Bad Boy's Last Race

T
he smartest thing
I can do is stay away from him. But I’m not going to…

L
ean muscled
, tattooed, and full of rockstar swagger, Jagger Richards is the kind of guy a girl would want to bend her over the hood of his car and take all he wants.

E
xcept Sophie Gallagher
. Sophie's on the run from her past, and she's going to do everything she can to stay away from bad boys like Jagger. Even if he does drive her wild.

W
hen Sophie's
past comes back to haunt her and destroy Jagger, the two of them have to band together with Jagger's racing crew. If they fail, it's not just Jagger's reputation on the line - but Sophie's life.

O
kay
, so I’ll be the first to admit that my judgment is not the best. I’ve gotten caught in a bar bathroom with my pants down and the bartender’s girlfriend’s mouth around my cock. The very
muscular
bartender. Gotten locked out of a motel room pantsless when I shouted the wrong name during sex. Fallen asleep next to an eight and woken up beside a three. (Not that I minded. I was game for another round. Until she started talking marriage.)

But this specimen right in front of me? I know gorgeous when I see it - and I’m sober. She’s got the most incredible curves. She’s perfectly, glisteningly tan. Wrapped in the sweetest, most supple leather you can possibly imagine, and she is giving me this look like she’s just begging me to take her from zero to sixty in no time at all—

“No.
Hell
no, Jag.” Nash claps me on the shoulder and tried to pull me away. “That is
not
for you, my man.”

I shake his hand away with a scowl. “What the hell? Of course she is. She’s perfect.”

Nash rolls his eyes. “Yeah, if you’re fucking loaded, maybe. But friends don’t let friends throw away good money on a needy little foreign job.”

I prop my fists on my hips and look back down at the car with a scowl. I can see my own reflection in her waxed hood, and flex my arms to make my lean biceps pop. Toss myself a wink from behind my aviators. Imagine myself in that driver’s seat, leaving the Calaveras Crew in the dust. “But I
want
it.”

“To race with? Are you out of your goddamn mind? You try to do a circuit with her, and I guarantee her transmission will fall out the first time you take a hairpin turn.”

“But she’s vintage.” I reach one hand out, pretending I’m caressing her headlights. “Morris Garage. 1954 . . .”

“‘Vintage’ is just another word for ‘expensive,’ Jagger. Like wine.” Nash shakes his head. “We’re here to find you a racer. Something reliable. Like that Nissan over there, yeah? Or one of these nice Evos?”

I make a production of exhaling, then drag myself away from the MG convertible. “Fine. But you owe me a drink afterward.”

“I drove you here, man.”

I clutch my stomach. “That’s right. You fucking suck at highway driving. You owe me
two
drinks.”

Nash grins. “Deal.”

* * *

T
he minute
we enter the pub, I spot her—a strawberry blonde seated by herself at the bar. I swivel my head, trying to catch a glimpse of those nice, firm sweater puppies she’s got and the creamy expanse of her shoulder poking out one side of the sweater’s neck. For a minute, I forget all about the MG and Nash and everything else. All I can think about is biting that shoulder, swirling my tongue around those incredible tits—

“Come on, horn dog.” Nash grabs me by the shoulder and steers me toward our booth. “Sit your ass down. Food first.”

“Fine, fine.”

We eat in relative silence, though I keep shooting glances toward the bar. Some meathead fuckwad has sat down next to the chick, and though I can only see her when he leans forward, her body language is all repulsed. Yeah, I’ll bet she needs someone slicker than the average college jock to punch her buttons. And I’m definitely feeling up to the challenge.

“So.” Nash draws my attention back to him. “What do you think Drazic’s gonna think of our finds today?”

Drazic, our crew’s leader, found this body shop for us after I trashed my old car valiantly rescuing his niece from a vicious band of human traffickers. Okay, so I’m not the one who leapt onto the roof of their moving car, but I
blocked
their car from escaping, and that’s half the battle. We’re a small outfit—it’s just me, Nash, Cyrus, Drazic’s niece Elena, and her boyfriend Lennox—but we’re working our way up the tri-state circuits. Not to brag or anything, but no one can pull a fifty-mile-an-hour slide and parking-brake flip like me to make a tight turn, or intimidate some jackhole in a muscle car into reconsidering his course.

