Scar

by A. M. Brooks

“You packed for me?” I smile and rush over to her, hugging her around the waist.

  “Yes!” She laughs. “Let’s get going so we can get to our first hotel before it’s dark.”

  “You’re the best, Evi,” I tell her, while gripping the handle on my suitcase and rolling it back to the stairs. At the front door, I nod to the security detail, who look a little on edge. For once, they will be staying here while I am on a solo mission to seek my father’s vengeance.

  I set my bags in the trunk next to Evita’s and climb in the passenger seat. She takes out her phone and pulls up her Maps app. “This is going to be the longest drive ever,” she pouts and turns her big eyes to me, “Can’t we fly?”

  “Security,” I remind her and flip through her music.

  “Fine. Alright, let this epic girls’ trip slash revenge plan commence!” she yells into the air, and I laugh and cheer with her. I’m happy not to be on my own in this. I hit play on Don Omar’s “Danza Kuduro” while we head for the United States border.

  After the almost two-day road trip, we finally make it to Tampa, Florida, and quickly find our hotel. Evita was able to get us into a hotel close enough to the races that we could walk if needed. Judging by the crowd outside, we are not going to find any parking that close by. Once we get into our room, I quickly shoot my father a text about our arrival before jumping in the shower. I take my time conditioning my hair and shaving absolutely everything, before using sugar scrub until my tan skin glows.

  By the time I get out, my eyes look more awake and my skin is silky smooth. I dry my hair before adding some curls and running my fingers through them. I’m about to pull out my makeup bag when a small tendril of doubt creeps into my mind. I frown. “Evi!”

  She pops her head in the bathroom. “Yes?”

  My mouth open and closes. I can’t believe I’m doubting myself right now after doing the same makeup routine for a year. “What do I do for a motocross race?”

  She grins. “See, this is why I needed to be here. Go more neutral for today. Once we find the after-party tonight then we can spice it up more.”

  I nod as if her suggestion makes sense. Once she leaves, I reach for my phone and pull up Pinterest for neutral makeup tips. I follow the guided example then opt for my darker pink lipstick, refusing my lips to look anything close to bare. I like color.

  In the room, Evita lays an outfit out on the bed for me before slinking past me to the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on before I step into the jean shorts she picked out. They slide on and mold like a second skin around my curves and ass. I turn in front of the mirror, admiring how cute they actually look. I take the shirt next and throw it over my head. The black material is a little long, so I scoop it up and tie it right below my belly button.

  “You look like a biker chick,” Evita grins, when she steps out, and I notice she is wearing white shorts and an electric green tank top now.

  My brow rises. “Is this what girls wear to these things?”

  She shrugs. “I have no idea. I was going for casual and sexy but not slutty. We don’t want to be confused for groupies or track bunnies.” She shudders and I laugh.

  “Are you almost ready?” I ask, looking at the time on my phone again. The race starts in forty-five minutes and we still have to walk there.

  “Almost,” she calls before skipping back to the bathroom. “Just have to finish my eyes!”

  I pace around the room and am constantly drawn to the window overlooking the parking lot. Groups of people leave, every now and then, all of them dressed similarly to me except for one group of five girls who are wearing the shortest skirts and shorts that barely cover their cheeks with bikini tops. Must be the track bunnies Evita was talking about.

  “Okay, ready!” Evita flies out of the bathroom while sliding her silver sandals on.

  “No judging,” I warn her before I slide my all-white Adidas on. She laughs while grabbing our room keys and shoving them in her over the shoulder bag. I grab my sunglasses out of my bag and follow her out the door. Right as I step into the hallway, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, my father’s name flashes on the screen. I open the text, holding my breath.

  Father: Don’t mess this up.

  I grunt, completely pissed at his lack of faith. No matter how perfect a job, he will never acknowledge just how much of an asset I’ve become to him. It makes me feel sick that I want his approval. All I should want is to be out from under his rule and that is why this job is so important. Once it’s completed, I get three years of freedom to go to any college I want. That’s what we agreed upon. I know my father is a tyrant and I have no intention of following in his footsteps. Three years of being away from him and trying to plot my own disappearance, my one chance to live my life, rests on how quickly I can complete this mission.

