I take a step back, so the drunken girls wobbling past us can get to the bathroom. The sound of rap music thumps through the house, vibrating against my hand as the wall shakes beneath my fingers. Saturday nights at the Delta Sig house are insane, never a dull moment.
For tonight’s theme, someone decided on Risky Business, a popular ’80s movie with Tom Cruise where he dances around his house in a button-down shirt and white socks. Luckily, most of the guys in the house opted for boxers beneath their shirts because no one wants to see their shit on display.
The girls look hot as fuck in the same shirts and socks, making me think of what Teach would look like in my shirt and nothing else.
“You’re not invincible, Mark.”
Hunter has his concerned father face on again, which I deal with every week when I try to walk out of the house alone and to the only place I know of where I can make money without Luca getting involved. But it’s not just the money; it’s also the thrill.
Hunter shakes his head, frustrated. He will never win this fight, not when he came from money and never had to work a day in his life or wonder where his next meal would come from. Nope, he doesn’t have a say when it comes to my livelihood.
“Don’t get distracted again, like last time.”
I pat him on the back, somewhat irritated by the thought of my first and only loss. “I will be fine. Don’t wait up.” Then, I descend the long staircase.
Once I reach the living room, I’m thrown into complete chaos in a sea of college students packed to the brim. Girls are grinding on each other, some of them with their tongues shoved down each other’s throats. Izzie’s legs are wrapped around Luca’s back as he practically humps her on the dance floor. And to think, his girlfriend runs a successful company, yet she doesn’t look like the face of Rinaldi Holdings when she’s at our house, getting shitfaced on the weekends.
A few of my brothers and girls I hooked up with over the years attempt to stop me on my way out of the house. Shaking them off, I push through the crowd, my eyes trained on the door. I don’t stop until my feet hit the front porch, which is littered with red Solo cups, empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and more drunk idiots. I sprint down the steps and across the front lawn.
Missing one of our better parties kind of sucks, but I have to make as much money as I can before school ends. Fumbling with my key ring, I find the key fob, and the lights of my mint-condition Mustang Shelby GT350 illuminate the dark.
The first thing I bought myself with all the money I was making with Luca and Hunter on sports betting was this car. With the help of Luca’s father, I walked away with this black beauty for only half of the price in cash. Even though his father had found out we were running an illegal gambling operation behind his back and was pissed, he still helped me since I was a full-time student with no job on the books. And, when you had the power of Luciano Marchese, people would overlook things like credit checks and proof of income.
Once I make it past the students gathered along the sidewalk, I get into my car and run my hands down the steering wheel. I stick the key into the ignition, hold down the clutch with my left foot, and shift into neutral, the engine purring as I turn the key. My baby hums to life, and I give her some gas, attracting the attention of everyone within a one-mile radius.
One of my favorite things about street racing is that it gives me a reason to open up Lucille—my car and the only woman who doesn’t talk back or drive me crazy. I love this car more than anything I have ever owned. Not that I have had many things of value.
The streets of South Philly are crowded with the Flyers playing at home tonight and the Wells Fargo Center letting out. Taking a left down Pattison Avenue, I shift gears and work my way through the masses of cars and people crossing the street, wearing orange-white-and-black hockey jerseys and gear.
After I pass Citizens Bank Park, I’m at Front and Oregon within minutes and pulling up at Tony Luke’s, a popular cheesesteak shop, where I meet my crew before races. Gearheads are nothing like my normal weekend group of degenerates. My fraternity brothers are more concerned with getting shitfaced and chasing pussy, whereas these guys care more about making money to buy new clutch kits. Most of them are pretty much nerds with cool cars.
From the outside, Tony Luke’s looks like an old metal diner, but it’s a takeout-style restaurant. A long, open window spans most of the space where people wait in line to have their orders taken. Passing them, I shuffle to the tables straight ahead and to the left of the kitchen where I find our crew, ranging from high school kids to grown men with families. Some of them have even brought their wives or girlfriends with them.
