Bad Boy's Last Race (8 page)

S
ophie rides
with me out to Rose Grove in the southern edge of the state for the Tristate Circuit Semifinals. The high desert whips past us while Sophie belts out some of her favorite ‘90s songs from her phone. I’m grooving right along with her, and even when she can’t hit the high notes, I feel myself falling for her a little more. She looks so happy, so gorgeous, so alive that I can’t complain about a damn thing.

I’m amazed she agreed to come at all. Amazed that this . . . whatever we have between us is working still. It’s not my usual M. O., and that’s putting it lightly, but there’s something intoxicating about her that makes me wonder if it might not be so bad. Maybe I’d be tempted not to be pinned down if she didn’t make everyone else in the world just look so . . . bland.

We head through the outskirts of Rose Grove, following in formation behind Elena and Drazic ahead of us in Elena’s Camaro. Rose Grove is situated around a dozen different buttes, their rocky crests the only feature on the otherwise flat desert landscape. To the west, the sun looks like it’s melted into one of the buttes, spilling pink and indigo everywhere. We round the butte and find our public awaiting us there—hundreds and hundreds of spectators, dancers, DJs, and more.

I roll to a stop in the lineup, scanning the cheering crowd muffled by my soundproof windows, and turn toward Sophie with a grin. “Showtime, baby.”

“Need me to flash my tits?” she asks, grinning back.

I kiss her forehead. “Maybe after the race.”

Then I flip my aviators down and climb out of the Firebird, flashing dual peace signs to the crowd. It’s a wilder group than Ridgecrest, and there’s a dark bass beat pulsing in time with my heart. I grin, drinking in the rowdy atmosphere.

“Hey, Jagger!” some chick in a halter top screams. “Wanna sign my boobs?”

“Whatcha doin’ later, Jagger?” Another girl snaps her gum, uncomfortably close to my face. She’s dangling something at me—oh. A pair of panties. Well, of course. And they’re looking slightly used.

I shoulder away from her and cup my arm around the small of Sophie’s back. “Letting this hot babe sit on my face,” I reply. Sophie snorts under her breath.

“Oh.” Panties lowers her arm. “Can I watch?”

I steer Sophie toward our crew’s huddle. “Not a chance!”

Sophie tucks one hand in the back pocket of my jeans. “I guess there’s stiff competition on the track and off, huh?”

“Not even close.” I nuzzle my nose against the hollow of her throat. She smells like warm summer breezes. “Though if it’s stiff you want . . .”

Sophie giggles and squeezes my ass. She looks fucking incredible backlit by the desert sunset that I can almost forget the cheering crowds, revving engines, pumping dance beats. All I see is Sophie.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“After you crush the competition,” she says.

I groan and squeeze her ass in return. “
Fine
. I expect you ready and waiting the moment I step off the finish line.”

“Jagger!” Drazic shouts. “Cut the foreplay and get your ass over here.”

I press a quick kiss to Sophie’s temple and join the huddle while Sophie stands off to the side. Elena looks like a nervous wreck, but Lennox is rubbing a reassuring hand against her shoulder. Drazic is a lot sterner. Nash claps me on the shoulder and pulls me in to the huddle between him and Cyrus, our navigator.

“All right, listen up,” Drazic says. “I know we’ve pored over the map, but this is our first time seeing this new layout in person.”

“It’s not too different from the configuration they used last year. But there’s the new leg that opened up with the highway expansion,” Cyrus says. “I’ll guide you home safe and sound.”

“Not a problem. We can handle it.” Lennox nudges Elena. “We’re all more than capable.”

“Watch out for that tricky turn around the third butte,” Nash says. I can tell by his hardened gaze that he’s still sour about Drazic not picking him to compete for the Tristate this year, but he’s got plenty of other races coming up. We’re still mending the crew after all the drama that went down with him, Lennox, and Elena a few months ago, after all.

“Trust in Cyrus’s and Nash’s voices in your ears,” Drazic says. “You’re going to do just fine. Elena—watch your corners.”

