Fueled Obsession 1

by Amanda Heartley

  By

  Amanda Heartley

  Copyright © 2014 Amanda Heartley

  Published By: Heartley Publishing

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Amanda Heartley

  Published By: Heartley Publishing

  Connect with me on Facebook

  http://facebook.com/AuthorAmandaHeartley

  Book Description

  Weeks before wealthy Mollie DuBois graduates nursing school, she’s in residency at the local hospital where her determination to help the needy takes her to a small clinic on the wrong side of the tracks.

  The only thing Mollie wasn’t prepared for was going weak in the knees over Jackson Fitzgerald. An arrogant, but charming hard-bodied street racer who's determined to steal her heart.

  But what can the tattooed bad boy and the gorgeous good girl have in common?

  Chapter One — Jack

  The Camaro slipped into gear perfectly and I stepped hard on the gas. I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and guided the car smoothly around the curve. The tires squealed as I pushed them to their limits, holding balance, maintaining just enough grip to keep the Chevy on the street. I’d done this a thousand times before and ignored their complaining as I came out of the final bend. All I saw was the clear road ahead as I concentrated on gunning the car as fast as I could to the approaching finish line. I could see my rival gaining on me in the rearview mirror and my heart was thumping in my chest. No way did I want to lose this race on the last stretch.

  The engine noise inside the cockpit blocked out everything else around me as I rammed my foot to the floor and the supercharger pushed me faster toward the line. I was faintly aware of the crowd in the distance as they stood up to cheer when I got closer to the line, then soon became a blur as I got nearer and sped past them at over two hundred miles per hour. Two seconds later and I took the checkered flag, lifted off the gas and slowed. Holy Geezus! I’d won—it was just sinking in and I opened the windows to wave back at the crowd.

  The race commentator screamed into his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen…Number 27, Jack Fitzgerald, wins the race with an incredible 2.8 second lead and takes this one home!”

  The people in the stands were going crazy, yelling and stomping. Beautiful women lined up on the pit wall by the finish line and I heard them shouting, “Jack! Jack! Jack!” as I cruised by them. The wind from the open windows whipped my blond hair around my face and my heartbeat started to return to normal as I coasted the car into the pits.

  “Jack!”

  My eyes flew open but I didn't move, unsure of where I was for a moment.

  “Jack! Get your raggedy ass in here and fuckin’ help me, you lazy son of a bitch!”

  “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath as I heard the all-too-familiar sound of my mother heaving in the living room after days of indulging in her favorite vice—cheap wine. I hated the shit. Another fucked-up day of taking care of this woman I’m supposed to call mom. That was a joke. Not that she wasn’t my mother, because she was. She just wasn’t very motherly. And my sperm donor? Who the fuck knows? All I know is that I have the same blond, curly hair and light blue eyes that he does. God knows she reminds me enough.

  I slung the wrinkled, worn sheets off my naked body, grabbed my dirty jeans off the floor and slid into them. I walked into the living room just in time to see my mother retching on the dingy carpet. That sickening smell of old wine and yesterday's food filled the room; it was a unique perfume that she'd been wearing for as long as I could remember.

  Ignoring the mess, I reached down to help her up, grabbing her scrawny arm as gingerly as I could. She bruised easily and if she drank enough, she'd call the cops on me and complain that I’d abused her. “Leave me alone! I swear you are so much like your father—!” She snatched her arm away from me, pulling herself up by holding on to the couch.

  “Come on, Mom, I'll get you to the shower.” She didn't want my help, but obviously, she couldn't do it by herself. I’d learned years ago not to argue with her about anything; it didn't help. Once she felt better, she might apologize, though I suspected that half the time, she didn't even remember the verbal abuse she dished out. Once she’d gotten to the doorway, she glared at me and slammed the door behind her. I stood there listening to her heave again and then finally, the water came on in the shower. I ran my hand through my wild hair and stared at the disgusting mess in the living room. I ransacked the kitchen for cleaning supplies and soon got to work mopping it up. If it were just for her sake, I’d have left it there, but I had to live here, too.