Putting aside the illegality of street racing, which is bad enough by itself, doing one hundred miles an hour down a city street where anything can happen is extremely dangerous. I can’t imagine allowing my sister to ride shotgun, yet some of the older men bring their kids with them. Even hanging around as a spectator can land you in jail.
Cops are familiar with the usual spots on weekends, forcing us to stagger the dates, times, and locations. We race in different parts of Philly—each week, a new track—even going to the suburbs to shake things up. It keeps my ass out of jail and the cash in my wallet—where it belongs.
“Mark’s here,” Fat Tony says, sliding off the bench. Half of a cheesesteak is in his hand, the grease dripping onto the ground in front of him. “Time to roll.” He glances at the tables around him and waits for a nod of approval.
Despite his nickname, Fat Tony—aka Tony Morelli—is a lanky Italian man in his late twenties with a receding hairline, thin goatee, and black-rimmed glasses. We grew up in the same neighborhood, dirt poor and looking for a way to make some cash on the side. He started the Broad Street Burnouts, a small crew who do this because of their love of cars and money.
His father owns an auto repair shop where everyone chills at during the week, but with school and baseball, I only have the time to race with them. Because, when it comes to cashing out, I always make time. We race against other crews, most of them from various parts of the city, but we do have a few who come from New Jersey and New York.
Fat Tony shoves the rest of his steak in his mouth, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then rubs his palms down the front of his jeans. “You’re late, man.”
He slaps me on the back so hard, I lurch forward.
For a lean dude, he sure has some hidden muscles somewhere beneath his black T-shirt emblazoned with the Morelli Motors logo. Some of the men have on similar shirts while a few wear the red-white-and-blue tees Tony had made for the Broad Street Burnouts. Our logo has the Liberty Bell in the center of a late ’60s Shelby Mustang steering wheel with Ford lettering for our name.
I lean into Tony and whisper, “Do you have my money?”
He moves back just enough so that our eyes meet before digging through his jacket pocket and stuffing a wad of cash into the pocket of my Strickland University hoodie. I refuse to wear anything that ties me to the crew. It’s more to cover my own ass and not because I’m not loyal. If I were to get pulled over, I’d rather the cops thought I was some asshole from the burbs who wanted to give Daddy’s ride a spin and not part of a crew.
“Is it all here this time?” I pat the front of my hoodie, feeling the thick bulge against my stomach.
Tony nods. “Two Gs. I told you we’d get paid.”
We walk outside the restaurant and down the sidewalk with the rest of the guys and their families following behind.
“We have some serious action a few weeks from now,” Tony says, excited. “Geno’s crew up in Long Island wants a piece of the action.”
“How much are we talking?”
His teeth chatter. “Fifty Gs split between us,” he says in his gruff South Philly accent.
We stop in front of my car, the chill in the air causing me to shake. The subzero temperatures during the winter months in Philly are killer. Racing when it’s this cold outside can be even more dangerous than other times of the y
ear, but the cops pay less attention when it’s twenty degrees outside. They can’t be bothered to haul their asses out of their cars unless it’s to find their way into a Dunkin’ Donuts for free coffee.
Removing the keys from my pocket, I hit the button on the key fob to open the doors. “I’m in. Set it up.”
The money I used to make with Luca and Hunter involved a lot more risk, but the reward was worth it. Sometimes, I think I’m trading my future for scraps by taking bets on our crew. At least with cars though, I’m betting on myself to win and not a professional sports team.
“I’ll see you over at the spot,” Tony says.
I slip into the driver’s seat and stick the key into the ignition, mentally preparing myself for another wild night and praying that we don’t get caught.
Chapter Five
Olivia
“Come with us tonight. It will be so much fun.” Donna scoots her stool closer to mine, the metal legs scraping along the tiled floor. “You haven’t lived until you’ve ridden shotgun in a race car that’s going over a hundred miles per hour. Even standing on the street when they fly past gives you whiplash.”
