The Need
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"The need to drive a hot car, to go fast, is strong in many boys and men, and Jase lives in a family with a history of fast cars, from speedway midgets to V8 Supercars and drifting. However, fulfilling dreams often comes at a cost. When Jase steps unwillingly into the darker side of the car world, he is forced to decide between what he really wants and what is right to do."
The Need is my second attempt at self-publishing. It was released on Amazon as an ebook and print book in 2016. Cover art was created using a photograph and Photoshop tools. The inspiration for The Need was from several sources: - my family background in cars and speedway - a passion for fast cars - a desire to write a book for boys that explored the love for cars - research at the time into the car theft industry - ethics and family |
The Need was republished in 2025 by Millswood Books.
Print copies at $20 each plus postage can be ordered directly from me by emailing [email protected]. I will provide an invoice with details for payment and, upon payment, I will send you the books you order. Depending on the printer, the turnaround is usually 2-3 weeks.
ebook and print copies can be ordered from various publishers via this link: https://books2read.com/u/4N0N9J
You can also order ebook and print copies from Amazon using the link below:
THE NEED
Print copies at $20 each plus postage can be ordered directly from me by emailing [email protected]. I will provide an invoice with details for payment and, upon payment, I will send you the books you order. Depending on the printer, the turnaround is usually 2-3 weeks.
ebook and print copies can be ordered from various publishers via this link: https://books2read.com/u/4N0N9J
You can also order ebook and print copies from Amazon using the link below:
THE NEED
Sample chapter
One
Nikki’s crying, and I don’t know why. She leaves the room during Maths; doesn’t ask Mrs Berkeley if she can go, just up and bursts out the door. Danni chases her, while the rest of us stare. Mrs Berkeley shakes her head, mutters under her breath, and goes on with the lesson.
‘So, what’s that all about?’ Marko asks, bumping my elbow.
‘No idea,’ I answer - but I want to know.
Nikki Hersey is cute, golden brunette hair, nice figure, sweet smile, and I’ve wanted to get with her for some time, but I can’t find the right moment to ask her. Besides, she lives in Gawler, more than thirty kilometres from school, and I live at Pasadena, and we both bus in, so it’s too hard to hang around after lessons, even when there’s extra-curricular. I get my Ps in a few months. Maybe I can make my move then. Maybe.
Maths melts into Physics, separated by a bell and a shuffle across the corridor into another classroom. I look for Nikki, while we trade rooms with a pack of smelly Year Eights, but she hasn’t come back. Neither has Danni. Karen and Lyn take their laptops and gear to the next class. I guess they’re at the Counsellor.
Why do girls always head for the Counsellor when there’s a problem? As long as I can remember, even way back in Year Three, girls run crying to the Counsellor. I don’t get it. If there’s a problem, you sort it out. That’s what my parents tell me. No one else can solve your problems.
I don’t get the Physics lesson either. It’s not Mr Klein’s fault. He’s trying to help us learn about forces, and motion and inertia, and all the variables and constants and equations, but I’m just worried for Nikki. She’s never unhappy. She has sparkling brown eyes in a pretty face. Her hair is thick and wavy, tied back to comply with the school’s dress code, and she’s always smiling. I had to stand close behind her for the class photo at the start of the year, and I could smell traces of apple shampoo in her hair, and a vanilla fragrance from her perfume or deodorant. It was warm and intoxicating. Thinking of Nikki doesn’t help me listen to whatever Mr Klein is saying.
At lunch, in the gym, waiting our turn to play three-on-three, Davis Cooper strolls over, and announces, ‘I just heard what happened to Nikki.’ Davis, tall, thin, hair swept in a massive cowlick across the right side of his face, is smart and a good athlete. Sucks to be him. Sporty types in our classes are wary of his nerd power, and he’s too much of a jock to be accepted by the nerds. He’s the teachers’ favourite in our year level, but even they seem to recognise the chameleon in him.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘Her cousin was in a crash this morning,’ he says, casually, and nods knowingly as he looks at Marko, Sean and me.
‘Hurt?’ Marko asks.
‘Could say that,’ Davis replies. ‘Died in the ambo.’