  After a few minutes, she came out of the shower, her skinny body wrapped in a towel. She strolled by me knelt on the floor, scrubbing the carpet, and pretended she didn't see me, or the mess. No apology, no offer to help, nothing. I threw the sponge back in the bucket and slung the dirty water out the back door. I left the bucket on the porch and went to get a shower myself. Fuck her, if she can't even acknowledge I'm cleaning up her fucking vomit.

  I stepped over her dirty clothing and washed up as fast as I could. I didn't even bother to shave, and got dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a fitted t-shirt. I grabbed my shoes, wallet and keys and walked out to my car. It was a '68, vinyl-top Chevy Camaro that I spent nearly every waking hour in. Re-built this baby from the ground up. And she was my baby. 454 big block engine upgraded to a 498-inch monster. Red Recarro racing seats and a midnight blue metallic paint job. I could hear Mom yelling at me as I got in the car and I really didn’t fucking care. When I was in this baby, nothing could stop me.

  I pulled away from the house, but I didn't get far—just two trailer houses down the street before the neighborhood kids overtook my car. “Fitz! Come on, man! We need you! Andre is cheating again.” The complainer was Ricky; the kid was probably seven and the smallest and loudest kid on the block, but he was my bud. I put the car in park, turned off the engine, tossed my lit cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with my shoe.

  “Andre? You cheating again?” I laughed aloud, trying to lighten Ricky's mood. He tended to get too serious about life.

  “No way, Fitz. Dude's just mad ‘cause he's little. He can't make the shots.” Andre loomed over me, and I was six foot one. Kid probably should have been playing pro ball, but his life was as fucked up as mine was and poor Ricky didn't stand a chance with him. But the kid had heart.

  “Man, throw me the ball. ‘Dre, don’t be such a dick. He’s just a little kid.” We started close to the basket, all of us taking shots, then slowly backed up every few feet and shot the ball again. Ricky struggled with getting the lift he needed, but there wasn't much he could do about it until he got a little taller. “That's good, Ricky. Good practice. Here's the deal. You've got to get a little taller to take on ‘Dre, but don't quit. You're going to grow, man. I promise. When you do, you'll be bigger and better than him.”

  Ricky gave me a disbelieving look and said, “Really?”

  “Hey, bro. Why you frontin’ like that? He ain't never gonna be tall
as me. You know his daddy ain't but this high.” Andre held out his hand in front of him. He was telling the truth, but I gave him a look. “What?”

  I turned to Ricky again, “Don't listen to this loser. You've got some 'tall' in there. Keep practicing. Okay?” He gave me a gap-toothed grin and nodded his head. I bounced the ball to him, “Now, go practice.”

  I walked over to the car. “Dre, come here a second.” I could tell he didn't want to, and by now, there was a crowd of kids watching us—he had his reputation in the trailer park to think of, I understood that. I leaned against the car and invited him to come stand beside me. We weren't face to face, but we were close enough to talk without everyone hearing. “What's up with you? Why do you pick on this kid every day? You know the rest of these dudes do what you do. Then they’ll start picking on him.”

  He lowered his head, playing with a tiny piece of gravel with his foot. “Fitz, man, he's fucking irritating as hell. Every time I turn around, he's following me around. He needs to play with kids his own age, you know.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I lit a cigarette and took a drag. I looked over at him. “Dude, what are you, like seventeen?”

  “Yeah, man. I’ll be eighteen next month. Gonna go get me some bitches up in here.”

  I chuckled at that. “Don’t call the ladies bitches, man. That’s not cool. And how you gonna get a lady looking all tore up like that?”

  “Man! Be cool. I’m a’ight.”

  “Yeah, you a’ight. Now, here's the deal. Ricky follows you around because he looks up to you, just like the rest of these knuckleheads. Now you get to pick what kind of person you're going to be. You can be a jackass bully, or you can become something cool.”

