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Summary
Sonny doesn’t race. He wants to, he wants to race bad, wants to race worse than he did when he was twenty nine and staring down a Vegas slot machine. Games of luck, games of chance, they never agreed with him, been unlucky since ‘93. Bad, bad fucking luck. Most days, his vision doubles, triples, the sun splits his head open like a laser. He takes to wearing sunglasses, driving in the evenings and early mornings, late nights when no one else is on the road.
Then Ruben calls.
(Sonny’s a dick. Joshua’s in love.)