  “Let’s hurry,” I tell Evita when I find her watching me with sympathy in her eyes. We both are holding onto our lives by our fingertips right now. Evita may seem more resigned to her fate than I am, but I know it’s an act she puts on so she won’t break down. At least she has a chance at love waiting for her. I was taught long ago not to expect love. Because who could really love a monster?

  We walk with the crowd to where the race track is. Once we get to the main gate, our tickets are scanned and we’re allowed in. Immediately, I can smell the beer stands and food stalls. Pizza, burgers, mini doughnuts, and a variety of other aromas mix and slam into me. We walk closer to where the stands are and find our seats. A chain-link fence separates the crowd from the dirt track. Evita was able to get us as close as possible with her connection and I’m glad she did. My eyes widen slightly when I see how huge the area actually is. Mountain-size mounds of dirt are randomly placed and flags line the track.

  After we take our seats, Evita runs off to grab a couple of drinks. Young boys and girls ride their bikes around the track while the crowd cheers and laughs. Some of the kids are so young, they have to push their bikes up the dirt piles. I chuckle along with the crowd while the announcer is humorously commentating.

  “Okay,” Evita suddenly says next to me, plopping back down in her seat and handing me a bottled beer, “So I talked to few guys over by the stand. They have weekend passes and come every year to this series. There are two specific clubs the riders usually go to after to party, so we just need to find out which one your guy will be at.”

  I ignore the way she says my guy, as if I’m a stalker fan, and not just pursuing him to find a way to bring him to his knees. “He usually runs in a crowd of four other racers. They’ve been friends for years and are teammates.”

  She nods along with what I’m saying, her eyes narrowing slightly, and I can see her internal wheels turning on how to find them. “Here, circle the names on this.” She hands me a pamphlet with each racer’s name, statistics and numbers on them. I take her pen and circle the names I remember from the file I was handed a year ago.

  Sam Hamilton

  Elias Martinez

  Dean Osborne

  Kian Wilson

  Trent Nichols

  Three, including Trent, are members of AfterHours racing, top leading scorers in the country, and all are reportedly the most down-to-earth guys that have ever graced the sport. I’ve been reading Motocross magazines and doing internet searches for almost a year to prepare for this. Three years ago, this group, Nichols in particular, was part of a sting operation that led to a drug bust on one of my father’s favorite pockets in Araminta. Since then, my father has made it his mission to make Trent Nichols pay for what he lost. I’m his ticket for this win, and Trent is the pass to my freedom. I just need to find out what makes him tick, pull him in, then wait for how my father plans to destroy him. I’m giving myself three months to pull this off.

  I hand her back the paper, right as the huge stadium lights flare to life and the track is cleared off. Godsmack’s “Cryin’ Like A Bitch” blasts through the speakers, right as thirty different bikers come roaring onto the dirt. My eyes easily pick out n
umber seventy-eight, the white letters crisp, against the all-black bike. His pants are black and white and his jacket is black with neon red lettering. Even from where I’m sitting, he seems larger than life. My pulse starts racing while I watch him go round the track, guiding the bike with ease, as if it’s a part of him. The air is thick with the smell of gasoline, burning rubber, and dust. A ripple of energy rips through the crowd, and even I’m affected by it. I turn to Evita and see that she is as entranced as I am. Her golden eyes are stuck on one of the racers standing off to the side, his longer hair swept back in a ponytail, and even from here, it’s clear to see how gorgeous he is.

  I nudge her with my elbow and she finally looks at me, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “You have drool.” I smirk and point to the corner of her mouth.

  “Shut it.” She laughs and shoves me back playfully.