  “Man... you just don't get—” Andre pulled on his jersey, aggravated with my reproach.

  I sighed. “Yeah, I do get it. So, here's the bottom line. You want a lady and you a broke fucker. Women don’t like broke mother fuckers. If you act right, I’ll take care of you and put some cash in your pocket. You don’t, I’ll hire someone else.”

  “Hire, for what? What you talking about?”

  “Ricky. I need you to take care of him. Teach him how to shoot some hoops. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Andre grinned, “That’s all, man? Show that skinny kid how to shoot hoops? Dude, you got a deal.”

  “One more thing, though. The money’s for you and your mom. No buying smokes or dope with it. You got that?”

  “Yeah, man. I hear you.”

  “Good, and don't tell that kid nothing. This is between us.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bill. “Meet your new buddy. His name’s Franklin. Be good to him.”

  “Sweet!”

  “Yeah, alright. Now go do me proud.” I nodded, and watched Andre walk over to Ricky and begin to coach him on how to hold the ball to get a good arc. I grinned and got back in the car, giving them a half-wave as I drove into the street. The sun wasn't down yet and I had a few hours to kill before the race.

  I drove to Tumbly's Diner and perched on a sticky, vinyl barstool. I gave my order to the waitress, who must have been having a worse day than I was, and watched the TV until my cheeseburger arrived.

  Greasy, slightly smoky and thick, the burger tasted perfect. I nodded to the short-order cook who worked behind the grill. We'd never actually spoken, but he had to recognize me. Before every race, I came in for a classic “Tumbly” burger, scarfing it down before I indulged in an evening of booze, cars and girls off of Highway 239. It's where everyone went to race, and this would be the biggest race so far this summer. Girls would be everywhere and the payout was ten grand, but the real trip would be kicking Dylan's ass. I pictured his smug grin and wanted to fuck him up. We had a bit of history—once upon a time, we were pretty good friends, but that quickly ended when I dropped out of high school to take care of my mom.

  I polished off the burger and fries, tossed a few crumpled dollars on the ticket and headed out. After a stop by the liquor store and the car wash, I drove to the edge of town. Dylan and a few other racers were already there. I slung the car into my spot in the warehouse parking lot and jumped out to check in with Vic, the bank behind the race. “Fitz, man. Good to see you. You four, come with me.” Dylan stepped in front of me, as if cutting in line meant something. I laughed at him and followed Vic into a small, makeshift office. “Tonight's race is a big one. Ten grand to the first one who crosses the finish line, and the winner and second place have to show up for the next race in two weeks. You guys understand that, right?” I nodded my head. “Don't make me chase your asses down or you’ll never race with me again.”

  Dylan turned and gave me a smirk. “What happens if Fitz here is in jail? Think he’s going to stay out of the drunk tank long enough to show up?” I banged my fist on the table, startling Dylan, but he regained his composure quickly and laughed at me.

  “You have a problem, Mr. Fitzgerald? Something I need to know about?” Vic stroked his goatee and stared at me.

  “Not at all, Vic. Let’s see who wins tonight, but I'll be there. This sad motherfucker doesn't know what the hell he's talking about.”

  He stared at the two of us, and then spoke to the group as he checked his watch. “Ernesto, Dylan, Fitz and Jude. The race starts here in—five minutes. When the flag drops, you go, and may the best man win. Stay on the route I’ve given you, or you're out. No shortcuts and for fuck’s sake, don’t kill anybody, okay?”

  We all agreed, and Vic yelled out, “Sheila, get in here.” A petite brunette in a tight, blue dress strutted in wearing some ridiculously high heels. Sheila was Vic's girl; he loaded her down regularly with gold chains and made no bones about what he'd do to anyone who touched her the wrong way. And Vic wasn't someone you fucked with.