‘Woah,’ is Marko and Sean’s joint response, but I say nothing. My gut twists, as if Davis said it was my cousin. I understand why Nikki was crying.
Marko asks for more details, but Davis doesn’t know much more, other than it was a head-on collision outside Gawler. ‘It’ll be online soon enough,’ he says. ‘And looks like you’re on.’
Three Year Twelve guys shamble off the court. Three more wait for us to enter. Rick Somerville, the tall, wiry one, spinning the basketball on the back of his left hand, laughs and taunts, ‘Come on you slackers. Quick game is a good game.’ It will be. He plays the five spot for Forestville Under Twenty and State. He’s two hundred centimetres tall.
Marko slaps my shoulder, eager to prove just how lame we really are at this level of basketball. Marko – Mark Savic – thinks all the girls love him, so he’s keen to show off, even when we lose. Dark hair, dark eyes, he struts around the basketball court at lunchtime, and it makes no difference to him that we give him grief about his strutting. ‘Hey!’ he says. ‘They love it. See?’ He points to a gaggle of Year Nine girls giggling and waving as they curl up their tiny noses. ‘They come here to watch me.’
‘Marko, change hands!’ Simon bawls.
‘At least I got something to hang onto,’ Marko bites back, as he slides his hand across his crotch, to the squealing delight of his fans.
‘Pedophile,’ Simon whispers.
I turn to Davis and ask, ‘Fill in for me?’ Davis shakes his head to say no, but Sean and Marko rev him up, so he agrees, and I walk away.
The courtyard is sunny, and full of groups talking, laughing, playing games. I wander past the Year Twelve benches, and spot Jenna Leske, my brother Dane’s girlfriend. She’s been dating him since the Christmas holidays, but we don’t talk to each other much, and at school she doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s magazine cover girl pretty, looks like she’s been airbrushed, and one of very few girls at our school who can make the otherwise dowdy uniform look sexy. She knows how good she looks. I’m pretty sure most of the guys in Year 12 and 11 are in love with her, and she plays on that whenever she wants a favour. Dane picks her up most afternoons, and when he does I can usually get a lift home with him, instead of catching the bus to Pasadena.
I stop by the entry to the Counsellor’s office, a grey door in a red brick wall plastered with Helpline, Youth Services and Mindfulness posters. I’m not sure why I even came here. Well, I am really, because I’m worried about Nikki. I fumble in my grey shorts for my phone, pull it out, and text, u ok? and wait for a reply, watching people walk past, trying not to make eye contact with a Year Nine girl who’s obviously waiting to see the Counsellor. Nothing. Now I wish I hadn’t sent it. She’s too upset to reply. I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to the gym.
PE, after lunch, comes and goes quickly. We play a vigorous round of indoor hockey, and it’s pack up and home time. I spot Dane’s car outside the yard, on the road, gleaming in the sunlight. Jenna is leaning against it, and I’m surprised because nobody leans on Dane’s car. I’ve seen him throw Adam Nedermann, his best friend, against the wall for leaning against his car in Woolworths’ car park one Friday evening. No one leans on his car – except, apparently, Jenna.
Dane has a Skyline R33, done out in midnight blue pearlescent paint, fitted with Konig mags and a Greddy Cat Back exhaust. It’s a beast killer. He spends every cent he makes on the car, working shifts in Dave Murrell’s garage and wrecking business, earning money that’s helped him get the paint job, the wheels and the accessories. The original car was a wreck when he bought it at the end of Year Twelve. He was already working part time for Murrell, who sourced the car for Dane, so I’m impressed with my brother because he’s obviously worked hard to reconstruct and improve the car. There’s a lot yet to do. The interior is shabby, in parts, and the motor has more potential, but it’s Dane’s machine and he’s mad protective of it. It draws so many looks when he cruises the streets.
And there’s Jenna, leaning against the passenger door, blond hair curled on her shoulders, her firm butt pressing the side in, and Dane chatting to her as if nothing is wrong with what she’s doing.
Dane sees me, says something to Jenna, turns to me as I arrive, and says, ‘Mate, I’m taking Jenna home and we’re hanging out for a while. You’ll have to catch the bus, or get Mum to pick you up, if she’s not at work.’
