Chapter Two – Coop
Coop shouldered his way through the crowd to Vick, who was holding his bike for him on the Old Firetower Road, where they were starting the races.
He’d been told not to race tonight. He’d been told not to fuck up his ride.
Then Vick dared him. He could always count on Vick to get under his skin, the asshole.
They’d grown up together. That didn’t mean they were good for each other.
They weren’t, and Coop knew it. If he was going to blow his sponsorship in the Arenacross circuit, it would most definitely have something to do with Vick.
“Yo! Lucas!” Vick called out, waving his hand in the air. Coop grumbled under his breath. Vick was also the only person in the world, outside of his parents, who called him that. Everyone else just used Coop. Or Cooper, his last name.
“Fuck right off with that, Victor.” He pronounced his friends name very distinctly to get under his skin, but Vick just smirked then gave him a knuckle bump.
“You’re in the next round. Bike looks good. You ready?”
Cooper tucked the front of his shirt into his jeans.
He preferred track pants, but the people in the illegal street races here had a different kind of attitude, one he needed to match.
He was Coop. Hotshot dirt bike racer, grandson of Dustin Cooper, who won all kinds of shit in his day.
He was a legend, but not in the prestigious leagues like Arena or Supercross.
He did some moto, but mostly, he raced on the streets.
All across the US, he’d left a legacy that Coop had to live up to.
He squared his shoulders and flipped a leg over the bike. “Let’s do this.”
The crowds parted easily for him when he was on the bike, obviously not wanting to get run over.
He motored at a safe speed through them.
Everywhere, people were cheering, laughing.
Once they lined up to start, the crowd would move back a bit, but they’d be all along the side of the roadway, watching.
The bikes would race down Old Firetower, then hit a turn that banked out at almost ninety degrees onto Bells Chapel.
He hoped people had enough sense not to stand on that corner.
That was probably the second most dangerous spot on the track for racers and spectators alike.
The only spot worse was at the end of Bells Chapel when they had to make a sharp right onto Country Home.
That led straight back to Old Firetower. They’d do two circuits.
It wasn’t much of a track but deceptively challenging for street racing.
It was mostly an old commercial area with an old trailer park nearby, and a few open fields where people were partying.
It was a recipe for disaster. If anyone got hurt, the cops would more than likely be called.
At least he was in one of the earlier races.
Maybe he could win and get the fuck out of there before all that chaos ensued.
Past the crowds, vehicles were lined up on the far side of Country Home and down Old Firetower in front of the businesses and across from them in front of a couple of houses.
A few residents were outside enjoying the commotion, and perhaps some of them weren’t home, the houses casting dark shadows across their expansive lawns.
Bikes of all kinds were there. Some were modified dirt bikes like his, but others were street-legal crotch rockets, a couple of low-profile Scramblers, probably owned by spoiled rich kids whose parents had even more money than Coop’s did.
There were plenty of dual-sports, too. They were well suited for street racing, if they had enough engine. But they wouldn’t beat Cooper.
He killed his engine and balanced the bike with one foot on the pavement.
He crossed his arms over his chest and let a bored expression cross his face.
A few minutes later, Vick showed up with his helmet.
That was about as much of a crew as he’d get here.
He’d worked on the bike, setting it up, earlier in the day.
He’d never be too good to get his hands dirty, but he was looking forward to someone else being responsible for his bike.
Bandy Tires would have a mechanic and an assistant for him at the Arenacross races.
His first race was in two weeks. He had to kill it there, but first, he needed to blow his competition away here.
That competition pulled up to the makeshift starting line. Mason Bradshaw. He was known to race rough. He had no qualms about shoving another guy out of the way to win. Well, he wouldn’t be pushing Coop around.
The man with a clipboard, acting as the official, waved Coop over. “Two circuits.” He held up his fingers in a peace sign.