  “Bring some of those treats in here, darlin’.” Sheila smiled at him, walked out and returned with a mirrored tray that held four generous lines of white powder. Dylan sniffed half of one. I snorted a whole line and it only took a few seconds to feel the effect of the powder. My heart raced, and I felt that familiar, euphoric feeling. We all stood there, sniffing and enjoying the rush.

  A girl met me as I walked out of the office. She hung on my neck, her lips planted on mine; she tasted like orange soda and Malibu. I tasted like coke. “Baby,” she whispered appreciatively. I pushed her off me and kept walking. These girls were a dime a dozen at the races.

  People lined the roadway, music blared from some vehicle and girls were dancing. People were checking out my car, I kept an eye on a few of them. Dylan and his latest conquest strolled up. “Why are you even here, Jackie? Does your momma know you're here? She still tricking out on MLK?”

  He snickered. His clueless, blonde friend giggled, too, but she gave me a flirtatious smile. I smiled back at her and said to him, “No, but yours does. Had a piece last night.”

  I slid into the seat of my car, checked my mirrors and ticked up to the start line. Dylan's girl stepped onto the side of the road as the flag girl. Her white mini-skirt really showed off her tanned legs. They looked delicious. I grinned at her. Yeah, I'm definitely getting a vibe.

  She dropped the flag. I floored the gas pedal and whizzed past her. Ernesto's Trans Am tailed me closely, looking to overtake, but after the first two turns, I’d lost him. I didn't even see Dylan's green Chevy Nova—I laughed at that fuckwad. Seventy-two seconds later, I circled back to the line as the winner. People crowded my car and shouted my name as I got out. Vic walked over, pushed his way through the crowd and lifted my hand up to indicate I was the official winner—just in time for Dylan's car to pull in behind me. I got back into my car and Vic tossed a brown envelope into my lap as I revved my engine. “Thanks, man.”

  “You earned it. Now don’t go spending it all on blow. See you on the sixteenth, you and Ernesto. We'll talk before then.”

  The crowds pushed in around me and before I knew it, my car door opened and the sexy flag girl slid into the passenger seat. She said three words. “Drive, quick, now!”
I grinned at her and goosed my car forward, careful not to hit anyone. She ducked down in the seat as I drove the car down the street and parked it behind a warehouse in the old industrial park. I hadn't even put the car in Park before she pounced on me. “God, Fitz. You’re so fucking sexy. Kiss me.”

  She didn’t have to tell me twice, and my hands flew into her silky, blonde hair, pulling her lips onto mine. I kissed her hard and slid my tongue into her mouth. It tangled with hers as she stroked my chest, undoing the buttons and tracing down my abs to my pants. I slid her shirt off and released her tits from her bra. I sucked her bottom lip hard, and bit it gently as my hands found their way to her breasts and fondled them roughly. I groaned a little as I enjoyed the feel of them, warm and soft in my palms.

  She winced as my mouth left hers, trailed down her neck and sucked hard on her left nipple. Her fingers had unzipped me and were working skillfully inside my pants. Her deft stroking, the adrenaline, drugs and booze had my cock hard as a fucking rock. She fumbled in my boxers and gasped as my cock sprang free. Her gasp turned to a giggle after a few seconds when she caught sight of my Prince Albert ring glinting in the light from the warehouse.

  She giggled again, with her soft, high-pitched laugh, then lowered her head and ran her tongue over the shiny metal at the end of my cock, her warmth spilling over onto my head. I panted, and wondered how old she was. She seemed young, but definitely experienced.

  “I told Dylan the winner would get the royal treatment. Too bad he lost.” Before I could respond, her warm mouth enveloped my dick and slid slowly down my stiff shaft. I gasped as she clamped down on my cock with her lips and slid up again, flicking my ring with her tongue. God, she felt like velvet and I wanted my release. She opened her mouth and started to slide slowly down my hard cock again, teasing as she looked up at me, but I didn’t have the patience for all that shit tonight.