I’m dumbfounded. I was hoping to get home quickly, instead of crushing onto the bus to take the painfully slow trip. ‘I can get in the back,’ I offer, but Dane glares, metal blue eyes narrowed, as if I’ve said something wrong, and I get it. He wants to have fun with Jenna. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I correct myself. ‘I’ll ring Mum.’
Dane gives me a thumbs up, and I watch as he opens the passenger door for Jenna, lets her in, sorts her schoolbag into the back seat, bounces around the front of the car with a quick grin at me, gets in, starts the engine, and burbles off down the street. And I’m standing here like – who knows what like.
‘Okay,’ I say to myself, shrugging, ‘I’d do the same, if it was a choice between driving Dane home or Nikki.’
‘Everything alright?’
The unexpected question startles me, and I turn to face Mr Cooper. Mr Cooper is the Director of something at the school – I think it’s teaching, but no one really knows what he does. He’s old, probably in his fifties, given his greying hair and stooped shoulders, and he’s friendly enough, mildly popular with students. I think he used to teach History, but he’s not in classes any more. I laugh, and reply, ‘Yeah, all good.’
‘How are you going to get home?’
‘I’ll ring Mum,’ I tell him, and delve in my pocket for my mobile, holding it up to prove what I’m saying is valid.
‘Okay,’ he says, and turns to talk to other kids walking along the footpath.
I walk to the main street, stand under the shade of a gum tree, watch kids piling onto the buses, and decide I’m not catching a bus home today. Mum will be either at the café, working, or shopping, so I buzz her to find out if she’s able to pick me up. She doesn’t answer. I see several of Nikki’s friends warming up for training on the netball court and, figuring I can find out what happened to her after she left Maths, I wander over and wait for Kirsty to finish a passing drill. I wave to get her attention, and she trots across the court to me. ‘How’s Nikki?’ I ask.
‘She went home,’ Kirsty replies. There’s fine sweat across her brow and on her cheeks, and the sunlight sparkles in it. Her dark hair is cropped at her earlobes. ‘What’s it to you?’
I blink, break my stare, and reply, ‘I heard about her cousin.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, and trots back to training without adding anything, leaving me standing at the edge of the court. I try to get Nadia’s attention, but the girls ignore me, so I give up.
I walk back to the road, and ring Mum again. She works semi-casual hours for a café in Colonel Light Gardens, and she’s obviously at work because she’s not answering her phone. After I get her answering message, I text, but there’s no response. No ride for me. Now I have to wait for the next bus that will go toward Pasadena, and that’s a half hour wait: so much for getting home early.
I walk further along the main road, and sit on a beige stone fence to watch the afternoon traffic while I wait for the bus. A very sweet silver WRX rumbles by among the nondescript cars. Nice.
Nikki’s crying, and I don’t know why. She leaves the room during Maths; doesn’t ask Mrs Berkeley if she can go, just up and bursts out the door. Danni chases her, while the rest of us stare. Mrs Berkeley shakes her head, mutters under her breath, and goes on with the lesson.
‘So, what’s that all about?’ Marko asks, bumping my elbow.
‘No idea,’ I answer - but I want to know.
Nikki Hersey is cute, golden brunette hair, nice figure, sweet smile, and I’ve wanted to get with her for some time, but I can’t find the right moment to ask her. Besides, she lives in Gawler, more than thirty kilometres from school, and I live at Pasadena, and we both bus in, so it’s too hard to hang around after lessons, even when there’s extra-curricular. I get my Ps in a few months. Maybe I can make my move then. Maybe.
Maths melts into Physics, separated by a bell and a shuffle across the corridor into another classroom. I look for Nikki, while we trade rooms with a pack of smelly Year Eights, but she hasn’t come back. Neither has Danni. Karen and Lyn take their laptops and gear to the next class. I guess they’re at the Counsellor.
Why do girls always head for the Counsellor when there’s a problem? As long as I can remember, even way back in Year Three, girls run crying to the Counsellor. I don’t get it. If there’s a problem, you sort it out. That’s what my parents tell me. No one else can solve your problems.
