Authors: Jillian Leeson
When I bring my bike to a stop and take off my helmet, a black dude wearing black Vanson leathers and a black-and-white doo-rag comes up to me.
“Hey, white boy. Wha’cha doin’ here? Get yo’ ass home before yo’ get hurt.”
He’s clearly out to intimidate me, and I’m about to mouth off at him, but Alex holds up his hand to me, signaling to keep my trap shut.
“Chill out, man. He’s wit’ me,” he says, and the guy backs off, but not before he jerks his head to the side. Alex gets off his bike and follows him. Vanson Leathers introduces him to a tall, broad-shouldered guy of mixed race, and they start talking.
After a few minutes, Alex saunters back and says, “He’s callin’ your ass out.”
“Who? That guy you’re talking to?”
“No, not him. The dude on the bike.” He points at a helmeted skinny rider on a red-and-white Suzuki GSX-R1000.
“I don’t know. He looks like a scrawny college kid to me. I’m not sure if he’s in my league.”
“Looks like you ain’t got no choice. You don’ want ‘em to think you’re bitchin’ up on ‘em.”
I chuckle, amazed at Alex’s transformation from sharply dressed business executive to street-gangsta-in-leathers. “Don’t worry. Let them know I accept the race.”
“How much? A grand?”
“Okay.”
Alex walks back up to them, and the tall guy nods once. He gets on his bike and my opponent, Alex, and I, as well as a small crowd, follow him onto the road. After a short ride, we arrive at a stretch of two-lane highway without streetlights. A couple of bikes ride on to the finish line at the quarter mile to call the race.
Someone spray-paints a fluorescent yellow line on the road, and I get ready. I know how crucial the first 60 feet are; I have to get my bike moving forward as quickly as possible. I do a burnout of my rear tire so it will dig into the road better, and the wind in my back blows the cloud of white smoke it produces around me. My bike eases forward to the starting line.
I cast a quick glance at my opponent. He is looking forward, not paying me any attention. I get into starting position, folding my body tight around the fuel tank, head down and elbows out. My heart is racing, adrenaline pumping. I’m revving the engine and produce a loud roar, my tachometer hovering around the 10,000rpm mark. I’m conscious not to over-rev, keeping it at its sweet spot before dropping the clutch.
An attractive girl wearing tight jeans and a brown leather jacket walks up to stand between us, a yellow doo-rag in her right hand. She lifts her arm, the cloth fluttering in the wind. The split second she drops her hand, my bike lurches forward violently like a rocket, and I am gripping the handlebars tightly as I keep my boots down for a few feet to stabilize myself before finding the footpegs.
Everything happens in slow motion. My body and my bike merge into one. I’m in the zone; all my focus is on the road in front of me. I don’t even think about going up the gear range, I do it by instinct. At 150mph, the race will be finished in less than ten seconds, but it feels so much longer.
Finally, my headlights shine on the fluorescent finish line. A rapid sideways glance tells me we are neck and neck, and I’m willing myself to go even faster. The yellow line is getting closer and closer, and I shoot over it…a fraction behind my opponent.
Shit! I’ve lost.
I really, really hate losing. Especially when I know I could have won. Especially when I lose against some dim college boy. I swing round the bike and bring it back to the crowd at the finish line. My heart is still pounding, and—I hate to admit it—my legs are a bit shaky, from the adrenaline rush brought on by the race. But what a killer rush. If I thought the races on the track were exhilarating, these illicit street races are at least double that.
I yank off my helmet, drag my hand through my damp hair, and spin round to look at my jackass challenger. Surrounded by curious brownnosers, he is still on his bike with his helmet on. The crowd only disperses at the shouts of the post-race money exchange.
Alex comes up to me, smirking. “Hey man, tough luck. You almost had him.”
“What can I say? He was faster. Do you know who he is?”
“Nah. Haven’t seen him around.”
