Chapter 7 #2
“I don’t think this company is used to making suits for women.” I huff out a breath, trapped inside a coffin of white fabric with red stitching on it. With a frown, I glance over my shoulder at my back.
The suit reads: The Crimson Crew.
I narrow my eyes. Basti. This was Basti’s doing.
“I want to tell you now, so that you’re not surprised,” Bohnes begins, and I glance his way with a raised brow.
“Tell me what?” I ask dryly, washing my hands in the sink and then splashing cool water on my face. This suit is already hot, and I hate it. I’d rather race in leather pants and stolen stilettos. Even better with hot cum between my thighs. I scrape my teeth over my lip and Bohnes goes blank again.
Dangerous.
He grabs me and puts me over the sink, shoving the racing suit down to mid-thigh, one hand on my left shoulder to brace me.
I clutch onto the sides of the counter, staring at our combined reflection as Bohnes sinks into me.
He knows we don’t have much time, so he takes advantage of that to pound me so hard against the sink that my pelvis is pulverized, tender and bruised. Stretched by his massive dick.
Pleasure coils in my blood, twisting my veins and arteries with adrenaline.
Bohnes keeps that blank face of his as he fucks me, his stare a direct challenge.
He wants Ash dead. If we didn’t have a race planned for tomorrow, he’d have killed him this morning.
I get off on that, on the total absence of emotion in my Nightmare’s face.
That’s him holding back homicide. Hell yes.
My fingers spasm as an unwanted gasp escapes me, this flutter that reminds us both that I’m human and that I love the invasion of his body in mine.
My cheeks flush with heat as my arousal soaks us both, tainting the suit and his balls and both our thighs.
I knew before I even let him touch me that I was going to be ‘punished’ for making love to Widow last night.
He’ll cum. I won’t. Tomorrow, I’m going to make Bohnes pay for this on the track.
We’re looking at one another through the mirror when he blows his load, the muscles in his neck tightening, veins stark in his sun-starved skin. He releases me like I’m poison and steps back, idly playing with his deflating cock, slapping the wetness of it against the bottom of his hoodie.
I can feel him dripping out of me, and I love it. That’s better. A little messy. A little less boring. I yank the suit back up, savoring the filthiness. Wound up. Unsatisfied. I drive better when I’m horny anyway.
“Weren’t you going to tell me something?
” I remind him, panting, a little empty without him inside of me.
Bohnes deigns to put his cock away, and we start to circle each other in the small space, unresolved issues simmering.
Alpha male versus alpha female. There can be only one winner in our little disagreement.
Me. I’ll be the winner. I dip my hand into the suit, emerging with a pearly shimmer on the tips of my fingers. Bohnes’ pupils narrow to slits as I suck them clean, taunting him.
“Fuckboy Two is here.” Bohnes peers at me from pale eyes lined in too much black. His hood is up, white hair peeking out in tufts. My blood goes cold. “Accompanied by our missing…journalist.”
Emma Jean is here? What the actual fuck?
I unlock the bathroom door and push my way out, stalking over to one of the open garage bays and looking up at the stands.
My fingers clench on the edge of the wall as I spot Ash in the bleachers.
He’s draped in a heavy wool coat because it’s cold out, solid black and very somber.
Emma is wearing a red coat and tall black heels that clash with her bubbly personality and blond bob.
Emma is…Emma is…she’s sitting…in Ash’s…fucking…LAP.
That’s it. I’m going to kill him. Traitor or not, he’s dead meat. Jealousy flares so hot that I can’t breathe. I can tell myself it’s all a game. I can even believe that, but I am pissed. I am livid. My brain is short-circuiting.
Ash and Emma are surrounded by a dozen people in various states of business casual. A woman in a skirt suit. A persnickety man in glasses. A couple of thugs stationed in a circle of suit and muscle, dressed like security guards with guns at their hips.
I turn back toward the bay, but Bohnes is gone like he was never there.
I’m angry. I’m so goddamn FURIOUS. But this changes nothing.
I’m racing regardless.
“We ready, Basti?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. From the corner of my eye, I spot the Ford GT40 from last week. The blue and red Ferrari that I took notice of. The Porsche driver that has more car than skill.
“We’re ready,” Bastian agrees as Nisha puts a helmet on my head and gives me a sharp look.
“Everything by the book today. All the rules apply.” She slaps me on the ass, and I flip her off with my upside-down cross finger before pulling on a pair of gloves.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” I yank the visor of my helmet down and climb in the car.