I don’t get the Physics lesson either. It’s not Mr Klein’s fault. He’s trying to help us learn about forces, and motion and inertia, and all the variables and constants and equations, but I’m just worried for Nikki. She’s never unhappy. She has sparkling brown eyes in a pretty face. Her hair is thick and wavy, tied back to comply with the school’s dress code, and she’s always smiling. I had to stand close behind her for the class photo at the start of the year, and I could smell traces of apple shampoo in her hair, and a vanilla fragrance from her perfume or deodorant. It was warm and intoxicating. Thinking of Nikki doesn’t help me listen to whatever Mr Klein is saying.
At lunch, in the gym, waiting our turn to play three-on-three, Davis Cooper strolls over, and announces, ‘I just heard what happened to Nikki.’ Davis, tall, thin, hair swept in a massive cowlick across the right side of his face, is smart and a good athlete. Sucks to be him. Sporty types in our classes are wary of his nerd power, and he’s too much of a jock to be accepted by the nerds. He’s the teachers’ favourite in our year level, but even they seem to recognise the chameleon in him.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘Her cousin was in a crash this morning,’ he says, casually, and nods knowingly as he looks at Marko, Sean and me.
‘Hurt?’ Marko asks.
‘Could say that,’ Davis replies. ‘Died in the ambo.’
‘Woah,’ is Marko and Sean’s joint response, but I say nothing. My gut twists, as if Davis said it was my cousin. I understand why Nikki was crying.
Marko asks for more details, but Davis doesn’t know much more, other than it was a head-on collision outside Gawler. ‘It’ll be online soon enough,’ he says. ‘And looks like you’re on.’
Three Year Twelve guys shamble off the court. Three more wait for us to enter. Rick Somerville, the tall, wiry one, spinning the basketball on the back of his left hand, laughs and taunts, ‘Come on you slackers. Quick game is a good game.’ It will be. He plays the five spot for Forestville Under Twenty and State. He’s two hundred centimetres tall.
Marko slaps my shoulder, eager to prove just how lame we really are at this level of basketball. Marko – Mark Savic – thinks all the girls love him, so he’s keen to show off, even when we lose. Dark hair, dark eyes, he struts around the basketball court at lunchtime, and it makes no difference to him that we give him grief about his strutting. ‘Hey!’ he says. ‘They love it. See?’ He points to a gaggle of Year Nine girls giggling and waving as they curl up their tiny noses. ‘They come here to watch me.’
‘Marko, change hands!’ Simon bawls.
‘At least I got something to hang onto,’ Marko bites back, as he slides his hand across his crotch, to the squealing delight of his fans.
‘Pedophile,’ Simon whispers.
I turn to Davis and ask, ‘Fill in for me?’ Davis shakes his head to say no, but Sean and Marko rev him up, so he agrees, and I walk away.
The courtyard is sunny, and full of groups talking, laughing, playing games. I wander past the Year Twelve benches, and spot Jenna Leske, my brother Dane’s girlfriend. She’s been dating him since the Christmas holidays, but we don’t talk to each other much, and at school she doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s magazine cover girl pretty, looks like she’s been airbrushed, and one of very few girls at our school who can make the otherwise dowdy uniform look sexy. She knows how good she looks. I’m pretty sure most of the guys in Year 12 and 11 are in love with her, and she plays on that whenever she wants a favour. Dane picks her up most afternoons, and when he does I can usually get a lift home with him, instead of catching the bus to Pasadena.
I stop by the entry to the Counsellor’s office, a grey door in a red brick wall plastered with Helpline, Youth Services and Mindfulness posters. I’m not sure why I even came here. Well, I am really, because I’m worried about Nikki. I fumble in my grey shorts for my phone, pull it out, and text, u ok? and wait for a reply, watching people walk past, trying not to make eye contact with a Year Nine girl who’s obviously waiting to see the Counsellor. Nothing. Now I wish I hadn’t sent it. She’s too upset to reply. I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to the gym.