I cast a glance at the lanky figure’s leather-clad back, legs spread wide in front of his GSX. I’m about to make a wisecrack to Alex about lucky green college boys, but from the corner of my eye I spot the guy taking off his helmet, so I train my eyes on him as he turns around.
The world stands still, and my heart stops beating.
I’m staring into the eyes of the most breathtakingly beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
Elle
I pull off my helmet and spin around to take a closer look at the sucker I’ve beaten today. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing the look on his face when he realizes a girl has beaten him. But when I find his eyes, the shock and horror I expect to see are absent. In their place is an intense, dark gaze that pierces right through me, making me feel exposed, vulnerable.
I am rooted to the spot, entranced by the depth of those coal-black eyes, framed by thick dark eyebrows. A moment ago, I was basking in my glory, about to rub in his defeat, but now I’ve lost the ability to speak, to move. I tell myself to look away but I just can’t. I forget that we just raced, I forget where I am, I forget who I am. It’s like I’m transported to a place where time does not exist, a place where there is only he and I, connected through our gaze.
A movement takes me out of my trance. Dark Gaze is striding towards me, keeping his eyes continuously focused on mine. My heart is pounding, and I feel hot and flustered. I pull off my gloves and undo my jacket’s top buttons to let the night air cool me down. As he is closing the distance between us, he also yanks off his gloves, shoving them in his pockets. He zips down his leather jacket, revealing sculpted muscles through a tight white shirt.
When he stops, he’s right in front of me, inside my personal space, no more than a foot between us. Pure masculine power is oozing from his every pore, and I breathe in his scent—a mixture of leather, expensive cologne, and a spicy maleness. My mind screams that he is everything I despise, from his shiny, costly bike and matching leathers to his overwhelming masculinity, but my treacherous body refuses to agree. When I unashamedly continue to gaze up at him, I note his perfectly sculptured lips, the slight cleft to his chin, and the stubble along his angular jawline, and instantly my belly turns into a swirling, fluttering cauldron of desire.
I successfully suppress a shiver, but I can’t control the embarrassing blush that creeps up my cheeks. I thought the dark of night would shield me from showing it, but it seems he notices. A smile touches the corners of his perfect mouth, causing me to flush even more. If I had known what effect he’d have on me, I would never have called him out. It seemed a good idea at the time—he stood out as a sore thumb, not only because he’s white, but because of his shiny, brand-new S1000RR, virtually screaming “rookie”. I thought he’d be an easy win. Now I realize my win is far from easy.
Dark Gaze lifts his hand and slides it inside his jacket. He produces a wad of bills and holds it out to me. I reach out my hand to grab it, but at the very last second, he pulls it back, leaving me to grasp the air. It really ticks me off, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Your name?” Even his voice is dark, and it reverberates deep inside my belly.
“Just give me the cash.” To my surprise, I sound a lot more confident than I feel.
He holds the stack close against his chest. “Your name?”
I sigh. “Elle.”
One of his dark brows lifts. “L as in…lucky?”
“No, L as in
loser
.” I hold my hand out, keeping a straight face, but smiling inside, finally able to gloat over my victory. This seems to amuse him, for he lets out a deep chuckle and shifts his hand from his chest to pass me my winnings. But when he presses the stack of cash into my hand, he holds onto it a second longer than necessary and lets his warm fingers graze against the back of my hand. It sends an electrical current up my arm, causing me to take a step back. He spots the fear in my eyes, and a devilish smile appears around his lips.
“I’m Ryder,” he says.
He saunters around my bike, methodically studying it. He lifts his hand and lets his fingertips languidly skim the curves of my bike’s fuel tank and the length of my seat, intermittently looking up at me with his dark gaze. Normally I wouldn’t let anyone touch my bike; I cherish it as a precious extension of myself. But here I am, frozen to the spot, and my entire body is focused on that very intimate gesture of his long fingers touching my bike—touching
me
. A shiver runs along my spine.
“Nice wheels. A GSX, hey? Why not a Busa, like everyone else around here?”
