by Lauren Runow
“Guess your knight in shining armor isn’t going to help you tonight. Now, get in. Let me show you what a real man can do.” I guide her to the front seat.
I’m not a total asshole. If she put up a fight, I would stop. I just wanted to get under Beckett’s skin. But there’s something about the way she opens the door with determination and falls into the passenger seat of my car that makes me wonder if she’s secretly thirsty for this race.
“You might want to buckle up for this.” I slam the door once she’s secure.
After I enter on my side and close the door, I take my helmet off and quickly put my hat and hood back over my head. I hold the helmet out to her, trying to ignore the way she smells like a sweet peach. “Put this on.”
She looks at it like I just handed her a tablet of acid. “So, now, you care about my safety?”
“Put it on and shut up.” I drop the car into reverse and back up to the line. “Oh, and I’d hold on if I were you.” After putting the car into neutral, I rev the engine, causing the metal to shake, sending vibrations up my spine.
She lets out a little squeak as she slides the helmet on. I try to ignore how adorable it sounds and get back in the zone.
I briefly close my eyes, clearing my mind and preparing for the race. With my hands tightly gripping the shifter, my right foot hovers over the brakes while the other presses the clutch.
Seconds tick away as Kyle walks to his place in front of us.
After nodding to each of us, his hand rises, and it’s on. The light shines bright, and I slam on the gas.
My tires spin for only a second before I speed down the quarter mile to where another flashlight lies on the ground. My body becomes dense in my seat. My heart and lungs feel light as air when the speedometer hits a hundred twenty miles per hour. It’s a blast of euphoria as I cross the finish line—one I can only assume is synonymous with taking a hit of your favorite drug.
Eleven seconds are all it takes for me to win the race with not just one, but two car lengths ahead of him. Even with his girl as added weight in my vehicle.
There’s a thumping sound as I slow the car down. It takes a second too long to realize it’s the girl’s helmet as it hits the passenger window. I’m glad as hell I made her put that thing on.
I fist-pump my hand as I scream out my release, only to hear the sirens in a distance.
“What’s that?” Beckett’s girl asks.
I drop the car back in gear. “That’s our cue to leave.”
“Don’t you dare—” she starts to argue, but there’s no time.
I take the back road around the warehouse and onto the side streets that lead away from the highway, where the police would be coming in. My foot is lead on the gas as I move us through the Lower Bottoms neighborhood in Oakland.
“Stop the car!” she shouts as she grasps the oh shit handle above her window.
I run through a red light. “No can do, sweetheart. This is a do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars moment.”
“Great, so I’m gonna die at the hands of a guy who makes Monopoly references.”
A speed camera flashes, causing her head to swivel to the right so fast that her dark hair whips from the base of the helmet. “You just got caught. They’ll run your plates off that picture and see the car is registered to … who the hell are you?”
“Dirk Diggler,” I state calmly as I whip the Camaro so hard to the right that her tires burn on the pavement.
She lets out a sound of disgust. “You registered your car in the name of the porn star from Boogie Nights?”
I pat the steering wheel of my baby. “This beauty is void of any identifying marks. Notice the DMV big number five sticker in the back window. That stops me from getting pulled over for no plates. I can do whatever I want, wherever I want, and no one will know who did it.”
Something about my comment must really tick her off because she starts kicking her feet, banging them on the dash, while her fists pound the roof. She’s screaming as loud as she can, which is really fucking loud. “Stop the car. Stop. The. Car! Let me out!”
“I can’t just pull over.”
She yanks on the handle, trying to open the locked door. When her hand moves to unlock it, I jerk to the curb and step on the brakes, causing us to lurch to a stop.
“Are you crazy?” I yell.
She flings her door open, making my dome light beam bright in the otherwise darkness. We’re in a shit part of town, and if I were a total prick, I’d tell her to walk home. But I’m not, so I can’t.
I open my door and turn to her, resting my hands on the roof of the Camaro. “Get back in the car. I’ll drive you back to your prick of a boyfriend.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to be in this car for one more second.” She removes the helmet and tosses it on the seat. When she rises, the light of the overhead streetlamp flickers on, illuminating down on her.
I was going to say something, but my mind has gone completely blank.
She’s looking at me with these hazel eyes that are wild and vibrant, glowing in stark contrast to her long, dark hair.
We’re having a virtual standoff across the roof of a car.
Me staring at her and her glaring directly back at me.
Fuck.
2
JALYNN
I wish I could laugh at the ridiculousness of this guy as I watch him fumble with his hat and the hood of his oversize sweatshirt.
This whole Eminem, 8 Mile routine has got to end because his need for being incognito is freaking me out. Either he just got a bad haircut or he’s on America’s Most Wanted list … and I’m not gonna stick around to find out.
Pushing myself away from the car, I walk as fast as I can down the sidewalk. My heart is beating a million miles a minute as my breath desperately tries to keep up with its erratic rate.
“Get back in the car,” he shouts.
I quicken my pace. “I’m not getting back into that death trap.”
