“Dammit.”
I pull out my cell phone and check it, even though I already know who it is, seeing how it's been a good hour, hour and a half, since I last heard from her.
Answer your phone, Jackson.
The text is short and sweet, as usual. I put it away because I don’t have time for guilt trips—even from the woman who gave me life roughly twenty-eight years ago.
I push the sound of my mother’s voice out of my mind and concentrate on what’s about to happen.
A shadow moves outside next to my passenger side door. It’s my opponent stealing a moment with a woman I have to assume is his girl. Thank God he’s not groping her, or pushing her up against his car to dry hump her, for crying out loud. That shit would be awkward. No, this guy is classier than that. He takes her chin, and he kisses her gently for about half a minute.
Awesome. Even more awkward.
Clearly, I’m invading their privacy, but honestly, what in the hell am I supposed to do? I’m trapped here like a rat.
She whispers something to him before she leaves him. He only lets go of her hand when he has to. After that, the two of us watch her while she disappears into the crowd.
I literally just witnessed a fucking scene straight out of Hope Floats for crying out loud.
Not that I’ve seen it.
I follow her shadow into the mass of silhouettes until he raps his knuckles against my window and leans into the door. He’s patient as he waits for me to roll it down.
I’m convinced he’s about to give me shit for ogling his girl, so I try to come up with a good comeback for him, but I don’t have to.
“Good luck.” He’s got what appears to be a sincere smile. Like he’s known me his whole life and this is just another day on the road for us.
For a second, I believe him.
This kid isn’t what I expected at all. He’s clean cut, respectful, and seemingly intelligent.
Happy go fucking lucky.
I’m not sure what to make of that observation. It conflicts with my intel.
Doesn’t matter. A job’s a job.
I give him a half-nod.
“You too.”
There’s a smirk that pulls at the sides of his mouth.
Apparently, he’s also cocky.
After he yanks his car door open, he slides in smooth like a good jazz song.
I roll my eyes and adjust the rearview mirror as the crowd spreads out on either side of the street.
I tighten the bandanna wrapped around my head and take in a few more healthy breaths for good measure.
I won’t lie; I’m anxious. I’ve been tracking this guy for a couple weeks now. Why he’s still in town, considering the rap he’s wanted for, I have no idea, but what I do know is this is my best bet on bagging him. Considering the number of people in attendance at this function, though, I suddenly question whether or not the Smith & Wesson I have holstered at my waist is enough back up.
Too late, now.
A curvy girl in ripped jeans, way too much makeup, and purple hair tied into a ponytail holds up a white rag. She gets a nod from my mark, then her eyes move to mine to see if I’m ready.
I’m fucking ready.
She lets her stare linger long enough for me to notice. There’s a part of me that wants to hop out of the car, call a delay of game, and get her number despite the clumps of mascara that weigh down her lashes.
You don’t wanna go there, Stiles.
I’m dealing with barely legal aged kids here, so I break the connection I have with the Goth princess and take one last glance over at my perp; he gives me a confident grin. My foot taps against the gas pedal, and once again I’ve got my eyes on the rag. When the cloth drops, I forget who I am and think about how I wish I could drive this car a hell of a lot farther than the five-hundred or so feet we’re about to scream across.
I stomp on the gas pedal and the tires spin.
Bad idea.
"Mother of . . ." I let off the gas until the wheels catch some friction, and then punch it again. The Charger flies to catch up with my adversary.
The turns in the road are barely visible and not until I’m right up on them, which sucks. A couple close calls make me question my judgment in signing up for this fucking race, but when the road straightens out, I hit the gas and let out a victory cry akin to Tarzan, king of the mother fucking jungle.
“Ha!” The wind vibrates against the hood and adrenaline rushes through my veins as I pull past Dale Earnhardt over there on our turn to head back.
“Not so arrogant now, are ya?” I howl even though I know he can’t hear a goddamn word I’m saying.
The entire length of this competition is probably less than a minute, but within those sixty seconds, there’s a part of me that can understand the attraction these kids have toward the drag. Something about speeding down a strip of road to see whose piece of machinery can outwit, outrun, and plain old outlast the other is primal. Just about everyone has to feel that on some level or another.