Chapter 7: The Race to the Ridge
The engine of the 1987 Chevy van roared like a wounded animal—a deep, throaty, mechanical bellow that had no business coming from a vehicle older than most of its passengers. Mandy's hands were steady on the wheel, her knuckles pale but her expression serene in that particular way she'd inherited from her mother, the customer-service calm that preceded either a solution or a catastrophe, depending on the day.
The Ferrari ahead of them was a streak of Italian arrogance, its engine a high-pitched scream that cut through the rain-slicked highway like a knife through silk. Stacy had floored it the moment the road straightened out, leaving the van in a cloud of burnt rubber and ozone, but Mandy had merely smiled that infuriating smile, pressed her foot to the floor, and let the van's ancient V8 rumble to life in a way that rattled the loose change in the cup holder and made the World's Okayest Dad sticker on the bumper flutter like a flag.
Inside the van, the chaos was immediate and total.
Ben was pressed against the passenger door, one hand braced on the dashboard, the other gripping the oh-shit handle above his head. His face was the color of the diner's coffee they'd left behind—weak, pale, and slightly curdled. "Mandy," he said, his voice strained, pitched somewhere between a plea and a prayer. "Mandy, I love you, I respect you, I have tremendous faith in your driving abilities, but I am genuinely afraid for my life right now."
"Relax," Mandy said, her voice infuriatingly calm as she swerved around a hover-scooter whose rider had the audacity to exist in her lane. "I've done this before."
"That doesn't make me feel better," Ben said. "That actively makes me feel worse."
Behind them, the bench seat was a tangle of limbs and shouts. Jess—Agent Kay, though she'd shed the charcoal suit in favor of a faded leather jacket and jeans—had her eyes squeezed shut, her lips moving in what might have been a prayer or might have been an incantation, judging by the faint shimmer of golden light that flickered around her fingers. Beth was braced between Marty and the window, her camera clutched to her chest like a lifeline, her short blonde hair whipping around her face as the van swayed. She was grinning.
"You've got a death wish," she yelled over the engine's roar, though the grin suggested she approved of this quality.
"Not a death wish," Mandy corrected. "A healthy disregard for traffic laws."
Marty, bless him, was clinging to the back of the seat with the white-knuckled grip of a man who had never truly understood what his adopted family considered "normal driving." His red hair was a mess, his blue eyes wide, but he was trying very hard to be brave. "Is this—is this how it always is?" he managed, his voice cracking.
"Pretty much," Beth said. "You get used to it."
"I really don't think I will."
Jeeves, hovering in the corner of the van with his multiple mechanical arms folded in a distinctly unimpressed posture, chose this moment to chime in. His voice was smooth, pleasant, and utterly devoid of concern. "Current probability of successful vehicle operation: 87.3 percent. Current probability of collision: 4.1 percent. Current probability of total catastrophic failure resulting in death: 2.6 percent. Additionally, I would like to note that my sensors indicate the Ferrari ahead is not attempting to evade pursuit. It appears to be actively inviting it."
Mandy's smirk widened. "That's what I thought."
She pressed the accelerator harder.
The van surged forward, its mass a deliberate weapon, a battering ram of American steel and stubbornness. The highway parted around them like the Red Sea, cars swerving, horns blaring, a hover-truck veering onto the shoulder to avoid the iron behemoth that had materialized in its blind spot. The Ferrari ahead—sleek, low, aerodynamic—waited for the moment, danced to the left, and then darted right, threading a gap between two slower vehicles with the ease of a needle through cloth.
Stacy glanced in her rearview mirror, and even through the distance, Mandy could see her grin. It was the grin of a woman who'd been chasing thrills for forty years and had just found a worthy opponent.
"You're cute," Stacy's voice crackled over the van's speaker system, which Jeeves had patched into the Ferrari's comms without asking. "You think that old girl can keep up with me?"
"Old girl's got heart," Mandy replied, her voice steady even as the engine screamed. "Heart and a V8 and thirty years of my dad and Hank babying it. She's not going to quit."
"Neither am I." The Ferrari's engine pitch rose, a brutal battle cry. "Race you to the rest stop."
"You're already going to the rest stop."
"I'm going to get there first and buy you a drink to watch you fail to catch up."
Mandy laughed—a genuine, open laugh that made Ben flinch. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy ruining your day."