  All the riders disappear right as the lights go off. The sky is completely dark now, a small spray of stars visible. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer revs the crowd up and announces each racer one at a time. I mentally make my checklist, pairing each number to the name on my list. “Trent Nichols!” is announced and my eyes swing to the area where the riders walk out. Of course he’s number seventy-eight, the rider I couldn’t stop looking at earlier. Maino and T-Pain’s “All the Above” pounds in my ears while a spotlight tracks Trent right as he takes to the jumps, completing a double backflip before sailing through the air, his body hovering above his bike. My breath catches in my throat, stunned for a second, while my brain scrambles to see how he’ll get back on before the dirt comes up to catch him. With barely any effort on his part, Trent is able to grab his handle bars and land the trick right as the crowd goes ballistic for him. Somehow I find myself standing with them, my hands clapping slowly for him.

  “Woah,” I hear Evita next to me, and I silently agree. Adrenaline spikes in my blood, as my eyes observe him from afar. Not once has he taken off his helmet, and I’m dying to see him without it. Weird thoughts like is he sweating, does he glisten, was that easy for him, is he smiling, smirking, scowling, race through my mind. My brain and my body feel foreign. I can’t help but frown at my interest and complete awe of him. My heart twinges and I don’t know why. I can’t shake the feeling something pivotal just happened and I’m not prepared for the outcome.

  Scarlet

  My nerves are buzzing when the race is over. I don’t want to leave the arena, but Evita insists we go and find out where the party is at. She’s friendly and flirty with everyone. Not me, I can barely keep my steps coordinated right now, my mind is so full from the race and Trent.

  “How about I scope out the intel and you head back to the room? I’ll be there soon.” Evita squeezes my arm and I nod, thinking how smart she is and how useless I am right now. I need to get my thoughts straight and being in this space is not helping. Maybe it’s the fumes.

  With a small smile, I hightail it out of there and follow the crowd, doing my best to blend in, and make it back to the hotel room. The chill from the air conditioning hits me full force the minute I step in the room, and it’s a welcome sensation against my heated skin. I strip off the shorts and t-shirt before sprawling on my bed, letting the cold air wash over me. I can’t even close my eyes without seeing Trent tearing up the race track and flying in the air behind my eyelids. Breathing in and out, I concentrate on the ceiling and try to rein in my thoughts. It was just a race. A few tricks. There is no reason for me to feel this way. Above all else, Trent is a target. I shouldn’t be fascinated with him beyond that.

  I have no idea how long I lie there, only that I hear groups of people pass outside our window, all of them talking excitedly, most of them intoxicated.

  “I’m back, bitch!” Evita yells and the door slams behind her. My head turns, and sure enough, her cheeks are a little flushed. I’m assuming she had at least one more drink before coming back.

  “What’s the plan?” I get up and walk over to my suitcase, fingering through the shiny and glittery material of dresses she picked out for me.

  “Well, nothing I packed for us is going to be useful,” she huffs, her hands on her hips.

  “What do you mean? We can check out both clubs tonight and the bars tomorrow if you weren’t able to get information,” I reassure her, my shoulders shrugging.

  “Oh, I got the info,” she tells me, walking closer, her eyes twinkling, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Ask me how.”

  “How?” I ask, playing into her game, my brow quirking.

  Evita squeals and jumps up and down, a huge smile on her lips. “I ran into him!”

  My mind blanks for a second, before spinning into overdrive. Shit. “Who?”

  Her eyes roll. “Fifty-four! Elias Martinez. I caught him when they were walking out. Turns out, your boy is not much of a partier. They don’t do the club scene on weekends like this. They don’t even stay in hotels, choosing to rent houses outside of the city.”

  I wait for my heart rate to slow down before answering. My bravado starts to deflate. How am I supposed to get to him this way? “Well, that changes things. Now what?” I ask more to myself then her.

  “We get dressed for a bonfire,” she answers, spinning on her heel and heading over to her bags. “And, as I said, everything I packed is pretty much useless. Sounds like they keep it casual at these beach and house parties.”

  My teeth pull and tug on my bottom lip while I contemplate the information Evita found out. Casual means they probably keep their group small and intimate. I won’t be able to just dance up on him like at a club and convince him I’m what he wants to take home for the night. What kind of pro athlete prefers a quiet and intimate beach party to a crowded bar where everyone is singing his praises all night? I thought racers were cocky and certain their sport was the best because all other sports only require one ball, or at least that’s what I saw on a t-shirt once.