I peel the short black wig from my head and set it down on the vanity in front of me, trying not to roll my eyes at Donna. After all, she is the only real friend I have in this city. “I don’t know. It’s illegal. What if the cops come? I can’t risk losing my job before I’ve even started.”
She rolls a wand of red gloss across her lips and smacks them together, all while looking at me from underneath long, fake lashes. “Stop being such a bore, Liv. Just because you were a lawyer doesn’t mean you have to be so uptight all the time.”
“I am still a lawyer. I took an oath.”
Fixing my hair in the mirror, I attempt to brush out the knots and give it some style after wearing a wig for hours, the sweat coating my scalp and matting each strand to my head. Donna doesn’t take well to me ignoring her, and she stands up so that she’s hovering over me, looking at me with disapproval in the mirror.
“You know, you are such a buzzkill. I really want you to meet Tony.”
“The elusive Tony, who I swear is not real,” I deadpan. “Will I actually meet him this time? Or will this be another one of those nights where he has something better to do and leaves us standing on a vacant street corner, looking like two hookers flagging down their next johns?”
She chuckles and takes my hair in her hands, massaging my scalp as she adds some hair spray to give my dull, flat look some texture. “I promise you, Tony is very much real. That man makes me squeal like a pig when he fucks me. There’s no way I could make that up.”
“You’re ridiculous. This week, it’s Tony, but I’m sure you’ll outgrow him by the end of the month.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. We shall see what happens. He’s a good fuck and apparently just as hung as your fuck boy, but Mark still hasn’t called so more like a man-child.”
“Well, not like I expected a guy I took home from the club to call, no matter how good the sex was.” I let out a frustrated sigh, annoyed with myself for having sex with a complete stranger and being dumb enough to think he would call.
She snorts. “That’s how things started between Tony and me. Maybe he’s one of those guys who has a three-day rule.”
I get up from my stool and remove the jeans and purple sweater I hung on the hangers on the rack against the wall where we keep our clothes. “He would have called if he wanted to see me again. It’s that simple.”
Donna strips off her clothes and stands in black boy shorts and no bra, her boobs bouncing as she pulls her light-brown hair into a neat ponytail on top of her head. “You think too much.” She slips a skintight baby-blue shirt over her head and tugs it down her stomach, her nipples popping out of the thin material.
I wish I could be as comfortable in my skin as Donna.
“Stop acting like you’re some old lady who needs to go home to feed her cats and come out with me tonight.”
After I dress, I stand over the vanity and finish reapplying my makeup that smudged and wore off while I sweat my ass off over the past few hours. “You might want to throw on something a little bit warmer if we’re going to be standing outside, freezing our asses off.”
“Yay!” she squeals into my ear, hugging me from behind. “I’ll be ready in five. Meet me at the back bar. We need to have a drink before we go.”
When I told Donna it would be cold outside and that she should wear something warm, I should have taken my own advice and added a few extra layers to my wardrobe. My teeth chatter as we wait along with at least a hundred people who are huddled together to keep warm at the corner of Front Street and Pattison Avenue in South Philly.
Some pass cigarettes and joints among themselves while others are pounding cans of beer and screaming like maniacs. I’m in shock that the police haven’t broken this up yet and sort of nervous about how much trouble we would get into if we were to get caught.
“Here.” Donna passes a beer to me. “Drink up. It will keep you warm.”
Taking the beer from her gloved hand, I have trouble flipping open the top with my gloves on, fumbling with the metal tab for a few seconds before the can opens.
“They should hand out coffee and hot chocolate instead of beer,” I choke out between breaths, the chill in the air too much to bear.
“Consider yourself lucky that Tony had anything for us to drink. Most of the time, when I go over to his house, I’m surprised when he has leftover pizza and soda in the fridge. He’s such a caveman.”
