Correction: his dead mother’s car reeked of weed, three puffs from the remnant of a crumpled joint Micah produced from his pocket, one toke apiece before it singed Jax’s fingertips and he flicked it into the wind. He had to admit, it took some of the edge off his anger, but he didn’t like the way it turned her car, a fully loaded Jeep Cherokee his dad gave her for her last birthday on this earth, into something out of Wayne’s World. The 38 Special blasting from the speakers wasn’t helping matters either.

But Paul drove a two-seater, so it was either this or Micah’s Acura NSX, a gift from his mom the day he got his license. Micah’s dad might be a cop, but the money came from his mom’s side, thanks to her great-great-granddaddy’s tobacco fields. But Micah’s Acura had a back seat built for a duffel bag, and it was a stick, something only Micah knew how to operate. Jax’s car was the obvious choice.

He hit the button for the windows to air the cab out and took a sharp right. Fast-food wrappers and empty bottles rattled around on the floorboard.

“Where are we going?” Paul said, pointing behind them. He was seated smack in the middle of the back seat, the seat belt straining as he leaned his upper body over the console. “Town’s that way.”

“I’m taking a detour.”

Micah twisted on the passenger’s seat. “This ain’t a detour, man. This is the wrong way.”

“Would you both just shut up and enjoy the ride? Listen to the music and just...chill. I know where I’m going.”

His friends were just high enough to let it go, and chatter turned to the most likely place to score some booze. Jax sank into silence. US 64 was a sloppy two-laner lined with gorges and dented guardrails under a canopy of trees, obscuring everything in darkness. It was hypnotic, the way the road dipped and disappeared just beyond the headlights, how it was the yellow lines that seemed to be whipping by instead of the car shooting forward. Jax laid on the gas, leaning into the curves in a way that had even Micah grabbing for the ceiling handle.

Jax looked over with a laugh. “Stop being such a pussy.”

“Stop driving like you have a death wish.”

“Pull over,” Paul said from the back seat. He was flush to the bench now, the seat belt tight across his chest, his hands gripping the seat on either side of his legs. “Let me drive for a while.”

It wasn’t the worst idea. Everything about Paul was neat and precise, including the way he drove, like Jax’s great-aunt Eleanor. Both stuck to the speed limits and kept their hands at ten and two. They liked order and craved control. He’d be a lot safer with Paul behind the wheel.