The next few minutes were a blur of motion and sound, a symphony of rubber against asphalt and engines screaming in harmony and discord. Stacy used the Ferrari's agility to weave through traffic like a fish through water, her turns sharp and precise, her acceleration brutal. But the van had one advantage that no amount of Italian engineering could match: mass. When Mandy committed to a lane, she committed. She didn't weave; she bulled her way forward, her turn signal a formality, her horn a declaration of war. Cars gave way because they had no other choice—the van wasn't going to.
"Brace yourselves," Mandy said, and took a corner at a speed that made physics weep.
The van tilted. Tires screeched. Interior objects—a loose soda can, a crumpled fast-food bag, Ben's dignity—went flying. Jess let out a yelp that was half terror, half admiration, and Beth cackled like a woman possessed.
"Probability of rollover: 12.7 percent," Jeeves reported, unbothered. "This morning's forecast is partly cloudy with a chance of disaster."
"Shut up, Jeeves," Mandy said, her eyes fixed on the road.
The Ferrari had pulled ahead, its rear lights winking in the distance, but the rest stop was visible now, a smear of neon and concrete against the dark tree line. Stacy was already braking, her car sliding into the parking lot with a flourish that screamed I was never worried for a second. Mandy followed, the van's brakes groaning as she wrenched it to a stop in the space beside the Ferrari, the parking brake engaging with a violent clunk.
Silence. The engine ticked as it cooled, the smell of burnt rubber and hot metal curling through the vents.
Ben exhaled slowly, deliberately. "I'm going to kiss the ground when I get out of this van. I'm going to marry that ground."
"Don't be dramatic," Mandy said, but she was grinning.
"You kissed me yesterday," Ben pointed out. "I'm allowed to be dramatic."
Jess unbuckled her seatbelt with shaking hands, her face a mix of relief and adrenaline. "I've done extraction missions in war zones," she said. "I've been shot at. I've been in vaults that tried to kill me. I have never, in my life, been more scared than I was in that van."
Mandy shrugged, unrepentant. "You're welcome."
They piled out of the vehicle, all of them grateful for solid ground, and found Stacy already standing beside her Ferrari, arms crossed, her silver-streaked dark hair escaping its ponytail in wild strands. She was grinning, her eyes bright with excitement, and Rick was leaning against the driver's side door, his expression a fond amalgamation of exasperation and affection.
"You're not half bad," Stacy said, appraising Mandy with a raised eyebrow. "For a kid who drives a grandma car."
"I learned from the best," Mandy said, walking toward her. Her stride was easy, confident, the same way she handled tech crises and magical weirdness. "My mom taught me to drive in this van. She told me, 'Bug, if you're going to be in a crash, make sure the other guy came off worse.'"
"That's solid advice," Rick said. "Dad says Mom used to say the same thing about arguments."
Mandy's grin widened, a hint of mischief flickering in her eyes as she closed the distance to Stacy. The older woman's gaze caught hers, electricity sparking between them from that charged look, and the air between them seemed to shift, laden with an unspoken dare that had nothing to do with racing.
"Learned from the best," Stacy repeated, her voice lower now, a hum underneath the words. "I'd like to meet this mother of yours sometime."
"She's on her way to a dimensional rift with her own mom-issues," Mandy said, waving dismissively. "But I'll put in a good word."
"You do that." Stacy stepped closer, her hand coming up to rest on Mandy's arm. Her fingers were warm, calloused in a way that suggested she knew how to handle more than just steering wheels. "But first, I believe I owe you a drink. Winner buys, right?"
"You didn't win," Mandy pointed out. "I caught up."
"You didn't pass me."
"You braked first."
"I braked because I wanted to."
"You braked because you're smart enough to know that old girl would have crushed your little Italian muffin."
Rick exchanged a look with Ben—one of those deeply empathetic, I'm an innocent bystander in this dynamic moments between men who understood they were accessories to something larger than themselves. Ben gave a small, helpless shrug. Rick responded with a quiet, knowing nod.
Jess and Beth had wandered to the edge of the parking lot, taking in the rest stop's neon-lit architecture. It was a strange structure, the kind of mid-century diner that had been retrofitted with holographic menus and a self-ordering kiosk that spoke in a soothing, synthesized voice. The interior glowed with warm light, a contrast to the cold, wet highway beyond, and the smell of fried food and synthetic coffee drifted toward them on the damp air.
"There's a bar," Stacy observed, nodding toward the diner's side entrance, where a faded sign advertised "Cocktails & Memories." "They'll have something stronger than coffee."
"Perfect." Mandy's hand found Stacy's, pulling her toward the entrance before she could second-guess herself. "I'm going to drink you under the table."