“Got it.” Coop gave him a thumbs up, then revved the throttle. Ahead on the road, a girl in tight pants held a bright neon green flag up. All his attention was on that little scrap of silk. He anticipated the drop and raced off, praying people weren’t crowded into the corner ahead.
He took the lane wide, tires gripping the pavement only lightly. They weren’t dirt bike tires with their heavy tread, but made for the street, slick and giving him speed he wouldn’t have otherwise had.
If there was a holeshot for this type of racing, Coop had grabbed it, but Mason was on his ass.
He almost felt the heat of the other bike.
It was what Coop thought of as a monster-bike.
A rebuilt frame with whatever parts could be cobbled together, and a fast-as-fuck engine, but you couldn’t really call it by any type or brand.
You could call it trouble, though, and Coop wanted none of that.
He pushed his bike harder, knowing he’d take the turn too fast, but his bike could handle it.
He couldn’t lay the bike out like the MotoGP guys, but he could get a pretty mean lean on it.
When he approached the turn, he did exactly that.
He angled to the inside of the curve and leaned.
The edge of his back tire skid on the gravel road before catching again, the traction pushing him like a rocket.
Old Mason had not been prepared for that, and Coop left him behind.
The run down Bells Chapel went smoothly.
He ripped through apartment complexes on both sides, gaining more time.
At the intersection where he had to turn, he pulled to the left.
Farther along the road, someone had blocked traffic, so he didn’t worry about that.
He spun the back tire around behind him, then gunned it like on a dirt track.
The tires handled well, and he shot out on Country Home.
He could pull a similar move on Old Firetower—if onlookers weren’t crowding the intersection. But of course they were. He had to slow down to get through without hitting anyone. People had been drinking for hours, drowning their common sense in alcohol.
Coop looked back before he hit the corner. Mason closed the distance, but he’d have to slow down, too. Maybe. He might not have any compunction against hitting some drunk who didn’t move out of the way.
It didn’t matter; when he moved onto Old Firetower, Coop shifted and hit the throttle, leaving the other racer behind. He didn’t even get another glimpse of Mason through the rest of the circuit. No challenge from him, Coop was the clear winner.
Coop lifted his arms in the air. Someone in the crowd mentioned that Mason’s bike blew something, leaving him pushing his wreck back to his truck.
Vick ran over to him. Crowds of people cheered, but they were too close for Coop’s comfort.
He wished they’d back off. A couple of young, half-dressed women pushed up against him.
“Careful. Bike’s hot.” He pointed at the muffler and engine beneath him.
If they didn’t listen, someone would burn a leg or some other body part.
They had entirely too much bare skin showing, but it didn’t do a damn thing for Coop. Vick knew it and gave him that famous smirk. “Ladies, I’m Coop’s right-hand man. Let me tell you all about his bike.”
Coop rolled his eyes. Vick could have them. He was more interested in...
Hey—look at that. Dark hair, cut super short on the sides.
He looked broody and thoughtful. He bit at his bottom lip and then.
..looked straight at Cooper. Was that hunger in his gaze?
Or Cooper’s imagination? He suddenly wanted to find out what that slim body was like under those jeans and that tight t-shirt. He needed to get closer.
Vick had left with a fan-girl or two, but too many people were still hanging around, making it hard to get the cute guy’s attention. “Hey!” he called. The cute guy looked up at him with startled eyes. “Yeah, you. Come here.”
The smile that spread across the guy’s face was ridiculous and gorgeous. Then his brow lowered as he scowled and tried to push his way through the crowd.
“Hey. Get out of the way, man, let him through.” No one was listening to Coop or paying any attention to the guy who shouldered some much bigger dude out of the way. Thankfully, that dude was too drunk to notice, but Coop liked the guy’s determination.
Then he was in front of the bike, straddling the tire. He grabbed the handlebars between the grips, above the 272 race plate. “Hi.” His word wasn’t more than a breath.
Cooper smiled. “Hi, back.” He was going to get this guy alone where they could talk. And maybe other things.