I deserve the goddamned 1954 MG. But I will settle for the 1980s Firebird we found instead. It’ll match Drazic’s, once Elena finishes suping it up for me. Only I’ll look way, way better driving it.

Nash knocks his non-alcoholic beer against my pint of Guinness. “To getting your ass back behind the wheel.”

“To getting back to leaving your ass in the dust,” I answer.

We both take a swig, then I stop to survey the bar again. The girl’s missing—fuck. Hopefully she just went to the restroom.

We’d driven down to this college town downstate to check out the high-end car lot. Apparently this town is pretty flush with cash, and it shows on every patron. Nash fits in with his pretty-boy hair, but I’m a little rougher around the edges. I’m not humble—I’m cut as shit, but I’ve got a lean muscle to me, lithe and limber. I prefer white undershirts that showed off my shoulders and my tattoo sleeves. It’s the kind of look that set chicks’ panties on fire at the racing circuit, but in this phony pub, I’m getting too many second glances.

Now, if I could just catch the eye of the babe at the bar. . . I sigh and finish off my pint.

“You ready to hit the road?” I ask Nash, when the babe doesn’t show up again. If we leave for Ridgecrest now, maybe I can stop off at the bar on Route 12. I have an itch in my bones, and only a fine-ass filly could scratch it for me.

“Calm your tits, Jag. I’m still working on my fries.” Nash jabs a potato wedge at me.

I cross my arms and lean back in the booth.

“Go on. You’re wound tighter than my fucking suspension. Go find someone to get your rocks off with,” he says.

“The pickings are a little slim.” I run my tongue over the edge of my teeth, trying to check the bar again. “How about you, brother? How’re you holding up after everything with . . . you know.”

“With Elena.” Nash sighs and drops his fry. “I dunno, man. She and I really had something special, or so I thought. But—she was right. I lost my shit for a bit there. She didn’t deserve to put up with that that. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. I’m easy like Sunday morning. Work for Drazic, race for Drazic, drink away my earnings, rinse, repeat.” I manage a sideways grin. “No drama from me.”

“No drama? You?” Nash snorts. “Yeah, right. You should come with a fucking warning sign. ‘It has been zero days since Jagger got his ass kicked by some track bunny’s boyfriend’ . . .”

“Fuck off, man.”

I laugh with him, but then stopped. One of the meatheads and his ice queen had left the bar, revealing my strawberry-blonde goddess once more, sitting by herself on one of the stools. She’s pulled her hair into a loose bun, but more than a few wisps have escaped, just begging me to muss them up even more during a good fuck in the hay. Or the bathroom. Or the alleyway. I’m not picky. The wisps frame her face like a piece of goddamned art while she hunches over her tablet, sipping a pint. And then that black leather mini skirt, straining to contain a ripe little ass that’s out of this world—

“Oh, boy,” Nash mutters under his breath.

“What?” I ask. “What?”

Nash lifts his eyebrows, gesturing in the goddess’s direction. “Go on. You’re gonna fucking try for it whether I give you permission or not, so you might as well.”

I run one hand through my short dark hair while flipping him off. “Don’t wait up for me, huh?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you in five minutes when you crash and burn.”

I stand up, adjust my undershirt, and grin to myself. Time to prove him wrong.

“Mind some company?” I ask, sidling up to the bar.

Her gaze flicks toward me, then back down for a slow drag up my bod. Can’t blame her. I widen my grin.

When her eyes meet mine again, though, I get the distinct sense she’s peering down her nose at me, despite sitting down. The corners of her lips twist down and she angles her body back toward the bar. “Well, I’m trying to work on my thesis, so . . .”

Great. This one’s going to make me work for it, then. I study the sparkle of her dark blue eyes and think how they’d look wrenched shut as she’s screaming my name. Yeah. Definitely worth the effort. “Not like we’re in the library or anything.” I slide onto the stool beside her. “Name’s Jagger.”