"You're going to try."
The chaos of the race had, for a moment, made the weight of the coming dread easy to ignore. The plan was set: an archive dive in a Golden Wands facility, then a confrontation with Aemelia, then the ridge. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, they had a bar, a buzz, and a gravitational pull between Mandy and Stacy that none of them had seen coming, except maybe Mandy herself.
Rick and Ben flanked them as they entered, a protective, amused escort. The bar was half-empty, populated by a scattered handful of travelers and a pair of old men nursing beers in the corner, their conversation a low murmur that died as the group walked in. The bartender—a bored-looking woman in her fifties with her hair tied back in a graying ponytail—looked up from polishing a glass and assessed the newcomers with the weary wisdom of someone who had seen everything and was rarely surprised.
"What can I get you?" she asked, her voice a flat, slightly nasal rasp.
"Four whiskeys," Mandy said. "And a round of whatever the house recommends. We're celebrating."
"Celebrating what?"
"Not dying." Mandy slid onto a stool, her grin sharp. "That's a good day in my family."
The bartender snorted, already reaching for a bottle. "I'm not going to ask why."
"Don't. It's a rabbit hole." Mandy tilted her head, catching Stacy's eye in the low light. "A deep, dark, magical rabbit hole."
Stacy took the seat beside her, their shoulders brushing, their thighs close. She didn't pull away, and neither did Mandy, the contact a deliberate acknowledgment of a thing that had been building between them.
Rick, ever the responsible eldest, claimed the stool on Mandy's other side, his expression carefully neutral as he asked the bartender for a club soda with lime. Ben hovered for a moment, looking between the women with a mixture of bemusement and resignation, before joining Jess and Beth at a nearby booth.
"I guess it's just us," Stacy said, low, her voice pitched only for Mandy.
"Just us," Mandy agreed. "Don't get sappy."
"Says the woman who fixed my car's alignment when I wasn't looking."
"I was in the engine bay anyway."
"You were doing me a kindness, and you're too proud to admit it."
Mandy's smirk softened for a fraction of a second, something almost tender flickering behind her eyes before it was gone. "Maybe I just like your car."
Stacy humored her, a knowing, sensual curve to her lips as the bartender delivered their drinks. The whiskey was amber and warm, burning pleasantly down Mandy's throat, feeling like a handprint of heat spreading through her chest. She took another sip, savored it, and set the glass down with a decisive clink.
"Let's settle this properly," Stacy said, her voice a feather against the din of the bar, low and suggestive. "If I win, you come to my hotel room and let me show you exactly how grateful I am for the gift of your company."
"You're already assuming you'll win, huh?" Mandy said, leaning in close enough to smell her perfume—something sharp and floral, a hint of musk underneath.
"I like to think positive."
"And if I win?"
Stacy's eyebrow arched. "Then I come to yours, and I let you show me what else you've learned from your mother."
"That's a win-win for me," Mandy said, and drained her glass in one go.
The next hour was a blur of whiskey and laughter, of hands brushing under the bar, of pointed looks that carried more heat than the drinks. Rick, nursing his club soda, watched with the resigned patience of a brother who had long ago accepted that his sisters were each a different flavor of chaos. Ben, Jess, and Beth had migrated to a pool table and were engaged in a three-way game that Beth was winning through a combination of skill and shameless trash talk. The diner's retro music played something soft and jazzy, the bass a murmur in the warm, hazy air.
"You're staring," Stacy said, catching Mandy's gaze.
"I'm admiring," Mandy corrected. "There's a difference."
"Then stop admiring and take me to your room."
Mandy blinked, thrown by the directness, then laughed—a low, genuine sound that vibrated through the bar. "Shameless."
"An old lady learns a thing or two about being direct when it matters." Stacy stood, her hand extended, palm up, an invitation written in the line of her arm. "You coming?"
Mandy didn't hesitate. She took the hand, let Stacy pull her up, and allowed herself to be led through the bar, past the booth where Jess and Beth were mid-laugh, past Rick who raised his glass in a silent toast that managed to say both good luck and I'm pretending not to see this. The motel part of the rest stop was attached to the diner by a covered walkway, and Stacy had a keycard in her hand before they reached the door.
The room was small and generic—a bed with a tacky floral bedspread, a laminated dresser, a window with the curtain half-drawn against the neon glow outside. But the door had barely clicked shut before Stacy turned, pressed Mandy against it, and kissed her like she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.
