3. Jackson
3
JACKSON
M y eyes roam over the crowd, scanning each face for unfamiliarity. Every race needs to be monitored with the utmost attention. Despite our best efforts, one never knows who might weasel their way in.
My eyes land on Cassidy, an old flame. She smiles at me, her eyes filled with lust and hopefulness. I’ve lost interest, but she doesn’t know that.
“Your hair looks almost blue under these lights, Jackson,” she purrs. She reaches a red painted nail up to run along the edges of my jaw but I pull my face away. Undeterred, she licks her lips. “I’ll see you later.”
“You won’t.” I assure her, but she’s already out of earshot.
It’s loud here, a foot away would make it difficult for anyone to hear me. My eyes continue to scan the crowd, finally resting on Patrick, my head of security. With a short jerk of my head, I urge him to come closer.
I glance down at him. He’s a tall guy, at nearly six foot one, but I stand four inches taller than him.
“What is it?” he asks.
My voice is low, quiet with my instructions. “Double check the guests. I want to make sure there are absolutely no unexpected disruptions tonight.”
He frowns, his blonde brows pinching together as he asks, “Did you see something?”
I shake my head. “No. But I don’t want to be caught off guard, either.”
I shove both my hands in my leather jacket and look around the throngs of people. Still, I see nothing out of the ordinary, but the moments right before a race always have me on edge. Better to be safe than sorry.
“Alright,” Patrick says.
I watch him move away from me, heading toward the stands of people. Pivoting on my heel, I move purposefully toward Vince’s bike.
His black machine looks sleeker than usual with the lime green and neon orange accents he had added to it earlier this week. The power this thing exudes is impressive.
It really is a beautiful bike.
I admire it for a moment, knowing it has a 1,000 cc four-stroke engine. A few weeks ago, We clocked Vince going three hundred and twenty-six miles an hour. It’s impressive as fuck. It really is.
But he still hasn’t beat my record.
From the corner of my eye, I see him saunter over. We’re nearing the start of the race and I shiver. There’s always a familiar rush of adrenaline in anticipation of a race.
At that kind of speed with nothing but leather and a helmet to protect you, you could die. It’s exhilarating.
“She’s a beauty,” Vince says, loud enough for me to hear.
“That she is.”
“Destined to win.”
His cocky demeanor never fails to take front row, even though my record is still in place. I turn to him and grin, saying nothing. He knows he still has a record to break, and he’s far from breaking it.
Vince swings a leg over the seat of his bike. “Are you racing tonight?”
I arch a dark brow. I haven’t raced in a while. “When someone beats my record, Vince, then I’ll race to beat them.”
He scoffs. “One of these days, Jackson. Just wait.”
I grin again. I’d love to race. But someone has to make sure these underground races stay…just that. Underground. Nothing more than a whispered event no one can find because they don’t know if it exists or not.
That’s my job. To keep us safe. It’s more important.
“Be careful out there,” I growl, before turning on my heel and walking away from him.
Vince’s answer is to start his bike and rev the fuck out of the engine. The crowd absolutely loves it and goes wild. The cheering escalates to a roar and once again, the familiar rush of adrenaline courses through my veins.
A small smile grazes the corners of my mouth. For a moment, I wonder if it would be worth getting on a bike and showing Vince how it’s done…
Again.
But I dismiss the idea. As much as I would love to do that, I love the control I have over the crowd even more. Each and every one of them knows that the only reason they’re here is because I allow it.
Without my permission, without my generosity, this place would cease to exist. The races are because of me. This is my haven and they’re merely invited to glimpse my oasis when I deem it acceptable.
Once more, my eyes scan the crowd of familiar faces. I know each and every one of them, and they know me. Several men nod at me in acknowledgement. Women smile. One winks.
I flash that one a devilish grin. She’s hot. I wouldn’t be opposed to giving her a behind the stage tour later on. I’ve seen her a few times. I think her name is Celeste.
I’ve inquired about her more than once, come to think of it. But every time I get the idea in my head to give her a backstage pass, I get sidetracked. Something breaks, something blows up. Someone dies. It’s always something.
I wink back before searching the crowd one more time. I’m always looking for deception, for someone or something that shouldn’t be here.
And that’s exactly what I find a few feet away from Celeste. Two women I’ve never seen in my life are leaning over the balcony watching one of the motorcyclists fuck with a bolt on his Kawasaki.
One elbows the other and gestures to me. They know I’ve spotted them now, and the moment the short haired woman meets my gaze, she turns subtlety with her friend in tow and walks away.
“Shit.”
I move quickly, eager for this chase. I’m not sure who they are, but I’m going to catch them and I’m going to find out. They’re not allowed here. I hop over the first balcony and move fluidly through the crowd of people.
Some pat me on the back, others try to talk to me, but I’m on a mission. I don’t have time for idle chatter. I shove past them and fling open the emergency exit that leads to the balcony above. This stairwell will be empty and it’ll get me up there quicker.
A moment later, I tug open the door to the second balcony. This level is even more cluttered with bodies. You can see better from up here. People pay more to be on the second and third levels.
My height gives me a major advantage. I scan the crowd. The woman with the short hair had on a hot pink tank top. That’s what I look for and it takes me a solid two minutes to find her.
I move toward the color. I see both women glance back. Both beautiful, breathtakingly so, but both are unwelcome in my domain.
They see me chasing them and they pick up their pace, eager to get to the doors that will lead them downstairs. Perfect.
That’s exactly where I want them to go. My office is downstairs and the moment I get my hands around one of them it’s over.
How the hell did they get in here? Someone must have let them in. They must have fooled someone. My mind filters through the list of people in charge of admission. There’s no way anyone would let them in.
Not unless they came with someone who’s a regular. And I can’t imagine who would be dumb enough to let strangers enter our midsts.
Then again, women are easily bought. For all we know, they could have paid someone. Anger washes over me as I chase them through the crowd.
They’re my prey and I’m not about to let them get away.