Burn Before Reading(12)

“Hey, uh, me here, being the voice of reason for once in my life; maybe this is a bad idea!”

The light flickers green, and I shoot off down the road. Burn’s car might be flashy and powerful, but my bike accelerates to 60 from 0 in a blink. His takes far longer, but when he does catch up, he starts to pass me. I floor it, both of us neck and neck at 80 miles an hour. Fitz’s girlish scream is barely audible through my helmet and the roar of the wind. The road up to our house is mercifully empty, the winding hill the perfect test for my bike’s new hydraulics system. Burn’s convertible is always faster on these hills, with the more horsepower he has but I cut as close as I can to the corners of the road and gain some space on him. The hardest part of this run is coming up – a hairpin turn overlooking a forest cliff. I always take it slow. It’s complete madness to take it any faster than 35 miles.

I look over at Burn – his smile plastered over his face. He isn’t one to show a lot of emotion, not since Mom died, but in moments like these, and especially when we race, he’s always over-the-moon-happy. Exhilarated. I know him; he pushes his body to the limit, doing whatever he can to make it just that one inch farther, faster. It’s his way of testing himself, and the world. Sometimes, it feels like he’s taunting lady luck, daring her to strike him down like he struck Mom.

We both shoot towards the hairpin turn at 85 miles. It’s a game of chicken, now; who’s going to slow down first? Whoever does is the loser – it’s too hard to come back from a turn like this without flat road, and it’s a hill all the way up to the house. I always lose to him, and this is the exact spot where it happens every time. But not this time. This time I’ll go farther. This time, I’ll keep up with him like no one else can.

The turn nears so quickly, my heartbeat skyrocketing. It’s now or never. If I don’t slow down, if he doesn’t slow down –

I brake, and Burn whizzes past me, pulling the emergency break and drifting around the corner seamlessly. Goddamn him. He’s so good at that. Envy and irritation war inside my mind; he’s so damn good, but he’s such a moron. It’s an insanely risky move. If the road was any wetter, if his brakes were any worse, he’d go right over that cliff.

I drive the rest of the way up to the house. The driveway is immaculately kept, of course. Dad pays for no less than four groundskeepers to keep the hedges and oak trees looking pristine. Appearances are, and always will be, most important to him.

The house isn’t the one we grew up in – Dad sold that one when Mom died. It was smaller, and much less ostentatious than this one. This one has white marble floors, a grand staircase, two ‘sitting rooms’ and a piano room. All the paintings are originals, all the vases from Japan. After Mom’s funeral, Dad poured himself into material things, into putting on all the trappings of the ‘rich’ in order to hide his pain. It wasn’t always like this. Back when Mom was alive we afforded a big, serviceable house in the suburbs. Dad wasn’t head of the corporation, back then. But then he became CEO, and money changed him. Mom saw the change, too, and they argued constantly. And then she died. And instead of opening Dad’s eyes for the better, it did the exact opposite. It made him shut his eyes - tight as he could for as long as he could.

So stepping foot onto the new property always feels a little sad, to me. Like it’s a shell, a coffin for the love Dad and Mom once had – a coffin for our family, and the way we used to be; innocent and happy and a thousand times less lonely.

Burn and Fitz are already out of the convertible, Fitz frothed up in a trembling rage.

“What part of ‘I’m never going to ride with you if you pull that stupid shit again’ do you not understand?” He demands. Burn ignores him and looks to me.

“You lost.”

I kill the engine and put the kickstand down, taking off my helmet.

“Maybe you’ve lost,” I say. “Your mind. That was the fastest I’ve ever seen you take that turn.”

He shrugs. “Had to test the new fuel injector I put in.”

“That’s a tired excuse, and you know it,” I counter.

“Next time maybe test it without me in the passenger seat?” Fitz snaps. Burn says nothing, getting in the convertible again and pulling into the garage to park it. I do the same. Fitz storms into the house, muttering something about ‘maniacs’.

“He’s whiny, but he has a point, Burn,” I say. The dimness of the garage makes it hard to see his face, not that he’d show any emotion otherwise. “Don’t do anything ridiculous with him in the car.”

“So it’s fine if it’s just me?” Burn asks. What do I even say to that? No? Yes? How can I explain to him none of it is fine – doing it on his own could get him killed or hurt just as easily. But he doesn’t care. He never listens – he just goes off and does whatever risky thing he wants to. There’s no point saying anything. So I’m quiet. Finally, Burn turns and walks into the house, and eventually I follow.

I expected Dad’s personal chef to be in the kitchen preparing dinner, but there’s no one. Odd. I’d say we misjudged the timeframe of The Dinner, but that’s never the case. It’s happened so much we’ve grown an internal radar with pinpoint accuracy for it. I check the downstairs office warily – nothing. The upstairs office – empty. Dad’s gone.