I’d go after the other hot guys that didn’t think that their shit smelled like roses.
The men finally exit the track and the women come in, getting a feel for the track and making sure that their bikes are tuned correctly. I sit and watch in envy for a few minutes not paying attention to any of the noise from the sponsor booths set up behind me.
The booths are filled with different riders giving autographs and taking pictures with the fans. I’ve had to sit in booths before and, as fun as it is to interact with the fans, it gets a bit tedious after a while.
A few minutes after the women finish warming up I hear a group of what sound like high pitched, annoying, teenage girls screaming behind me. I try to turn around to see what they are screaming about but it’s almost impossible to shift my body with a broken collarbone.
I use my free hand and only get my wheelchair to turn a few inches before it gets stuck in some dirt and then I don’t have the energy to move it anymore. From the high pitched squeals of “Nixon”, I would guess that Nixon King is setting up for autographs in the booth behind me.
Fuck it. Not worth turning around to watch anyway.
The moto hoes are flocking toward the booth behind me and, although it’s getting annoying, it’s also really funny to listen to.
“Did you see how fucking hot Nixon looked when he did that jump thingy at the end?” ho number one squeaks.
“Omigod, yes. I would love for him to teach me how to do that, but I think I might get hurt if I fell,” ho number two replies.
She would definitely fall and she has no freaking clue how badly it would hurt. I’m sitting in a wheelchair because of falling off my bike.
She might die.
I’m giggling at the conversations between them when the women’s race is about to begin. I pull my cell phone out of its holding place in the cup of my bra and bring up the camera. I want to take a picture of the girls that are lined up so I can watch them on YouTube and get a better feel for the way they race just in case I ever line up with them.
I watch seven bikes up on the ramp, including my new enemy Jen Caruso, and I start to feel the familiar bundle of nerves that hit just before the gate drops and you gun the throttle.
The gate falls and the rumble of the accelerating bikes hit my gut but as soon as they come up on their first set of whoops a large, black cottoned, muscular wall steps in front of me.
“Hey-“ is all I can get out before the muscle leans down toward me. I finally get a look to see that Nixon King’s face, which is better looking in person than it is in a magazine, is only a foot or so away from mine, but he’s not looking into my eyes; he’s looking at my breasts. They are propped up from the arm brace for my collarbone and my white tank top has seemed to lower itself without my permission.
However, instead of just getting his eyeful and then looking at my face like a gentleman, he leans forward and lifts his hand.
Before I can figure out what he’s doing, he stands straight and mutters “it’s always nice to meet a fan of the sport” in an insincere tone. Then he takes my cell phone from my lap and moves closer to me, holding the phone out with one hand and taking a picture of the two of us. He’s giving the camera a cocky smile and I’m staring at him with a blank look on my face.
Nixon puts my phone back on my lap and winks at me. I look at him like he’s got a concussion.
Then I remember that he was bent in front of me, so I glance down and finally see that he has signed his name, in black marker, along the swell of my right breast.
I instantly get pissed. Now I’ll have to shower again tonight. Doesn’t he realize how hard it is for me to shower with these stupid injuries?
“You’ve got some nerve, asshole,” I shout. Nixon’s eyebrows instantly rise and he runs a hand through his damp with sweat hair, making it messier than it was before.
“What are you talking about? You were in line, but it looked like you were having trouble moving toward the booth in your wheelchair, so I decided to come to you. I also noticed you had the camera pulled up on your phone but didn’t have anything to sign,” he says, shifting his vision to my chest, raising an eyebrow and smiling.
His arrogance is astounding. He thought I was just another moto ho waiting for him to grace my presence? The thought makes me want to both snicker and beat him to the ground.
“Well, thanks for making the trip around your table to come sign my tit, but I never wanted your autograph. I had the camera pulled up on my phone so I could take a picture of the female riders. I wanted to watch the women race in peace, but you’ve seemed to ruin that and have drawn on my body, as well,” I grit out.
Nixon stands up straight and shakes his head as he lets out a small chuckle.
“Come on sugar, you and I both know that you don’t know anything about racing. It’s as obvious as that bleach blonde dye job on your head,” he chuckles and points to my messy blonde bun with the brown roots showing.
What an asshole. I’ll be the first to admit that my hair color isn’t real, but it’s mostly because this look was done with the last photo shoot I did for a magazine over a month ago. As soon as I can, I’m going to get it dyed back to my original light brown.
I’m also one of the most well known names in women’s motocross, so for him to not know who I am is a bit surprising. I can’t wait to fill him in.
I tilt my head to the side and give him my best death glare before I speak.
“Actually dick, I do know a thing or two about racing since I won the Women’s Triple Crown last year and was in line to win it this year before I was injured.” I grin when his smile drops and switches into a blank stare.
After a few seconds the asshole smirk is firmly back in place.
“So, you’re the famous Emmie Black, huh?” he jokes.
“Congratulations, you won,” I give him a sarcastic smile back. Then his smirk gets bigger and I instantly know I said something I shouldn’t have. He leans his torso closer to me so he can talk to me in a seductive tone.
