“I was having a little fun,” she whimpers.
“Yeah, and the next thing you know, you can’t see your toes, because you’re pregnant, the man that tangoed with you is nowhere to be seen, and that best friend and her brother; they’re still hanging at the track, having fun, because you and your baby don’t matter to them.”
She gasps. “You’re a jerk!”
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “I literally can’t win. Do whatever you’re gonna do, doll. But I strongly encourage you to take your underage ass home.”
“All the other girls are right,” she tantrums… and draws eyes. Just my fuckin’ luck. “You’re a piece of shit. You’re rude, and you treat women like objects.”
Laughing, I wish for my hat back, only so I can squish it down lower as I turn away from the child and slide into my car.
I’m the asshole, and the guy that actually takes her to bed tonight will be praised as the prince charming who soothed her aching heart. Oh, that Bryan Kincaid is such a prick. How dare he try to save me from my own bad choices? That’s until shit turns sour, and he ghosts her naïve ass.
I slide into my Camaro and close out the looky-loos. Manda calls up her flag girl, situates her between the two bikes with her slip of material to get the race started, and when she drops her arm, Tuck’s KTM screams away from the starting line with a deafening roar.
Yeah, easiest five-grand he’ll make this week.
Switching my engine on, I amble forward and pull up beside Kallan’s car. We’ve raced before, I’ve beaten him before, but at least when he loses, he tends to accept his fate and step the fuck aside.
Unlike pricks like Jackson Price.
I stop at the starting line, and leave my windows and music up. DMX screams in my ear about never giving up. About being the best. About survival. So I leave my eyes forward, tunnel in, and study the spotlit dirt track.
This is the same track my grandfather raced. My grandmother stood where the flag girl is now. Rumor has it, my grandmother wanted to ride with Grandpa while he raced, but like how all Bryan Kincaids seem to be cursed, we’re made out to be the asshole when we’re only trying to do the right thing.
The first Bryan Kincaid was released from the starting line, he raced off to win a few dollars to get him through another week, and while he was doing that, Grandma walked her ass onto the track and seemingly left her brain somewhere else – presumably in her bedroom, the bedroom her seventeen-year-old self snuck out of without her daddy’s approval.
Of course, in our case, it all worked out, since we kind of needed them to hook up and live their happily ever after for us to exist today. But for girls like Hayley, the likelihood of her forever being here is slim to none. It’s definitely not me, so that proves she’s here at the wrong time, the wrong weekend, the wrong year.
The heavy bass of my stereo pounds through my blood so I feel the vibrations right up into my chest. My balls ache, and my heart races a little faster when I catch sight of Jackson’s Challenger pulling into line behind me. He’s racing soon, and later, when we reach the finals, I’ll liberate him of his fancy car.
The darkness outside of the spotlights is all-encompassing, like a blanket that hides even the mountains that surround the town I was born and raised in. This is the only town I know, the only racetrack I know. My family, all of them, live only miles from here; far enough away that the sounds of roaring engines won’t wake them at night, but close enough that I come out here a few times a week to blow off steam and push my car faster and faster when there’s no one to watch me spin out of control if I take the turn wrong.
Tuck’s bike outstrips the Honda by a long way, and when he crosses the line and the crowd roars their approval, I flex my hands around my steering wheel and let my music help me find my zen.
DMX turns to Eminem, and Eminem turns to Hush. The spotlights fuck with my eyes, they make me squint when I don’t normally have to. But I ignore that; instead I listen, bob my head just a little, and prepare to push my car to its limits.
Tomorrow, I have plans with my family. Then I have a week of not having to see Jackson fucking Price, unless we run into each other in the street. Thankfully, that rarely happens.
Manda makes a note on her clipboard that declares Tuck victor of his race, then she steps onto the track and waves me and Kallan forward.
Releasing the clutch, I roll forward and ignore Kallan’s boasting rev.
He can make noise, that’s fine by me.
My music is so loud that I don’t hear the crowd outside. I don’t hear whatever Manda is shouting, I don’t hear Kallan when he talks shit.
I remain in my bubble, not letting them touch me.
Jackson rolls up behind me, close, too close, just to be a prick, but I keep my eyes forward. I don’t give him what he wants – attention, my distraction – but when I glance forward and find Manda waving someone over, I look back in my rearview mirror to find Jackson’s passenger door open.
Out she climbs, long legs, long torso, long everything. And that inch of belly… just seeing it makes my hands itch.
She saunters around between Jackson’s car and mine, purposely walks up my side of my car so she passes within only a foot of my door. If I opened my window, I could hook an arm around her stomach and pull her in, just to see what happens when you mix fire and ice.
Her long hair hangs all the way down to the middle of her back. Soft, salon-type waves – no chick in the history of the world has those waves without products and a salon.
Resting on top of her head… my hat.
I watch her move to Manda, chat for a moment – nods, smiles, words – only for Madilyn to turn and face me and Kallan. She looks straight into my fucking eyes, testing me, taunting me, and brings phantom pains to my balls when I look down her legs and stop on that knee.
My eyes narrow, and my hands tighten on the wheel. Then she reaches into her shirt and begins fussing with her bra. Without removing her shirt, without showing a single scrap of skin except for that sinful inch of stomach above her jeans – damn that sneak of belly – she unclasps that fucker, pulls it through her sleeve, and grins when it comes free.
Black lace, see-through. It’s fucking see-through – which means her panties are too.
I turn to my right and study Kallan’s profile as he watches her like a starving dog. She’s his steak, and he’s caught in her web. In his mind, he’s thinking filthy things, despite the fact he has a girl waiting thirty feet from where he sits. He’s mesmerized by Madilyn, unable to look away, unable to fucking breathe because she’s so pretty.
Turning back, I study her eyes hidden beneath my hat. Her jeans as they cover her like a second skin. And after a moment when our eyes refuse to part, her puckered nipples that push against the fabric of her shirt.
I move in my seat, rearrange my zipper away from my hardening cock, and groan when her tongue comes out to wet her plump bottom lip. Does she know she’s a fuckin’ siren? Or is she naïve like Hayley, and has no clue that everyone can see her nipples now?
Revving my car, I lift my chin when she tilts her head to the side in question. Hands on the wheel, I turn one, crook my finger, and welcome the pulse in my cock when she drops her sex kitten act and meanders in my direction.
She’s beautiful. Elegant. She might have anger issues, what with the way she knees dudes in the balls for no reason, but still, I can’t not touch my cock as she walks to my passenger door and bends down when I lower the window.