“There’s one important thing you need to know about racing,” I say, crossing my arms. “It’s not the bike that wins the race, it’s the rider.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He winks at me, and too late I realize I’ve made an unintended innuendo. It produces another humiliating flush.
He cocks his head to my right.
“He your boyfriend?”
I assume he’s referring to Damon, who is talking to one of his friends behind me.
“No,” I say, and I mimic him by cocking my head to his left, towards his black friend. “He yours?”
“You wish.” He flashes an evil grin.
He reads the question in my eyes, for he says, “’Cos when I get you into bed with me, I can assure you—your life will never be the same again.”
How dare he, the cocky jerk! I feel a hot fury invading my veins as well as a strange, unwelcome warmth low in my belly.
“I can assure you,
that’s
never going to happen.”
“Oh yeah? You sure about that?”
“I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”
“Tell you what, I’ll race you for it. If I win, you’re mine. My bed, one night.”
“And if
I
win?”
“That’s up to you.”
I think for a moment what I should ask for. However much I detest money and what it represents, I still need it to pay my rent and college tuition. Without any parental support, my only income is from my measly part-time café job. As it is, I’m barely surviving.
Even though I can make some good cash with street races, they are few and far between. A real danger surrounds them; unscrupulous racers are known to resort to sabotage tactics like dousing the road with oil before a race. As large amounts of cash at stake, occasionally a race ends up in a gun fight. I have to be very careful picking my races, and I decide this one is definitely safe, but it has to be worth my while.
“Ten grand. Take it or leave it.”
His gaze drops down to my mouth, lingers, and moves back to my eyes again. “You know what? I’ll make you an even better deal. If you win… you’ll get my bike.”
He throws his thumb behind his shoulder. I look at his S1000RR and swallow hard. The guy is insane. His bike is glistening in the moonlight, clearly brand-new. As far as I can tell, he’s fixed it up with premium parts, so its second-hand value is at least thirty grand. It’s likely to be a limited edition, which would fetch even more. I know I shouldn’t, but just looking at it almost makes me salivate. I could never afford a bike like that; I’d be crazy not to accept his dare. After my victory today, the idea of losing doesn’t even cross my mind.
“Deal.”
“Wonderful,” he says, his deep voice smooth as silk.
He stretches out his hand and I look at it, unsure if I should take it considering the earlier reaction his touch had on me. I decide I don’t have a choice if I want to accept his challenge. So I move my hand towards his, and the moment his skin touches mine, the electrical charge is back, rushing up my arm and soon engulfing the rest of my body. When he tightens his grip and locks his darkened gaze with mine, we are there again, in that timeless, soundless space.
“Ready to go?”
Damon’s voice brings me back to reality, and I pull my hand away, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Ryder’s face is inscrutable, and I wonder if he is affected by me as I am by him.
“Yeah, let’s go.” I spin around, pull down my helmet, and will myself not to look back when we set off on our bikes.
We stop at a 24-hour diner that is decked out in red and chrome, with a black-and-white tiled floor and a shiny jukebox in the far corner. After settling in a crimson faux-leather booth, Damon orders a cheeseburger and a vanilla milkshake, and I choose the homemade macadamia ice-cream.
Damon leans forward over the table. “So, what was that all about back there?”
I tell him about Ryder’s racing challenge, and he laughs.
“That dude is seriously wacko. Especially after you’ve just beaten his ass. When are you racing him?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. I don’t even have his number.”
“He has your number plate. And he looks like the type that will do anything to find you. Especially after the way he was looking at you.”
“Hmm.” I pretend I have a message on my phone and fumble in my pockets, retrieving the device and staring at a blank screen. I hope Damon doesn’t notice that my cheeks are warming.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not affected by men—ever. Even Damon doesn’t have any effect on me with his bright-blue eyes, rugged features, and muscular body. I’ve seen countless girls calling him “hot”, falling over backwards to get his attention. I suppose his tattoos and piercings add to his bad-boy appeal, but to me he’s more like a brother than anything else. And that’s why he knows me far too well. When his eyes widen, I know he sees right through me.