by Paige Weaver
“I’m retired, Milo. Race your own damn car,” I said, ending the conversation and walking away. Truth was I didn’t race anymore but that had never been my specialty anyway.
Grand theft auto was.
“But his is a piece of shit, Walker! A goddamn trash can on wheels. I want some action on your car!” the guy shouted at me.
I ignored the little runt and headed toward my best friend, Bentley Ross, or as everyone liked to call him – Bent. He was one of the fastest street racers around. A real daredevil. He was leaning against my car, a 1971 Plymouth Duster, talking to some chick in fishnet stockings and whorehouse stilettos. My gaze ran over her, liking what I saw. The girl was blonde and built like a Victoria’s Secret model. Low and behold, she had a friend, too. A brunette standing right next to her. My night just went from good to goddamn perfect.
“Walker! I was just talking about you. You in or out?” Bent asked as I walked up, pushing away from the car to face me.
I glanced at the brunette. “If you’re talking about her,” I said, nodding toward the girl, my eyes drifting down her body. “I’m in. All the way.”
She was wearing thigh-high boots and an itsy-bitsy skirt. Just what I liked to see on a girl.
Bent smirked, reading my mind. “I meant are you racing? I know that’s what Milo wanted.”
I glanced around. Mustangs and muscle cars shared space with Hondas, Nissans, and Mitsubishis. This was my old stomping ground. The place where I once felt alive. The roaring of the engines. The screeching of tires. I loved those sounds. They used to be my life.
Now they were Bent’s.
“Milo can talk all he wants. I’m not racing,” I said. I didn’t street race anymore. Nor did I steal, chop, or go on joy rides with other people’s cars.
What I did was drink.
I took the beer that Bentley offered and popped the top. The aroma hit my senses, making my mouth water. It was my vice now. The one thing that dulled my senses and made me forget everything else. Alcohol. Tonight I needed it more than ever. It was damned hot, like a furnace cranked on high, and I was antsy, abnormally so. Only an ice-cold beer could calm me down and cool me off.
The brunette took a step closer, eyeing me up and down again with interest. “So if you don’t want to race, what do you want to do?” she asked in a seductive voice, the smell of her expensive perfume surrounding me.
I didn’t tell her that what I wanted to do was drag her to my car and bend her over. Flip that little dress up and show her just how fast I could make her cross that finish line.
Instead I took a step toward her. Time to lay on the bullshit. Tell her what all girls wanted to hear. Sweet-talking crap. It slipped as easily from my tongue as saying my own name. I played the game all the time. See who I could get, set my goal, and achieve it. Walk in with no emotion. Walk out with even less.
I snaked my hand around her waist, planning on telling her what I would much rather do than race a damn car, but Bent’s voice stopped me.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” he snapped, staring across the clearing at someone. His nostrils flared and his teeth were clenched. The man was a driver but damn if he didn’t have the attitude of a fighter instead.
I turned my head, searching the crowd. People milled between the cars and by the old industrial building. Talking. Laughing. Exchanging joints or passing booze back and forth. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of college kids breaking laws and bragging about cars.
But then my gaze landed on her.
Samantha Ross.
My enemy.
Read the rest of Sam and Walker's story in Sweet Destruction!
About the Author
Paige Weaver is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. Many hours of her childhood were spent getting lost between the pages of a book, disappearing into other worlds. That turned into a love for writing at a young age.
Paige lives in Texas with her husband and two children. When she’s not writing or reading, you can find her chasing her kids around and living her very own happily ever-after.
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