Keeping my fingers folded in Fat Larry’s, I stare aimlessly out of the foggy window. I wipe it with my palm, twice, which does little good. The noises in the rear multiply and the scent of sex permeates the air as the telltale sound of a grumbled climax reaches our ears over the music. A few more hours and we’ll be pulling into our backwoods campsite. Until then, I need to catch some shuteye. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.
Night.
Wearing black pajamas, my hair pulled into a knot on the top of my head, I step out of the camper and into the cool summer morning. The scent of breakfast cooking over a campfire draws me like a moth to a flame. My mouth begins to water. Grass squishes between my toes as I rub the sleep from my eyes, rounding the rear of the trailer where our bikes rest in the lawn. The smoky smell lures me closer, and just as I catch sight of my trio, I halt in my tracks, trying my best to back away quickly and quietly. The guys aren’t alone.
“Gwen.” Jack notices my retreating form before I make it a safe distance. At his call, I freeze, not wanting to be rude.
“Yes?” I play coy.
He gestures with his hand toward the open fire, where puffs of smoke are billowing into the early morning sky. “I made you some biscuits and bacon. So why don’t ya come over and eat? Don’t worry about getting dressed, sweetie.” Damn Jack and his miniature, twink, dark-haired adorableness. It’s going to be the end of me.
Frankly, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if I ate in my PJs. These men are like family, and they wouldn’t care. The problem isn’t them. It’s Wes. The man who’s busy chatting with Tony near that giant maple tree, a few yards away. Wes, the man who has been the bane of my racing existence since I first started. He’s a womanizing, chauvinistic, A-hole. Which is further presented by the gaggle of brain-fried, bottled-blondes standing five feet behind him, like they have nothing better to do at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Hell, they’re already wearing full glamour makeup, hooker heels, daisy duke shorts, and crop tops in multiple colors that enhance their massive, surgically enhanced boobs. Boobs that I’m sure jackass Wes paid for with a bit of his 110.7 million dollars. I’ll say it once, and I’ll say it a thousand more times—that man is a total rich, handsome, dirt-baggy, tool.
Over the past years, I’ve come to realize that one of Wes’s many joys in life is tormenting me. You see, I’m not his type. Not with my college educated brain, natural brunette hair, and average breasts. Add me being his competition to the mix, and he’s downright despicable.
And why in the hell is he speaking to Tony, anyhow? My guys know how I feel about him, and they don’t like him any more than I do.
“Gwen. Food.” Fat Larry snaps his fingers, and my brain clicks into gear, moving my feet forward.
I take a load off on one of the lawn chairs, and Jack sets a plate full of yumminess in my lap. That’s one of the perks of having a chef on board. Jack owns his own bistro about two hours north of me, and Tony works as a mechanic with Fat Larry. I know it’s a lot to keep up with, but I figured you might wanna know.
Helping myself to the delicious food, I eat in silence as I listen to Fat Larry and Jack run over today’s itinerary. Just as I’m about finished, somebody whistles loudly, like they’re calling a dog.
They might as well be saying, ‘Here, puppy, puppy.’
Refusing to glance up, I stare at my plate and continue enjoying my meal. Because, unlike Wes’s four stick models, I like to savor what I’m eating. Not throw it up later. And yes, I realize I sound like a judgmental bitch right now. Oh well. He gets way under my skin, even when I know he shouldn’t.
The pompous whistle slices through the air once more, and I grumble under my breath as my hackles rise.
“I think Wes wants your attention,” Jack whispers, nudging my knee with his hand.
Swallowing down my food, my eyes still glued to my white plate, I reply, “I know, but I’m not acknowledging the dickwad.”
Both Fat Larry and Jack chuckle.
“Atta girl,” Fat Larry praises, and I grin my momentary triumph.
“You-who, Gwen,” Wes torments in his condescending tone.
I will not let him get to me. I will not show my contempt. The asshole doesn’t deserve a reaction. He deserves nothing.
“Gwen.” His voice is nearer now, full of hard edges.
