch. I was dragging on the edges of South Central against this cat named Johnny Liu. I think his dad was Triad, actually, but I never knew for sure. It was like, three in the morning and we had pink slips riding on the race. It was a preset thing, a big four-mile circuit. I was in the lead, about to make this wide left. I had her drifting right in the groove, you know? Tires smoking, engine howling. Johnny was behind me and closing in fast. He had this killer f**king black and red ’68 Charger with a fat-ass blown Hemi. It was so backward. Here I was driving this Acura NSX, which is a Japanese car, and this Asian kid is driving a classic American muscle car. So anyway, I was drifting through a left onto Washington. I don’t even know what happened, except that suddenly my car was in the air, flipping. Like, I must’ve flipped thirty times. I think I got T-boned from the passenger side. God, that hurt so f**king bad. I rolled and rolled and rolled, and I guess I was lucky that I didn’t hit a streetlight or a building or something. I was lucky any way you slice it, really. I have no clue how I didn’t get hurt. I mean, the car was a crumpled ball of shit, and I just crawled out of it, bruised but unhurt.”

“You said, before you got serious about acting. What’s that mean?”

He checks his mirrors, and then, without warning, cuts across traffic and down a side street, zipping left and right, suddenly back to the crazy-fast and erratic driving. I’m clutching the armrest again and holding my breath as he barrels down side streets at fifty miles an hour, then out onto the main road again, carving across all lanes of traffic and onto the freeway. We’re doing ninety on the shoulder, narrowly avoiding wreck after wreck, and then exiting at a more normal pace.

“What was that?” I breathe.

Dawson grins at me. “Had fuzz after me. Lost ’em.”

“Fuzz?”

“Police? Traffic cop?”

I frown at him. “Who actually says fuzz?”

“Me, it would seem.”

“So you just evaded a policeman?”

“Yep.” He’s glancing behind us as he drives, but seems confident he lost the cop. His eyes lock on me as we sit at a red light. “So. What did you think about your first encounter with the pop?”

“Pop?” I ask.

“Paparazzi.”

“Oh,” I say. “It was…scary. They’re not afraid to ask anything, are they?”

He laughs. “No. And they’re relentless. You realize, even though we didn’t answer any of their questions about you, and that we said we aren’t together, they’re still gonna print whatever they think will sell copy. This is probably one of those ‘don’t look down’ things, but I wouldn’t recommend reading any gossip rags. You won’t like it.”

I’m not sure what to think or say. I probably will go and look my name up online now. I sit in silence for long minutes, avoiding his eyes, keeping my knees to the side so he can’t touch me. His touch makes me lose my sense. I can’t keep getting sucked into his orbit.

We pull into a Beverly Hills gated community, passing gargantuan estates worth tens of millions of dollars, rolling expanses of green grass and sculpted shrubs and wide curving driveways. As we roll at a surprisingly sedate pace through the neighborhood, I see a well-known actress getting her mail, and then a high-profile L.A. basketball player washing a sports car. Dawson glances at me as if to gauge my reaction to the neighborhood.

“You’re driving like a normal person,” I remark.

He shrugs. “This is my community. I know these people. They have kids.” He waves toward L.A. at large. “Out there? It’s a warzone. I was born and raised in L.A., and I know this city backward and forward. I know its traffic patterns, I know where the speed traps are, and where the really dangerous neighborhood are. In here? I live here. I’m not gonna drive like a jackass in here.”

“You never answered my question. You said before you got serious about acting. How did you get into it?”

He doesn’t answer. He pulls the Bugatti down a long driveway and under an archway into a courtyard. The house is a massive Spanish hacienda-style mansion, with balconies looking into the courtyard, in the center of which is a fountain spewing water. On one side of the courtyard is an expansive wall of garage doors, a few of which are open, showing the tails of various kinds of cars. The Bugatti is parked near the front door, behind a classic cherry-red convertible. I want to say it’s a Ford Mustang, but I’m not sure.

Dawson sees me looking at it. “That’s a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429.” I must look baffled. “It’s pretty rare, in terms of that year and that particular style.”

“Did you build it?”

He nods. “Yeah. Well, rebuilt is more accurate. I bought the chassis from a guy in Mendocino, and then found a Boss 429 engine and cleaned it up. It’s got the original radio, leather bucket seats—the whole interior is in mint condition and almost entirely original.” His expression lights up as he talks about the car, and I get out and follow him over to it. It’s a pretty car, I think. More masculine. It fits Dawson perfectly. If I picture him driving, it would be in this car. The Bugatti is a status symbol, I think. He’s got the hood open, and he’s pointing at various parts of the engine, rattling off facts and figures and names, and I can’t possibly keep up or understand anything he’s talking about, but God, is it cute watching him get excited. He’s a totally different Dawson, talking about his car. His eyes are greenish now, the luminous shade of lichen on stone.