She laughs. Not a good sign. God, it’s a gorgeous noise, though—glassy and bright. Women always say they like a guy who makes them laugh, so I guess I’ll take what I could get. Especially since it exposes her throat, and all I can think about is biting that soft, creamy neck.

“Jagger,” she repeats. “Seriously? What are you, some fucking wannabe rock star?”

“Mechanic, actually. And a racecar driver. No ‘wannabe’ about it. In the top 3 for the tristate circuit.” I flash her my winning grin—the one that makes the track bunnies melt. Granted, it looks a lot hotter when a crowd is surrounding me, shouting my name, but I’ll take what I can get.

She snaps her tablet shut and shoves it aside, blue eyes flashing. Fuck. I could drown in those eyes. “Let me guess.” She takes a swig of beer—something that smells wheaty and strong. “This is the part where you give me some line about how well you work with your hands.”

I grin and lean toward her, feeling the heat rising off her skin. “Actually, I was gonna brag about my tight steering. My endurance on the road.” I wink. “But sure. Let’s go with that.”

She smiles. She looks like she’s trying to fight it, but it’s there, tugging at those soft, pink lips. I smile back and angle myself on the barstool, careful to give her a view of my rugged jawline.

“So. Thesis,” I say.

“Graduate thesis.” She gestures vaguely toward the other people—kids, almost—in the bar. “I’m not . . .”

“Not using a fake ID? Yeah. I gathered that much.” I wave toward the bartender. “Doesn’t mean I can’t buy you a drink, though, right?”

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks, sidling up to us. He glances at her drink. “Another?”

“Yes, and whatever he wants. But put them on my tab,” she says.

“Wait. Hang on, at least let me buy you—”

“Nah. I like the idea of you owing me a favor.” Her grin deepens and she leans toward me, like we’re sharing a secret “That way, if I tell you to get lost, you don’t get to act offended.”

I clutch my chest. “Cold-blooded. All right, fine, another Guinness.”

The bartender nods and hurries off to pull our drafts.

She twists her stool toward me—always a good sign. God damn, she has some incredible tits, so perky and smooth behind her sweater, then tapering down to a taut little waist. I’m dying to see how that ass looks bent over the bar. Or any bar. Table. Chair. Hood of my car. I’m not picky. If I’m reading her right, she’s amused by me—not in a wholly aroused way, but at least I have her attention. I just need to hold it for a little longer.

“Well, if you’re buying me a drink, I think I at least should get your name. You know . . .” I lean toward her conspiratorially, letting my hot breath gust against her exposed neck. Lips positioned just above her flesh. Her eyes widen just a bit. “So I can . . .”

“—So you can scream it later. Uh-huh, yeah, I know your tricks. They won’t work on me.” But her smile is less confident this time. I’m reeling her in.

“Seem to be working so far.” I shrug. I need to up the ante, and fast. She’s way smarter than the track bunnies; I have to keep her interest up. Even if it means giving more than I get. “Besides, I’m hoping my mouth will be too busy for that.”

She arches one eyebrow and traces her finger around the rim of her beer glass. “All right, fine. I’m Sophie.”

“Sophie.” I say it slowly, tasting it out.

“And with a name like Jagger . . .” She smirks. “I’m guessing you aren’t a student here.”

“Nope. Racer, like I said. Just in town long enough to scope out a new old car for myself.”

Sophie leans forward, her face close enough now that I can better see her eyes, deep blue, sparkling with something sinister. The faintest spray of freckles crosses the bridge of her nose as she arches one eyebrow. Definitely not my typical catch. But I like a challenge. I have the distinct impression this chick could chew me up and spit me out, if I let her. And I’m very tempted to let her do just that.

“And did you . . . find something you like?” Her fingernails flick against my thigh. “Something to get your motor running?”

I growl, feeling the blood already draining from my face and heading south. Sophie isn’t playing around. I draw a ragged breath, my mouth suddenly way too dry. “You rev that engine,” I tell her, “and you’ll see for yourself.”