Wes is used to getting what he wants. I know that much. Between his fortune, seedy connections, and model good looks, I’m sure being ignored rarely happens. However, I get a dose of sheer pleasure from dropping him down a peg or two.
“Gwen.” He’s downright pissed.
Good. His presence is ruining an otherwise beautiful morning, so why shouldn’t his morning be tarnished as well? It’ll do him some good. Perhaps, humble an otherwise arrogant man.
Shuffling feet grow closer.
“You best stop right there,” Fat Larry warns, shooting his thin, six-six frame up from his chair, ready to kick some ass. “The lady obviously doesn’t wish to speak to you.”
Wes unleashes an enraged scoff. “Well, if the lady wishes to act like a lady, she wouldn’t ignore a gentleman’s call.”
See what I mean? Total asshat.
Now I’m the one left scoffing under my breath.
“You better watch it, buddy,” Fat Larry warns, and I’ve suddenly had enough of this charade.
Setting my plate on the grass, I stand and glare at Wes. “You rang, Your Highness?” I mock curtsy, rolling my eyes with my lips pressed into a thin line.
Happy to have garnered my attention, Wes flashes me a full set of those pearly whites as his baby blue eyes try to lock with mine, and he puffs up his chest. What does he expect to get from his stupid display of dominance? Why’s he acting like a peacock trying to fan his proverbial feathers? Does he think it’s going to make me swoon? Want to throw myself at his feet, begging him to give me just one chance? Oh, please, Wes, pound me with your gigantic cock. Make me scream.
Bahahaha! As if!
A ball of nausea rolls into my throat at the mere thought.
Yuck!
Wes’s minions fall in line behind their master like a wall of silicone.
“You called?” I huff, trying to get this meet and greet over with.
His gaze travels my pajama-clad body up and down before resettling on my face. He grins. “I just wanted to wish you good luck at today’s races.”
“Sure you did.”
Wes frowns at my tone and brushes his hands over his white t-shirt as if I’d just frazzled him. “Contrary to your belief, Gwen, I find your quality of racing to be exemplary.” His words are surprisingly genuine, or they seem to be, but I don’t buy it for a second.
“Gee, thanks. I so needed your approval, Oh Wise One,” I deadpan, crossing my arms protectively over my chest as my blood rushes—hopped up on adrenaline.
My trio chuckles and Fat Larry finally sits back down, knowing I can handle myself. You don’t have a biker for a brother and not know how to handle your own. Nash and the Crimson Outlaws taught me well.
Feet apart, standing tall, I brace myself, fully expecting Wes to come at me with some of his dickishness. Unexpectedly, though, he whips his head back at my words as if I’d just slapped him. Then he turns and saunters away, giving me a perfect view of his equally perfect ass in those tight jeans. Shit! Now I’m the one who feels like a complete jerk. Maybe he wasn’t trying to torment me this time. Or perhaps he was just trying to throw me off my game so I don’t race as well today. I know he hates to lose.
Still puzzled by his sudden appearance and departure, I drop back into my chair with an exhausted sigh. It’s too dang early to deal with this crap.
“That was strange,” Jack notes.
“Yeah. Tell me about it,” I agree.
“What did he want, anyhow?” Fat Larry asks, then takes a long drink of his morning coffee that Jack brewed over the fire.
Sitting across the pit from me, Tony scratches his long, graying beard. “He wanted to see which of us was racing in the
Devil’s Corkscrew tonight.”
“Is he?” I raise a curious brow to Tony, and he nods, still itching that beard. Maybe he needs to condition it.
“That’s the biggest paying race of the weekend. I know he’s running in it. I’m sure he’s just scared of us and wanting to scope out the competition. There are thirty-six other racers here today, and most of them only participate in the short heats. They don’t want to risk their bikes, reputations, or money on something so dangerous.”
That makes sense. My bike cost me almost thirty grand, not including the parts that Fat Larry has graciously installed for free.
“Plus, the buy-in is killer. We’re talking five large,” Tony adds.
Now, that has my attention.
Sitting forward, I rest my elbows on my knees. “Do you think I should do it?”
