Brent
“Who’s the newb?”
“Some chick.” Tanner shrugs as he runs his tongue along his top teeth, his lip curling for just a second. “Doubled her up on the entrance fee.”
I nod, impressed.
He likes her. Usually, he takes them for more than that if he can manage it, and the way he avoids looking over at the car is a tell in and of its own.
“She negotiated for the future, if she’s good enough,” he says, his interested gaze finally rising over the roof of my car as it goes back to her like a moth drawn to a flame.
To look but never touch.
To chase but never own.
She must be hot if she’s gathered his interest. Then again, a girl behind the wheel at one of our events isn’t common. Maybe that’s all this is.
“Confident, too. No wonder you’re smitten.”
He barks out a laugh, his head thrown back even as the sound gets eaten up by the idling engines and the crowd. “Fuck off, B.”
“Hey, I’m just calling it as I see it… and waiting for the go ahead,” I reply, cockily revving the engine, like he needs the reminder of why we’re all here tonight.
He steps back, flipping me the bird before gesturing to one of the race girls to come forward. I have no idea who it is—some blonde in a barely-there skirt and a top that’s nothing more than a bandana held up by a belt. Perfect waste if you ask me.
Don’t get me wrong, the track girls are always a fun ride, but they’re quick and easy. Especially when you win as often as I do. Sometimes, someone with a little bit of confidence and a bit of a fuck-you attitude is exactly what you need.
The car besides me nudges forward, lining up with my bumper as the four of us watch and wait for the flag the blonde waves to drop. I’m holding at the bite point as electricity courses through my veins.
There’s nothing quite like the thrill of watching the crowd roar and the other cars disappear in the distance behind me as my M5 Competition slides effortlessly through the gears, with the performance stats flashing across my screen.
The blonde out front jiggles her tits as she waves the flag above her head, checking in with each of the drivers while she primes the crowd for our epic take off. This is as much a show for them as it is preparation for us.
As the engines growl, and the crowd goes wild, the flag drops, and the four of us set off.
My Saphire Black V8 powers through with ease whilst the new girl does everything she can to keep up. I have no doubt that, over a longer distance, this would be a real competition, but absolutely nothing beats this engine’s nought-to-sixty time.
The crowd goes wild as I fly through the finish, squeezing the breaks to bring her to a stop as the only one to even try pulls up just past me.
The other two roll past just a few seconds later, but those watching don’t wait for us to climb out before gathering around the cars excitedly, even as their engines still idle.
More than one familiar face is waiting to congratulate me as I climb from the car and wait for Tanner to turn up with the winnings.
The crowd parts as his Ducati revs and rolls in, letting him through as he flips his visor up and pulls up alongside me before handing the wedge of cash over with a grin as he pockets his share.
I’m not sure anyone else can see it, but I know the manic energy that rushes through him when he’s got to coordinate rather than join in. If it had been him driving rather than me, our new girl would have had a good chance of winning. I guess Lady Luck wasn’t on her side tonight.
“Don’t die on your way home, dickhead.” Tanner clips out over the raucous noise around us.
I flip him the bird, but all he does is chuckle as he looks over the adrenaline rush he’s curated. He’s got other places to be, though, even as the party carries on back at the start line for the next couple of hours, he won’t get to enjoy it. He’s got other races to manage tonight.
After revving the engine twice, he peels around my car to check in with the girl before disappearing off.
She may not have won, but she came a lot closer than anyone else has in a long time, and the people that gather around her in awe know how unusual that is, even if she doesn’t. Rather than revelling in that small amount of limelight, though, she looks pissed off.
Making my excuses, I push through the throng of people—most of them wishing me well and heading back to the party for their fill of tricked out engines and beer on tap—with my sights set firmly on one thing: her.