“On it.” Her cheeks flush red.

“Jagger, don’t fear the Calaveras boys. They always wuss out at the last minute.”

I smirk. “They’re going to be choking on my exhaust for weeks.”

“And Lennox—grab onto those straightaways and speed for all you’ve got.”

“All right, folks, it’s time to let these ponies run free!” Kylie, the Rose Grove organizer, shouts through a megaphone. “Bets placed, engines revved, line up and get ready to ride!”

I pull my Bluetooth earpiece from my pocket and stride over to Sophie. “You know, it’s bad luck not to kiss me before the race.” I grip her by her hips and pull her toward me.

“I dunno,” she says. “You seem to have done fine so far without my help.”

I laugh and rest my forehead against hers. “Maybe this
is
what I look like without good luck.”

Sophie presses her lips to mine. Her tongue darts against mine, hungry. I know the feeling. She tastes so goddamned sweet that I want to keep tasting it forever, deepening the kiss. Her mouth scorches me and I pull her closer and her whole body curves into me and she sucks at my lower lip and I get a little dizzy and
fuck.
What is this girl
doing
to me?

Now I get to find out how to race with a bad case of blue balls.

Sophie slaps me on the ass and steps back. “Go get ‘em.”

I climb into the Firebird, pop my earpiece into place, and become one with the engine’s purr. Let the noisy onlookers and the other drivers melt away until it’s just me and the road. I slow my breathing, though it’s hard, after Sophie’s kiss, and get ready for the race.

“Three! Two! One!”

My foot hits the accelerator with just the right amount of weight. The Firebird leaps forward, eager to obey me.

Everything’s clicking for me tonight. I find the flow of the race immediately, but I’m not content to just ride it. I need to surge ahead. Besides, might as well look good for Sophie. I spot one of the Sungs in their Hyundai and keep my focus on him as I rev up the Firebird, and then I sail past him just before the first butte.

“Careful, Jag,” Cyrus warns me in my earpiece. “You’re probably going to lose some ground on the switchback.”

“Not if I can help it.”

The Firebird’s tires squeal beneath me and the stench of burning rubber fills the air. Sung’s trying to nose up past me, but I’m determined to keep him in my rearview mirror. Even as my steering wheel starts to fight me, I hold firm.

The back of the Firebird starts to fishtail as I swing around the switchback, so I yank up on the emergency brake to even me out. More screeching; somewhere behind me, metal crunches with plastic as two of the drivers collide. Their fucking problem, not mine. I release the brake and keep plowing down the line.

By the third butte Nash was so worried about, the other drivers are fucking specks of light behind me. Either the pileup caused a bigger mess than I thought, or I’m on goddamned fire. I’m guessing it’s a little bit of both. I blow a kiss to one of the drones as it buzzes past me and ease my way toward the finish line.

First place. The rest of those jackoffs aren’t even
close
. I squeal the brakes after the finish line and pop out of the Firebird’s side with my best panty-dropping grin. Everyone’s screaming my name, there are camera flashes going off, confetti pouring down, and a vortex of sound pouring out of the DJ’s turntable.

Finally the other drivers start to trickle in, but as soon as I spot Sophie in the crowd, I don’t even notice. She races toward me, the biggest grin splitting her face, and squeals as she gets close. I hoist her up in my arms and set her on the roof of the Firebird.

“Fucking brilliant,” she says.

I laugh and nuzzle her throat while the crowd cheers and tires whines around us.

“You fucking show-off,” she teases me, hooking her arms around my neck. Then she pulls me in for a kiss. A deep, toe-curling, cock-hardening kiss. And I redefine the meaning of
show-off
for her as people whoop and holler around us.

Someone pops a bottle of champagne, launching the cork into the crowd, and splashes it my way. Sophie laughs and covers her face, but I take the brunt of it on the back. “Great job, Jagger!” the track tramp chorus starts up. I ignore them all.

Finally the rest of the crew gathers around us. Drazic claps me on the back. “That was some genius driving, man. First place. So glad one of ours could do it.”