  I’m about to voice my thoughts when Evita pops back out of the bathroom, wearing an off-the-shoulder black sweater. Large, gold hoops adorn her ears and she slips on a pair of black flipflops. “Are you getting dressed or wearing your underwear? I mean that certainly would get his attention.”

  Looking down, I realize I’ve been standing the entire time in front of the window in my underwear and bra. Blushing, I grab some clothes and slip into the bathroom. Five minutes later, I’m wearing black shorts, a white t-shirt and my jean jacket. This time, I do follow Evita’s lead and go for some sandals rather than my Adidas, so they’re easier to take off while walking through the sand. I comb my fingers through my hair and fix the mascara that has been collecting in the corner of my eyes from the heat my body was projecting earlier.

  “You know where?” I ask as we leave the hotel room. The hallways are quiet and a quick glance at my phone tells me why. It’s already half past ten.

  “Yeah, they’re renting a place in Clearwater. The address is,” she quickly taps through her phone before flashing it at me.

  “Text the address to my phone in case I need it,” I tell her. “I’ll drive. I think you’ve already had a few.”

  “That I have, cousin.” She giggles. “And it was all for you.”

  “I worship you,” I tease, batting my eyes while she cackles and blows me a kiss.

  We manage to get to her car and I pull up the text she sent with the address. It’s not as far of a drive as I expected, but it still will be after eleven before we get there. I find a parking spot and notice the whole street is lined with cars. Something tells me this isn’t as low-key as Evita was suggesting. I park and we climb out, eyes taking in the small bungalow-style home. There is an open gate and a sandy path, I assume leads to the beach. From the road, I can hear people laughing and talking, as well as the low base of some music.

  I fidget nervously with the hem of my jacket. Pull it together, I think over and over again in my head. For crying out loud, I’ve scaled the outsides of buildings and lured a man to a hotel room, without his goons noticing, before ki
lling him. I’ve taken down men twice the size of Trent Nichols in a cage fight. There is no reason my palms should be sweaty right now. “Ready?” I turn to Evita who is practically bouncing on her toes in excitement.

  “Yes! Let’s get it, girl!” She whoops and grabs my arm, propelling us both onto the sandy path.

  We get a few feet out and cross over a sand dune before the party comes into view. There are actually three different fires going. People are lounging around them, standing or dancing. I look down at my outfit and realize I fit in, that no one is overly dressed. If anything, I’m almost overdressed compared to a few people wearing their swimsuits and towels. A yellow Jeep was driven up as close as possible, a keg sitting in the back seat. We walk closer and I can now make out the words to Sean Kingston’s “Beautiful Girls” playing from a speaker and I’m completely feeling the vibe. My lips part in a smile, and that bundle of nerves in my stomach starts to lessen.

  “Drinks.” I point Evita over to the keg and she follows, even while her eyes comb the crowd. I pour us two cups and try my hardest not to shudder. I like beer. I like alcohol. It comes with the jobs and the territory. I just prefer a bottle or draft. Anytime I have keg beer, I know I’m waking up with a headache. “Do you see them?” I lean closer to her.

  She shakes her head, before taking a sip from her glass. Luckily for her, my cousin never gets hungover. Ever. We walk across the sand and head toward the fire closest to us. A girl sitting in a chair notices us first and lifts her chin smiling. “Hey!”

  I wave and smile back, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Hi.”

  “I’m Evi,” my cousin says and extends her hand to the girl. She’s stunning with pale blonde hair and blue eyes, and I can see a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  “I’m Scarlet,” I tell her, shaking hands next. “Is this your place?” I ask, pointing to the house behind us.

  “Oh gosh, no.” She laughs, and I’m struck with the thought of how young she looks. “My brother is renting the house with his friends. I’m just visiting. It’s his weekend to babysit,” she rolls her eyes at the last part, “I’m Ayda by the way.”