I met Tony, whom people oddly refer to as Fat Tony even though he’s as thin as a board, for all of two seconds before he had to run off to deal with the other crews. Since I have zero experience with street racing, I had no idea that people formed crews to race with for money. Even the spectators take their own side bets. Apparently, Tony has the best crew in the city with some of the fastest drivers who race modded-up performance cars.
Once the cars line up, the drivers rev their engines at the imaginary starting line, smoke burning off their tires as they spin.
“Typical men,” I say to Donna. “They have to show everyone how cool they are before the race even begins.”
Laughing, she takes a sip of her beer. “That’s not why they do that. Tony says they do it to warm up their tires.”
“Still, seems like it would ruin the tires.”
“Who knows? Tony talks about this shit all the time, and I’m like, Just shut up, and fuck me already.” Donna laughs to herself and buries her face inside her jacket.
Watching as the cars take off, tires screeching and smoke filling the air in their wake, a rush of adrenaline shoots through me. I can see why Donna finds this so exciting because the thrill of not knowing who will win and if the cops might roll through at any moment brings a smile to my face, filling me with giddy, nervous anticipation.
After the black Mustang crosses over the finish line with several cars on its tail, the race ends with a girl holding up a flag to wave each car through. A man stands off to the side with a stopwatch in hand, calling out the numbers to the twenty-something boy next to him, who jots them down on a clipboard. Considering they could get into a ton of trouble for this, they seem at ease and way too relaxed…until the sound of police sirens off in the distance move closer.
Panicked, I turn to face Donna, my eyes widening, desperate for her to give me some form of advice.
Instead, she yells, “Run!”
We take off down the street, our feet slapping the pavement and our arms interlocked so that we don’t lose each other in the crowd. By the time we round a corner, I don’t even bother to pay attention to the street signs, getting completely lost in the chaos. Donna calls out to me as a large man and two of his friends barrel past us, the force of their movements pulling us apart, each of us going in different directions.
Unable to see Donna or find my way back to her, I allow the sea of screaming people to carry me further away from the sound of cop sire
ns. Eventually breaking free from them, I run as fast as my feet will allow, out of breath and unsure of the direction I am going.
It’s not until I hear the rumble of an engine alongside me that I look over my shoulder, shocked to see the window of a black Mustang rolling down.
Mark reaches across the passenger seat to get my attention. “Teach?” He sounds surprised. “Is that you, baby?”
I stroll over to his car and bend down, so we are facing. “What are you…” Hesitating, I try to find the words, but they fail me. “You were the driver racing earlier?”
“Don’t sound too surprised. I have lots of hidden talents.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”
Mark hits the lock button and pushes the door open. “Get in before you freeze to death.”
Once I’m inside, I lean forward and rub my hands together in front of the vents, soaking in the heat. “We need to get out of here. I ran from the cops. They’re probably still around.”
“Just sit back and relax.” He flashes a smirk, his hand resting on the shifter, and then we’re moving so fast, I have to hold on to the door handle.
The engine growls as we fly down the vacant street, lit only by dim streetlamps. When I peek over at the speedometer, my mouth opens in shock, as I see we’re doing eighty miles per hour. I should be scared, or at least I think I should be afraid, but I’m so turned on by the sight of Mark behind the wheel of this car.
I remove my gloves and reach over to run my fingers through his spiky auburn hair that has a little gel in it tonight. He glances at me for a split second and licks his lips as he changes gears, taking the ramp to get onto I-95. Moving my fingers from his hair, I travel down his neck, run my hand over his chest, and feel something thick inside his hoodie.
I sit up on my knees and take his ear in my mouth to suck on. “Are you just happy to see me, or do you have something inside your pocket?”
He grins and plants a soft kiss on my lips, his eyes still on the highway. “I’m happy to see you all right. I got a hard-on that won’t fucking quit and a wad of cash. Why don’t you give me a hand with one of them?” Mark peels my hand from his chest and moves it over the bulge in his jeans.
Curveball Page 4