Mandy's back hit the door with a thump. Her hands found Stacy's waist, pulled her close, groaned into the kiss as Stacy's tongue swept against hers. Stacy was direct, yes, but the rawness of her intent caught Mandy off guard, a fire she hadn't expected. Her perfume was heady, and the warmth of her hands—fingers splaying across Mandy's hips, pulling her into the sharp, unyielding press of her pelvis—was rapid-fire and strong.
"Fuck," Mandy gasped when they finally broke apart, a thin line of saliva connecting them. "You weren't kidding."
"I never kid about wanting someone I find interesting." Stacy's voice was husky, her hands already working at the buttons of Mandy's flannel shirt, fingers dragging against the cotton, the heat of her body a furnace through the fabric. "And you're very interesting, Mandy Williamson."
"I have a reputation for being awkward."
"Then you're the best liar I've met."
The flannel fell open, and Stacy's hands were on her bare skin, calloused fingertips tracing the line of her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist. Mandy shivered, her breath stuttering, her head falling back against the door as Stacy's mouth found her neck, teeth grazing the pulse point there.
"You're not bad yourself," Mandy managed, her voice a wreck. "For an old lady."
Stacy laughed, the vibration of it pressed against Mandy's skin. "I'll show you old lady."
She swept Mandy's legs out from under her without warning. Mandy yelped, flailing, but Stacy was already catching her, already lowering her to the bed, already settling between her thighs with a predator's ease. The floral bedspread was rough against Mandy's back, and Stacy was beautiful above her, silver-streaked hair falling loose around her face, eyes dark with hunger.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," Stacy said, her voice a whisper that was almost regretful. "How long I've watched you from the other room. The way you laugh, the way you take things apart, the way you wear that unflappable mask when you're ready to fall apart. I've wanted to see you unmasked for months."
Mandy's breath caught. "Then come see me."
Stacy complied.
Her mouth was everywhere, a relentless assault of heat and sensation. She kissed Mandy's jaw, her throat, the sensitive spot behind her ear that made Mandy's fingers curl in the bedspread. Her hands were working at Mandy's belt, undoing it with a practiced efficiency that made Mandy's head spin. Jeans peeled down her hips, underwear following, and then Stacy's hand was between her legs, warm and demanding, sliding through wetness that Mandy hadn't even realized was there.
"Fuck," Mandy gasped, her hips bucking into Stacy's touch.
"Already, huh?" Stacy's grin was filthy. "I barely touched you."
"You're a—ah—" Mandy's words broke on a moan as Stacy's thumb found her clit. "—a menace."
Stacy's fingers pushed inside her, two at once, curling in a way that made Mandy see stars. "That's the idea."
The ceiling of the motel room was bland and probably had water stains, but Mandy couldn't see any of it. Everything was Stacy: her scent, her warmth, the slow, knowing drag of her fingers, the way she watched Mandy fall apart with something like reverence. The wet, obscene sounds of Stacy's hand moving inside her filled the room, mingling with Mandy's gasps and the soft, appreciative murmurs Stacy made as she learned the rhythms of Mandy's body.
"I want to taste you," Stacy said, a low, raw whisper against Mandy's inner thigh, and Mandy shattered at the mere suggestion.
She came with a strangled cry, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in Stacy's hair as the older woman gave a satisfying, deep growl of approval. But Stacy didn't stop; she made a place for herself between Mandy's thighs, pushing her legs back and parted on the bedspread, and devoured her still-pulsing cunt. Her tongue was hot, broad, flat against Mandy's clit, lapping up the wetness that leaked out of her, pushing into her, curling inside her, dragging another orgasm out of Mandy before she'd even stopped shaking from the first.
"Jesus—!" Mandy's voice broke into a sob. "Stacy, that's—"
"I know," Stacy said, her mouth muffled, her fingers sliding wetly over Mandy's lips, pushing inside her, working her through it. "One more. Give me one more."
Mandy did. She had no choice. Her body obeyed like a puppet, her cunt clenching around Stacy's fingers, her legs shaking, her mouth open in a silent scream. And when she finally went limp, Stacy crawled up her body, still dressed, still composed, and kissed her with the taste of herself on both their lips.
"Now," Stacy said, her voice deliciously commanding. "Get those clothes off. I'm not done with you yet."
Mandy couldn't agree fast enough. She scrambled out of what remained of her clothing—flannel shirt, bra, jeans tangled at her ankles—and then she was naked, and Stacy was straddling her hips, her hands braced on Mandy's stomach, her eyes tracing the lines of Mandy's body like they were a treasure map.