My guys all look at each other as if they’re searching for the right answer. Fat Larry is the first to break the silence, as he contemplatively rubs his prickly jaw. “I don’t know, Gwen. You’re a damn good rider. But we’re talking night time, no street lights, unknown rocks, and gravel, and that’s without the curvy downhill roads to deal with. Roads with zero guard railings. People die racing these things. It’s not safe.”
The more he explains it, the more eager I become over the prospect of showing Wes up in one of the most dangerous races I’ve ever participated in. Sure, I’ve done the downhill roads with no guard rails before. That’s nothing new to me. But nighttime is the catch. It’s supposed to be cloudy tonight, so that means it’ll be near pitch black. Ooooo buddy that sounds like a lot of fun. Kicking up gravel in Wes’s face. Giving him the finger as he eats my dust, and I bring home the bacon. I could use the extra money to add a porch onto the back of my little house. My teachers pay doesn’t allow for those extras. And Nash, before our falling out, offered to help install one, but I felt too guilty to ask him to do any more than he already does … did.
Damn it. I really have to stop thinking about him. This is my time away to have fun. I don’t need to focus on what is, could have been, or whatever else. I can’t deal with Nash right now, anyhow. He’s not here, and I can’t fix our problems in one day. Those will just have to wait.
I stand up from my chair to give myself the boost of confidence I need. “I’m gonna race against Wes in the Devil’s Corkscrew, and I’m gonna kick his ass.”
The men look at each other again, smiles spreading wide on their faces. “If that’s what you wanna do, Gwen, we’ve got your back.” Tony lifts his chin in respect.
“Yeah. Kick his ass.” Jack winks, and then stands from his chair, waving for Tony to join him. “Come on. I need your dick shoved in my ass for good luck.” He grins devilishly, and that’s all it takes for Tony to jump out of his seat, grab his petite lover by the waist, hoist him over his shoulder, and slap his ass all the way into the camper, which will soon be emitting vulgar noises of ecstasy.
“I guess we’ll be out here for a while,” I comment, retaking my chair.
There is no way I am going to go anywhere near that camper when those men are screwing. Once, last year, I’d dared to go inside and found myself face to face with Jack riding Tony, while Tony fucked himself on a suction cup dildo on the kitchen's tiled floor. I’ll never look at that spot the same again.
Fat Larry refills his white mug and takes a deep breath with his head tipped toward the sky. “Today is going to be a good day,” he sighs, peacefully.
Following by example, I stare at the clouds and smile. Yes. Today is going to be a good day. I won’t let anything else get me down. Today is the day I put Wes, the womanizer, in his place, as I forget Nash and the way he treated me. It’s time to put my skills to use. I’m ready to take on the world. Hell, what do I have to lose?
With my booted feet planted firmly on the pavement as I straddle my purple bike, my gaze drops to the chalked starting line that commences our five mile downhill race. That simple line represents much more than just a race. It’s a new beginning for me. A fresh start. A way to prove myself worthy, which is something I’m desperate to hold on to. I want to be worthy of something … anything.
The rest of today has already been a beautiful day of never-ending adventures; one of which I smoked Wes in. He didn’t stand a chance on that last straightaway. Nobody did. Not with the new sick mods Fat Larry installed on my bike. They all ate my dust, just as they’re about to do again, tonight. Maybe my confidence is running on a cataclysmic high. But after two first place wins and a third place finish, I’m riding high on life. High on the road. The wind pounding against my skin at high speeds. The addictive rush. I’m more than ready to put Wes’s money where his stupid mouth is.
Fat Larry sidles up to my bike, my helmet in one hand. Stretching my arms high, I crack my neck side to side, loosening up my muscles for the unpredictable terrain we’re about to encounter.
“Tony’s taken care of your buy-in. Word is, if you hit top three, you’ll get your money back. Any higher and you’ll be rolling outta here richer.” Fat Larry’s free hand reaches out to massage my shoulder over my skintight leather jacket. “Don’t stress, Gwen. You got this in the bag.”