“What did I win sugar?”
Shit. This guy thinks he can charm me to death. Well, he’s got another thing coming.
“You win the opportunity to call me by my real name instead of that stupid pet name that I’m sure you call all women,” I answer back.
“Well, that’s not a fun prize,” he says, straightening and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I think I’ll have to turn down that win and keep the pet name that it sounds like you love so much.”
“Okay, how about you win the opportunity to keep your balls? Now, please move so I can see the end of this race,” I sneer and attempt to look around him with no luck.
All of the sudden, Nixon breaks into hysterical laughter, like bent over, slapping his knee laughter.
What the hell did I say that was so funny? I am at a loss as to why he’s laughing.
“Holy shit, you sure have some sass don’t you, Emmie Black,” he chuckles and then shoots a wink at me. “I love a girl with sass. I bet you’re a blast in the sack, huh?”
I feel my head jerk back at his words. Wow. I just met this guy five minutes ago and he’s asking me how I handle myself in the sack? What an arrogant jerk. A hot jerk, but arrogant all the same.
I don’t feel like finishing this conversation. I just want him to go away and to never see him again.
“Too bad you’ll never find out,” I say in a sugary tone and smile my sweetest smile at him.
Just when he opens his mouth to give me another smartass comment, I hear Collin come beside me. He looks completely out of place in his black dress slacks, which have now accumulated a thin layer of dirt on them and his dress shirt that looks stifling in the almost triple digit heat today.
“Hey Em, you’ll never believe who has asked for a trial run for sponsorship,” Collin’s excited voice rings around us. I look up to see Nixon looking Collin over, as if sizing him up for some reason.
I shake my head and try to shift my body so I can see Collin
more clearly. I’ve been in the market for a bigger name sponsor and hopefully Collin has gotten me something good.
Collin clears his throat and then the biggest smile appears on his face. “Black Bear Racing has decided to have you come out to their indoor track so they can see what you’ve got and then, if they like you, they’ll give you a one year trial contract before signing you on for five more years. Amazing right?”
“Black Bear has asked for me? That’s incredible. You are the best dude a girl can have, Coll,” I tell him through my huge smile. Then I hear Nixon clear his throat behind me and I shift again so I can see his face. He’s smiling as well.
“Well sugar, it looks like we’ll be riding for the same team,” he says, pulling the brim of his Black Bear hat down, letting me know that he’s sponsored by them as well.
“Oh shit,” I mutter quietly under my breath, but it must not have been quiet enough because Nixon waggles his eyebrows at me.
“Oh yeah, this is gonna be good.” He licks his lips as he glances back down at his autograph on my boob and then continues. “Let me know when you’re all healed and we’ll get together some time to celebrate,” he winks and then struts back to his booth without another glance in my direction.
I bite my lip at the different ways I see us celebrating in my mind, almost all of them dirty, then I remember his attitude and it brings me back to reality.
I turn my head and tell Collin that we need to leave the track now, giving him the excuse that we need to go celebrate this upcoming sponsorship. In all reality though, I need to get away from Nixon and the voodoo that he just used against me.
When we get into Collin’s car, he finally notices Nixon’s signature. “Hey Em, what the hell is on your boob?”
I just roll my eyes and look out the window, cursing Nixon King the entire ride home.
What an asshole.
Chapter 3
My healing process was long and uncomfortable. I had to wait two weeks after the “Nixon incident” for my collarbone sling to be removed and another two and a half weeks after that for the doctors to remove my cast. My leg muscles were unused and sore, so it took a week or so before I could walk normally.
One thing that wasn’t hard for me to do was get back onto my bike. I was itching to feel the grips from my handlebars while my hands wrapped around them. I needed to feel the rumble of my four stroke between my thighs.
I’d been riding a dirt bike since I was ten years old. My dad, Mark, is a mechanic and has ridden a motorcycle since he was sixteen. My mom, Elizabeth, was a well off debutant and nothing like my dad. She’d never gotten greasy under the hood of a car. I doubt she’d ever even had a look under the hood of a car her entire life. She had grown up in money and was taught to be a prim and proper lady.
My mom told me their cute story during many of our tea parties. It was love at first sight when she met my dad at a demolition derby she went to with her friends. She said that she had lied to my grandparents and told them that she and her girlfriends were going out to the carnival, which had come with the derby, but she saw my dad walk through the arena doors. She said she was ‘in love from the first second she saw him’ and that she just had to follow him.
After spending the entire night glued to each other’s sides, it was safe to say my dad felt the same way.
My grandparents hadn’t liked my dad, but even though he was rough around the edges and definitely didn’t come from money, they could see the love that he and my mom had for each other. They were married one year later and had been happily married for thirteen years before my mom died from ovarian cancer four days before my tenth birthday.
My father and I each sunk into our own grief but, after a few months of sadness and a destroyed and still not put together Chevy truck, my dad recognized our need for normalcy. He knew next to nothing about frilly clothes and makeup, so he taught me what he did know.
He taught me how to ride.
I got my first two stroke dirt bike three months after my tenth birthday and he taught me everything I needed to know about rider’s safety. I was hooked the second my leg flew over the seat and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the rest of my life from then on.