Don’t think about Ash with another woman on his lap. Don’t let that derail you, Scarlett. He wants you upset—and he’s succeeding. Look, Emma Jean is alive, just like you knew she would be. That’s good, right?
The suit is suffocating. The helmet is worse. I put the visor part back up.
There’s some last minute paperwork that Basti needs to sign. I direct the secretary woman—the one with the bicycle tire lips—over to Nisha when she shows up. I tell her that she’s my manager.
She’s looking for Alexei, probably. I can guess that’s the reason I was invited back here, why Ash is in attendance. The whole ‘Burt Cramer’ thing might be a load of trash. Doesn’t matter. Racing here means more eyes on me. The prize money for the Stars and Stripes Vintage Classic ain’t bad either.
“Stupid-ass rich boy,” I growl, starting the engine and bringing the Devil to life with a roar.
Soon as I get my hands on Ash Kelly, I’m going to burn my brand into his skin.
Once a Scarlett fuckboy, always a Scarlett fuckboy.
Either Ash is mine or he’s a dead man.
I get lined up with the other cars, leaning forward to see if I can’t find any of the boys through the windshield while I’m waiting.
No sign of Bohnes or Alexei. There’s Widow though, big shoulder leaned up against the fencing that protects the audience from catapulting crash debris.
Unlike at Prescott, there are plenty of safety measures in place.
The spectators here are a good ten feet above the track and set back behind a buffer zone and a concrete barrier.
Widow isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at Ash in a way that’d make me nervous if I didn’t trust him, too.
Adrian is as hungry for rich boy blood as Bohnes is.
And the fucker in question? I laugh maniacally as I watch Ash shove Emma’s coat up her leg, revealing lacey garters underneath.
He puts his hand on her stockinged knee, fingers curling possessively.
I grit my teeth and focus on the track. Ash has to act like Aspen in public, I get it. But how dare he come here and molest poor Emma Jean in front of me? I’m already tired of it. I can already taste blood.
I rev the engine.
I know exactly what this race is going to be like. I just did this. Raced these same boys. Kicked their asses. I started with a handicap, too. Smoked them around the crashed vehicles of the guys who couldn’t get out of my way when I jumped the track.
This’ll be cake.
The flagger waves us green-to-go and we’re off.
On a nice, flat track. Perfectly paved. No potholes.
I take the first curve with a yawn, watching a few of the other cars in front of me to get an idea of this track’s quirks.
It seems perfect, but there could be insider knowledge I didn’t figure out last time.
I follow the Porsche. He’s wary enough that any precautions he takes are bound to be exaggerated in nature.
He has more car than he can handle, but he’s got potential.
Potential, but no experience. Two laps in and there’s nothing special going on that I can see.
Holy shit, this is boring, I realize with a sigh, gunning it faster than I should.
The rear of the Pantera waffles back and forth, leaving black streaks across the pavement. I rocket past the Ferrari and the Ford, letting the car swing a wide left before it lines me up with the next straight. I blast down it and start passing people. Bye, bye bitches.
Then, next time it’s me chasing the same three cars, I’ve already lapped them.
Boom, boom, boom. Lap, lap, lap. Around and around we go, safer than a ride on the Prescott carnival carousel, the rickety one that Gram was too nervous to let me on as a kid. This is undoubtedly less dangerous.
The race is over before I get a single spike of adrenaline. Nothing. I may as well have been sitting on the toilet.
Finish line. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
I eat up a few meaningless victory laps before pulling into the garage where Nisha and Bastian are waiting.
The former is stoic, like always. The latter is bouncing on his heels, barely able to keep himself from leaping into my arms as I climb out of the Devil with another yawn.
The driver of the Porsche passes by, offering up a wave. He’s nondescript. Handsome, possibly, but I’m not in the mood for any more fuckboys, so it’s hard to tell.
“You’re an incredible driver,” he admits with a slight half-smile. He uses his helmet to point at me, and I notice that Bohnes is observing him from the shadows, a knife in hand. “I’ll be watching and learning.”
“Sure thing, bro.” I give Bohnes a warning look, tearing my helmet off and shaking my head so that my raven hair falls in waves past my ass. I toss the helmet to Nisha as Basti throws his arms around my neck with a laugh.
“Told you it was gonna be boring,” he teases as I hug him back and Nisha allows for a very rare prideful smile.