Casting my sights toward the dark road ahead, I visualize my impending journey and stiffly nod, twice. “Yes. I have it in the bag.” At least, I think I do—or hope.
I send a short prayer to the almighty above to keep me safe, then turn my head to the side to view my competitors. Three spots down, Wes is straddling his sleek, black bike. A scantily clad blonde is draped partway over his lap, giving him a ‘good luck’ tonguing. You can practically hear her greedy moans from here. Ick! To his opposite side, another blonde stands in wait for a turn. This has been his ritual all day. The same four blondes, the same kisses from each of them. At that one race that I kicked his ass on, everyone got a flash of some boobs when he began tweaking the tallest blonde’s nipples as one of the others fingered her on the starting line. It was vomit worthy … even though I consider myself open minded. Perhaps my real issue isn’t him or the women; it’s the lewd displays, and the fact that all of those women resemble Kelly, Nash’s lover—the bitch that broke us apart. Hell, for all I know, those four blondes are great gals. I just don’t care to find out.
Fat Larry taps my shoulder, severing my thoughts. “Don’t let him get to you,” he urges.
I shrug my feelings off. “I won’t.”
“He’s only one of eight racers you need to beat. Focus on the road. On the finish line. Nothing else. Clear your mind.”
He’s right.
I take a deep, cleansing breath and continue to visualize my path to sweet victory.
The man heading up the race takes front and center in his baggy pants and baggy shirt. Lifting his hands to gain everyone’s attention, he then proceeds to explain the rules. No sabotage. No weapons. No veering off the route … blah, blah, blah. It’s the same rules, different race. I’ve heard them a hundred times before.
Once he’s finished, he leaves the spotlight and the woman who will drop the flag takes her place. Fat Larry kisses my temple and wishes me “good luck” before passing me my helmet and rejoining the trio. Over my shoulder, I spot Tony and Jack, holding hands and smiling at me with glowing pride. They both offer me a thumbs up, making me laugh like an idiot, as I shake my head. Those men, I love them all.
When I turn my gaze back around, I take one final gander at the lineup. All of them are men. All ruthless riders. All hungry for the win. Hmmm … but who I don’t see is Wes. Where did he go? Do you see him? Someone else has taken his spot. I shift my eyes backward to see if he bowed out, but he’s not with the spectators. Where in the hell would he go?
“Miss me?” a cocky voice singsongs from my left, and I sigh, rolling my eyes before turning my sights upon my nemesis.
“Why’d you move? You were perfectly fine all the way over there.” I jerk my chin to Wes’s previous spot, praying he’d have stayed put.
Winking at me with that cocksure grin in place, he sl
ides his palms worshipfully over his handlebars. “I thought you might want to wager something more than money for this race. Seeing as though you want to kick my ass.” His smug tone never waivers. This man really is full of himself.
Honing my sass, I lift my shoulders and drop them in an exaggerated shrug. “What of it? The glory is worth it for me. To know I can wipe the pavement with your rep, for being bested by a chick…” I pause. “A brunette one, to boot,” I tack on, because it’s a low blow, and it’s fun to hit him where it hurts. Or maybe where it hurts me, since I’m not a voluptuous blonde. Shit, I don’t know.
“How about we make it more interesting? Say … you beat me, and I’ll give you a quarter of a million dollars … cash.” He perks a brow, and my mouth nearly drops open at the prospect of that kind of money. Except I check myself and attempt to appear disinterested. I can’t let him know I’d love to take the gamble. However, with a bet this astronomical, there has to be a catch. There always is.
Licking my dry lips, I look straight ahead as I deliver my level reply. “On the off chance that you would … you know…” Damn, I can’t even say the words.
“Beat you?” There’s a smile in his voice, and I loathe it, almost as much as I loathe him.
Flicking my hand out, I toss that absurd notion into the wind. “Sure … that. You know, hypothetically.”
He chuckles at my words. It’s smooth and sensual. I hate it. “If I am to … as you say it … kick your ass. Then I would expect you to live with me for a month.”
Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1) Page 8