I look toward the rest of the crew, suddenly aware I have no idea what the rest of them placed. “What about . . .”

“Lennox took fourth,” Elena says loudly, her face taut.

Uh-oh. Top five qualify. So Lennox is in too, but . . . “What about you?” I ask.

She grimaces. “Seventh.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, El.” She’s been busting her ass to prep for this bracket—her first as a driver. But then, it is only her first go. I clap her on the shoulder. “Seventh in the semi-finals, in your first year doing this? Shit. Next year you’ll be giving even me a run for my money.”

Elena snorts and gives me a curt nod. “Thanks, Jags.”

“And we have
two
drivers in the finals,” Drazic adds. “Another crew first.”

I bump fists with Cyrus. “My voice of reason, man. Couldn’t do it without you.”

“One day you might even start listening to me,” he says.

“Who wants to head to the cantina over at Rose Butte? It’s got a stellar view and I’ll DD,” Drazic says.

Sophie tugs at my arm. “Jags, I’m sorry, but I can’t, remember?” She holds up her phone to display the time. “I promised I’d take over for the babysitter after midnight.”

“No problem. I’ll take you home, babe.”

Sophie smiles, grateful, but Nash groans. “Aw, c’mon, Jags, I owe you at least a few drinks!” Nash cries.

Sophie’s cheeks redden. “No, he’s right. You should celebrate. I’ll see if I can get a cab or something.” She digs around in her purse. “It’ll be OK, I promise.”

“I can drive you home,” Elena pipes up. “It’s really no trouble. I’m not really in a drinking mood, anyway.”

Lennox cups a hand around Elena’s shoulder. “El . . .”

Sophie looks deeply relieved. “That’d be fantastic. I don’t want to take you away from your guys, Jags.” She smiles at Elena. “Thank you so much.”

Elena forces herself to smile, though I know she’s still disappointed. “It’ll give the boys time to celebrate. Plus, I can tell you
all kinds
of horrible stories about Jagger on the way.”

“Oh, shit. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I say.

Sophie grins devilishly and cups my face in her hands. “I think it sounds perfect.” She strokes my cheek and pulls me in for another kiss, this one extra show-off-y. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

I
hang
out with the guys at the Rose Butte Saloon, drinking beer and shooting the shit until closing time. I had a few beers at the start of the night, but I know my limits, and I’m perfectly sobered up by the time I climb behind the wheel of the Firebird. Our crew may be reckless in a lot of ways, but drunk driving isn’t one of them. Especially not after drunk driving killed one of our own a few years back.

It was good to just hang with my brothers. Neither Lennox nor I were interested in chasing tail, of course, and even the chicks who were climbing up on Nash, Cyrus, and Drazic looked boring as dirt next to Sophie and the way her ass looked in that miniskirt. The thought of that ass alone kept me plenty of company on the long drive back to Ridgecrest.

Until about ten miles outside of the city limits, when I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

I pull over on the shoulder and roll my window down. I don’t speed when I’m not racing—mostly—and I know all the lights are working fine on the Firebird. Already I’m on edge, and the chilly desert air pouring in from the open window isn’t helping. I don’t feel even remotely buzzed. I couldn’t have been swerving. And it’s been weeks since we pulled our last job—all those parts are long gone.

What the hell is going on?

A plainclothes officer approaches the window. Shit. Plainclothes cops typically don’t have dashcams running, and I haven’t bothered to install one on this new car. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be off the record, which makes me nervous. Especially if it has anything to do with our side jobs.

The officer knocks on the glass. I roll it down, though he doesn’t bother to lean down to show me his face. “License and registration.”

“I’m gonna need to see a badge first,” I say. I want some kind of record, whatever happens me. I pull out my phone to snap a shot.

He props both arms on the windowsill—tan, beefy—and presses his sneering face, eyes hidden behind aviators, toward mine. Studies me for a minute, or at least I assume that’s what he’s doing, since I can’t see his eyes at all. Finally, he pulls a badge from his back pocket and holds it out.