I give Otis one last pet and tell him that I’ll be back soon before making my way out to the garage and throwing my leg over my brand new hot pink Suzuki DR200SE. I’ve only ridden this bike a few times and I couldn’t be more excited to get back on it.
I listen to the rev of the motor and decide that when I get back from my trip to my dad’s house I’ll need to change the air filter. Other than that, it purrs like a kitten. An angry one.
I pull my goggles down over my helmet and head out onto the road. My first mission is to go get my hair redone. My original light brown is now painfully obvious at the roots and I can’t stand the bottled blonde much longer. It just doesn’t fit me very well. In fact, the bleach blonde makes my light colored skin look almost see through, but it does make the full sleeve of different brightly colored flowers tattooed on my right arm stand out a bit.
When I pull into the salon I’ve been going to for the past ten years I don’t have to say a word to Tammy, my hair stylist. She just tells me to sit in her chair and she’ll get what she needs to strip that God awful color out of my pretty hair.
Two hours after I arrive at the salon I’m back on the road. I drive thirty five minutes across town and finally make it to my dad’s auto shop. He hears me pull up, along with a few of his co workers, and smiles when I give the engine one more rev before cutting it off.
“Hey Emmie Lou, you are looking much better,” dad says through his smile. He was just over to my house last week to see me and play with Otis for a while but he acts as if I haven’t seen him in months. “And I see you’ve gone back to the real hair color. I always did like the brown best. You look like your mama.”
I walk over and give him a long hug before pulling back and smiling my first genuine smile in weeks. I love that he still talks about my mom to me. I know that he misses her every day.
“Hi daddy, I feel a lot better, and yes I just got my hair done.”
I see Jack huddled over the hood of an old Cadillac and I give him a smile and a chin lift, glad that he has something to do during our off season instead of sit at home and drive his wife Diane crazy. I also know that my dad loves having his best friend around to joke with.
Jack shoots me a wink and then disappears under the hood once more, a ratchet in hand.
“So you’re out of the cast. Now what?” he asks bringing my attention back to him. He always wants to know what is going on with my career, even though he’s involved in almost every decision that gets made with my team. I trust his judgment more than anyone in this world.
“Well dad, I’m actually going to the Black Bear Racing indoor test track tomorrow to trial for them. They want to sponsor me. Crazy right?” I say through my wide smile. Dad just chuckles.
“No baby girl, that’s not crazy at all. Even though your mother, God rest her soul, would kill me if she could see you now, you were born to ride a bike. You’re a natural on the dirt track and Black Bear would be crazy to not sponsor you,” he beams.
“Thanks daddy,” I whisper to him. Just then we hear one of the younger mechanics, Brandon, come through the office door and call out to my dad.
“Hey Mark, Gary says we got a call about a Peterbilt coming in that needs to be fixed and back on the road immediately. Oh, hey Emmie,” he says, waving shyly.
Brandon is a year younger than me and is good looking in that hipster sort of way. He has dark brown hair that is always perfectly disheveled like he spent way too much time making it look like he hadn’t tried at all and a pair of black thick framed glasses that surround his light green eyes.
I don’t know if the glasses are real or fake, but I don’t have the heart to ask him if he is faking his need for glasses just to be cool.
He’s on the leaner side, with slight definition to his muscles and he only wears
plaid button up shirts with skinny jeans and Chucks when he isn’t in a blue coverall at work. He’s very sweet and has asked me out on more than one occasion.
Too bad I can’t agree to a date with him.
“Hi Brandon,” I answer back. “Well, daddy, I’ll let you get back to work but maybe you can come over tonight for dinner and we can catch up a bit?” I ask. My dad nods at me and gives me a swift kiss on the cheek before walking back into the shop.
I let out a sharp high pitched whistle and Jack’s head peaks out from the hood once more. “Later Jack,” I shout like I used to when I was little, making a smile split across his face. “Later darlin’” he tells me and then disappears again.
I mount my bike and, before I can put my helmet on, I see Brandon wink and smile at me before turning to follow my father.
Brandon is hot and someone I could see myself having a good time with, but I know he wants a girlfriend, a chance to move in together and ultimately get married and have buckets of babies.
Something I won’t give him.
So I make excuses as to why I won’t go on a date with him when he asks. I hope he finds that with someone, though. He’s a good guy that deserves happiness.
I smile softly and jump down on my kick start. I rev my engine a few times for good measure before heading back home to prepare for my trial run with Black Bear tomorrow.
Chapter 4
I take Otis everywhere with me. He’s the only reliable and trustworthy guy, next to my dad, that I know.
Forget that he’s a one hundred pound, black and white spotted Great Dane. Forget that he slobbers more than any one dog should and that his tail can cause bruises if you are standing within five feet of him when he’s excited.
Otis is my protector and that is the main reason I take him with me to the track. When I’m surrounded by way too many egotistical male riders who think that they can hit on me or try to drive me out just because I’m a girl, Otis makes sure to put them in their place.
Down & Dirty Page 2