PE, after lunch, comes and goes quickly. We play a vigorous round of indoor hockey, and it’s pack up and home time. I spot Dane’s car outside the yard, on the road, gleaming in the sunlight. Jenna is leaning against it, and I’m surprised because nobody leans on Dane’s car. I’ve seen him throw Adam Nedermann, his best friend, against the wall for leaning against his car in Woolworths’ car park one Friday evening. No one leans on his car – except, apparently, Jenna.
Dane has a Skyline R33, done out in midnight blue pearlescent paint, fitted with Konig mags and a Greddy Cat Back exhaust. It’s a beast killer. He spends every cent he makes on the car, working shifts in Dave Murrell’s garage and wrecking business, earning money that’s helped him get the paint job, the wheels and the accessories. The original car was a wreck when he bought it at the end of Year Twelve. He was already working part time for Murrell, who sourced the car for Dane, so I’m impressed with my brother because he’s obviously worked hard to reconstruct and improve the car. There’s a lot yet to do. The interior is shabby, in parts, and the motor has more potential, but it’s Dane’s machine and he’s mad protective of it. It draws so many looks when he cruises the streets.
And there’s Jenna, leaning against the passenger door, blond hair curled on her shoulders, her firm butt pressing the side in, and Dane chatting to her as if nothing is wrong with what she’s doing.
Dane sees me, says something to Jenna, turns to me as I arrive, and says, ‘Mate, I’m taking Jenna home and we’re hanging out for a while. You’ll have to catch the bus, or get Mum to pick you up, if she’s not at work.’
I’m dumbfounded. I was hoping to get home quickly, instead of crushing onto the bus to take the painfully slow trip. ‘I can get in the back,’ I offer, but Dane glares, metal blue eyes narrowed, as if I’ve said something wrong, and I get it. He wants to have fun with Jenna. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I correct myself. ‘I’ll ring Mum.’
Dane gives me a thumbs up, and I watch as he opens the passenger door for Jenna, lets her in, sorts her schoolbag into the back seat, bounces around the front of the car with a quick grin at me, gets in, starts the engine, and burbles off down the street. And I’m standing here like – who knows what like.
‘Okay,’ I say to myself, shrugging, ‘I’d do the same, if it was a choice between driving Dane home or Nikki.’
‘Everything alright?’
The unexpected question startles me, and I turn to face Mr Cooper. Mr Cooper is the Director of something at the school – I think it’s teaching, but no one really knows what he does. He’s old, probably in his fifties, given his greying hair and stooped shoulders, and he’s friendly enough, mildly popular with students. I think he used to teach History, but he’s not in classes any more. I laugh, and reply, ‘Yeah, all good.’
‘How are you going to get home?’
‘I’ll ring Mum,’ I tell him, and delve in my pocket for my mobile, holding it up to prove what I’m saying is valid.
‘Okay,’ he says, and turns to talk to other kids walking along the footpath.
I walk to the main street, stand under the shade of a gum tree, watch kids piling onto the buses, and decide I’m not catching a bus home today. Mum will be either at the café, working, or shopping, so I buzz her to find out if she’s able to pick me up. She doesn’t answer. I see several of Nikki’s friends warming up for training on the netball court and, figuring I can find out what happened to her after she left Maths, I wander over and wait for Kirsty to finish a passing drill. I wave to get her attention, and she trots across the court to me. ‘How’s Nikki?’ I ask.
‘She went home,’ Kirsty replies. There’s fine sweat across her brow and on her cheeks, and the sunlight sparkles in it. Her dark hair is cropped at her earlobes. ‘What’s it to you?’
I blink, break my stare, and reply, ‘I heard about her cousin.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, and trots back to training without adding anything, leaving me standing at the edge of the court. I try to get Nadia’s attention, but the girls ignore me, so I give up.
I walk back to the road, and ring Mum again. She works semi-casual hours for a café in Colonel Light Gardens, and she’s obviously at work because she’s not answering her phone. After I get her answering message, I text, but there’s no response. No ride for me. Now I have to wait for the next bus that will go toward Pasadena, and that’s a half hour wait: so much for getting home early.
I walk further along the main road, and sit on a beige stone fence to watch the afternoon traffic while I wait for the bus. A very sweet silver WRX rumbles by among the nondescript cars. Nice.