“Purr for me, baby,” I grunt as she rumbles to life like a bloody rocket ship. The vibrations claw their way through me, and I try and shake my diner stranger out of my head as I gun the engine and roar off to the race starting point.
There’re a few faces I recognize by now, but none I need to get close with. I’m not here to make bloody friends, I’m here to win and settle my debt with Barnes. A few other riders nod at me from behind masks, since they definitely recognize The Duchess. I check the sheets, and I’m in the second match-up tonight—ten riders, one track, one winner.
I get to the side of the track with the rabble and watch as the first heat of racers lines up. I turn and glance up at the stands, and my eyes fall on the little makeshift plywood “VIP box” set up a little ways up into the stands. And there, surrounded by some of his crew, is Barnes.
Up until a week ago, Barnes and his merry band of cunts would hang out in one of the not-quite-finished actual box seats way up at the top of the stands. He’d sit up there pretending to be a king or some shit and watch his races play out. But last week right after the last race, him or one of his dumb mates flicked a cigarette away or did something equally stupid, and the whole sodding VIP box went up like a tinderbox.
Hence, the plywood “boxed seats” a few rows up from the track. Unfortunately, Barnes and all of his crew managed to walk away from that fire unharmed, and here they are again, snorting coke, smoking cigarettes, and swigging liquor from bottles as if they’re in a bloody music video.
“Twats,” I mutter to myself.
The announcer with the megaphone steps forward to get the first race going. The ten bikes thunder to life, the man raises the flag, and when it drops, they’re off. My heart pounds, and I’m only barely aware that I’m grinning like a maniac as I watch them go blasting around the track. Fuck do I love racing.
The first heat ends—two spin out and crash before they can finish, and some guy on a Kawasaki I don’t know wins. But now, it’s my turn. My blood roars like an engine as rev the throttle at the starting line and feel The Duchess purr between my legs. I glance at the blokes on either side of me, noting the types of bikes and the size of the riders. They’re still clearing the two poor sods who crashed off the track, so I glance around and aimlessly let my gaze wander up to Barnes and his crew.
And then, I blink.
A blonde girl in tight jeans that fit her sweet ass perfectly, wearing a leather jacket and boots, steps into the box. It’s not odd for Barnes and his crew to have a bunch of girls with them with the way they flash around cash and cocaine. But this doesn’t look like your average track-rat.
She’s turned away from me, her long blonde hair tousled and falling over one shoulder. Barnes sidles up to her, and I frown when I see him throw an arm over around her and yank her awkwardly into him.
What a bloody waste. A pretty girl like her with a royal twat like—
And then, she turns, and the ground drops out from under me.
Oh fuck me.
It’s her. The girl turns with Barnes’s arm around her waist, she looks up at the track, and it’s her.
…It’s the waitress.
My eyes drop back to his arm on her, and his hand touching her side, and I go from annoyed to fucking enraged. I snarl behind my helmet, seeing bloody red as my lips curl and the savage inside of me bellows in rage.
She lied. She damn well is somebody’s, and it’s pretty fucking clear to see with Barnes’s arm around her waist. Anger simmers inside of me, but I can’t look away. I haven’t been a bloody angel throughout my life, but I have boundaries, and one of them is to stay the fuck away from married girls or girls who are clearly involved.
And yet here I am, staring at this girl I slept with not two hours ago—hating her and wanting her all over again, all at the same time. How the fuck do I find trouble like this?
“Oy,” I grunt at the geezer on the Honda next to me. He turns and slides his visor up.
“What’s up?”
I nod up at Barnes’s box. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Who?”
“The bir—the girl.”
The guy snickers and shakes his head. “You got a fuckin’ death wish?”
Maybe. Magic 8-ball says ask again later.
“Who is she?”
“That girl? Buddy,” the guys laughs. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
“What bloody gave it away?” I mutter.
“I mean you do sound foreign.”
Great, I’m racing an imbecile.
The guy shrugs. “Yo, do yourself a favor and never look at her again. And don’t ask anyone else that question.”
I frown, even though my visor is still down. “So who—”
“That’s Delphine Armory,” the guy mutters quietly. “That’s Barnes’s girl.”
Oh fuck.
Chapter Five
Oliver
Barnes’s girl. She’s fucking Bryce bloody Barnes’s girl.
Fire and rage and fury ignite inside of me. I shake my head, trying to physically toss her out of my mind, but it’s not happening. All I can think of is the way she gripped me, the way she tasted. The way she moaned and urged me on. The announcer steps forward and yells something into his megaphone, but I don’t hear it. He raises the black and white flag, but all I see is red. The flag drops, and I let loose with the power of fucking hell blazing through my veins.
The Duchess takes off like a goddamn bullet, screaming around the track like a bat out of hell. My pulse thunders, and the memory of the way she tasted, and the way she felt, and the way she moved with me fades until all I can see is that fuck Barnes’s arm around her.
I see red. I’m distracted, and furious, and that’s dangerous going a hundred and eighty bloody miles an hour on a still-rain-wet track.
And then somehow, it’s over, and I cross the line, alive somehow. The crowds come rushing over, and some guy is screaming about breaking some sort of track record, but I’m not bloody listening. My eyes are narrowed through my visor, glaring right back at that plywood VIP box that I’m back in front of.
Barnes’s arm isn’t around her this time. Now, he’s looming over her, his face enraged as he screams at her. She looks strong, her jaw set and her eyes fierce as she glares right back at him, but I can see the fear there too. Barnes’s jabs a finger at her, and her strong façade crumbles just a little. She blinks, and I know even Barnes can see she’s scared now. He sees it, like a shark smells blood in the water, and he grins.
He barks at her again, and I go still on the bike. She says something, and it’s almost in slow motion as I watch Barnes wind back and then bring his hand down hard across her face.
I. See. Red.
I lurch off the bike, going to rip my fucking helmet off. But suddenly, there’s a guy in front of me, holding me back.
“Chill, man,” he grunts. It’s the guy from before the race started, who was lined up next to me. He’s still got his helmet on, but he’s glaring at me hard with dark eyes through his raised visor.
“You don’t want to die here tonight, man,” he growls lowly. The crowd envelopes us, people start shaking my hand and trying to take bloody selfies with me. I grunt and shake them off, but when I look up again, she’s gone. There’s just Barnes and his boys up there, fucking laughing it up like he didn’t just smack a girl. Barnes pumps his fist in the air, and he spots me standing there next to The Duchess and points at me. He grins widely and shouts something like “show me the money!”