"I want you inside me," Stacy said, no shame, no hesitation. "Now."
"But you're still—"
Stacy's clothes came off with a speed that belied her years. Her skin was flushed, her breasts full and heavy, her nipples dark and peaked. Mandy reached up to cup one, thumbing the nipple until Stacy gasped, her head falling back. Then Mandy was rolling them over, pressing Stacy down into the bedspread, and there was a fierce, possessive fire alight in her chest.
"My turn," Mandy said, and slid her fingers through the slick heat between Stacy's legs.
Stacy's moan was immediate, a guttural sound that rumbled through the room. Mandy learned her quickly, the way a techie learns a new system—by probing, by testing, by finding the points that made the whole machine sing. Stacy was vocal, her curses muffled against her own wrist until Mandy pulled it away.
"Don't you dare," Mandy said, her voice a command. "I want to hear you."
"Fuck," Stacy breathed, and Mandy fed her fingers into her, watching Stacy's eyes roll back, watching the way her body arched and twisted, seeking more.
Mandy pushed deeper, adding a third finger, her thumb circling Stacy's clit until Stacy was nearly sobbing, a wonderful, beautiful mess spread wide across the bed. She came with a cry that was pure exultation, her body locking and shuddering, her walls gripping Mandy's fingers like a fist.
"That's it," Mandy crooned. "That's it, let go."
Stacy lay gasping, her limbs heavy, her skin slick with sweat. She reached down, wrapping her fingers around the base of Mandy's wrist, holding her there while the aftershocks rippled through her. When she finally spoke, her voice was rough and raw.
"Your mother taught you well."
Mandy laughed, breathless. "She taught me everything."
"Then I owe her a serious thank-you." Stacy pushed herself up, her hand slipping between Mandy's legs again, finding her still wet and aching. "But first, I'm going to thank you. Properly."
She guided Mandy up, positioned her knees on either side of her hips, and then her mouth was on Mandy's breast, her hand working between Mandy's legs, and Mandy was gone, lost in the electric feedback of Stacy's touch, the smell of sex and perfume, the feeling of being so fully and completely seen.
They came together again, a perfect, shattering harmony. Mandy collapsed against Stacy's chest, their bodies slick with sweat, their breath ragged and mingled. The room was warm, the neon glow from outside casting shifting, rosy shadows across the ceiling.
"Now that's a race I'm glad I lost," Mandy mumbled against Stacy's skin.
Stacy laughed, a full, warm sound as she stroked Mandy's sweat-damp hair. "You didn't lose, sweetheart. I just got there first."
"That's the same thing."
"It's a matter of perspective."
Footsteps in the hallway. Murmured voices. The sound of a door opening. Mandy stirred, reluctant to leave this, but the world outside was intruding, inevitable.
"We should get back," she said.
"Five more minutes."
"Stacy—"
"Three more minutes." Stacy's hand tightened in Mandy's hair, pulling her closer. "One of my many rules: never rush the afterglow."
Mandy surrendered, letting herself be pulled back into the warmth of the moment, the bite of fingers, the soft, sleepy kisses that tasted of lingering whiskey. The weight of the coming trial—the archive, the confrontation, the ridge—settled somewhere in the background, a distant hum against the contentment in her bones. But the warmth in her arms, the taste of Stacy on her lips, was enough. For now, it was enough.
Eventually they rose, gathering their clothes, straightening their hair, sharing secret smiles. The bar was still humming when they returned; Ben and Jess were in a close, heated conversation at the booth while Beth looked on with a knowing, amused expression. Rick was still at his stool, his club soda long gone, his face a resigned, familiar disappointment.
"Guess I'm sleeping on the couch," he said as they slipped back in.
"A gentleman honors his sister's choices," Mandy said, unrepentant. She gave Stacy's hand one last squeeze. "Same time tomorrow?"
Stacy's grin was a promise. "Wouldn't miss it."
Back on the highway, the night folded in around them. Rick drove the Ferrari, his headlights cutting through the darkness; Mandy drove the van, Stacy's Ferrari's taillights blazing in their rear window like a bright red star. They were heading for the archive, then the ridge, and the heavy, truth-laden questions waiting there. But pressed into the worn vinyl seat, surrounded by the familiar smell of her family's van and the comfortable weight of a well-worn day, Mandy felt a flicker of something like peace—and the quiet, tantalizing promise of what waited when all this was done.