How the hell did I get into this mess? Oh, that’s right. Beckett. How dare he not fight for me! He gave up and allowed this guy to practically throw me in his car.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and tap on the Uber app. I don’t know where I am, but thankfully, GPS does. Based on the amount of graffiti on the sides of the buildings and the man I just passed, smoking from a questionable-looking pipe, I can only assume we’re in the ghetto.
And, as it turns out, I’m not getting reception in the outskirts of Oakland.
“Damn it,” I curse as the little icon roams in a circle, trying to connect me to a driver. I raise my hand in the air as if that will miraculously connect me to a signal.
Heavy footsteps jog after me, followed by Falcon’s deep voice in my ear. “I’ll bring you home. I’ll drive the speed limit. Just get in the goddamn car.”
He’s gritting his teeth through his words, but they don’t scare me. I grew up, hearing anger from a man every day, and his seemingly aggressive tone doesn’t do shit to persuade me in his direction.
“With you?” I adamantly shake my head and continue my pace. “I don’t even know who you are. All I know is, you go by the name ‘Falcon.’”
I hear him snicker beside me. “Did you just use air quotes?”
My feet halt on the ground. When I turn to him, he stops, too. His body is stern, except for the smirk he has on his lips, the only portion of his face I can clearly see.
I cross my arms and lean back. “Are you laughing at me?”
He lifts his fingers and makes air quotes as he says, “‘Maybe.’”
“Ugh!” I throw up my hands and continue walking, my legs trembling as I wrap my arms around my body to control the blast of coldness rushing through me.
I jump when he charges forward, blocking my path.
“You’re coming down from the adrenaline rush. That’s why you’re shaking.”
I look up at his tall six foot two figure. I’m no slouch, but his presence is the type that wou
ld make most people feel small.
Most people.
Not me.
“I’m just cold.”
“Sweetheart, it might be the Bay Area, but look around. There’s no fog tonight.” The deep baritone of his voice sends a chill up my spine.
“Says the guy wearing a sweatshirt,” I counter.
He takes a step closer. “I bet your fingers are tingling in a way you’ve never felt.” His words make me stretch them out in defiance. “And you have to keep straightening your posture because you feel like, if you don’t, you might trip and fall from the shakes.” He leans in even further. His breath is hot on my skin. “You keep rubbing your arms like you’re cold, but really, it’s the blood flow rushing back in.”
I hold up my hands in protest. “You can just stop right there.”
“Because you know I’m right?”
He grins, and it makes me want to smack him.
“No, because I don’t want to hear your voice anymore. But I want to see your face.”
“No.” He takes two steps back.
“Are you a felon? Only serial killers hide their faces as much as you do. And don’t tell me it’s because of the street racing because no one else was being so secretive.”
I point to his car that’s sitting on the dirty gray street like it has a neon sign above it that says, Steal me.
Oh my God.
“Did you steal that car?”
His jaw twitches. “Baby, I don’t need to steal a thing.”
His use of the word baby is purely condescending and laced with a cockiness that can only come from having money.
“If you’re so well off, then you can afford to wear something that fits.” I nod to his black sweatshirt. “You look ridiculous.”
“You wore khakis to a street race. Let’s not discuss fashion choices right now.”
“Oh, so you’d prefer the bimbos in leather?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do. Instead, I’m stuck here with you, so will you get back in the fucking car because, regardless of what you’re wearing, you’re live bait out here? You think you’re scared of me? Sweetheart, I’m a hero compared to the nightmares you’d encounter out here.”
He holds out his hand to me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was genuinely concerned for my safety. Damn it, he’s right, and I hate it. I can’t give in that easily though.
I stand my ground, leaning back on my heels and crossing my arms in defiance. “Show me your face.”
He lets out a groan and punches into the air while turning around and yelling under his breath, “You exasperating woman.”
I tap my foot as I wait for him to do as he was told. A car playing obnoxiously loud music slows down at the sight of the Camaro. It inches by before taking off.
After staring at it drive away, he turns his attention back to me, probably wondering when I’ll give up this game of chicken.
Little does he know, I never lose.
Seeing he’s not going to oblige me, I continue my walk away from him, holding up my phone again in search of some damn reception.
“Fine!” I hear him call out behind me.
I turn as he places a hand on his hood.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this. I should just leave you here. Alone.”
He bows his head as he pulls the fabric back, removing his hat and shaking out his brown hair. It’s sticking up a bit where he has a cowlick, and the way it falls on his forehead is kind of endearing. It’s not long per se, but it has just enough length to become unruly when not styled.
He straightens his back and squarely looks at me, showing me his face. And damn if it’s not one of the best-looking faces I’ve ever seen—a square jaw with a five o’clock shadow accenting sharp cheekbones and a straight nose. His brows are dark and arched to follow the curve of almond-shaped eyes. And, when he looks back at me through thick lashes, it’s the dark blue eyes that make my breath hitch.
He must notice my reaction because he squints at me, questioning my thoughts.
I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders back at him before giving them a shrug and saying in my most nonchalant voice, “If I had a face like yours, I’d cover it up, too.”
Instead of being insulted, he just stares. His head tilts a touch, appraising me. It’s like he thinks I’m lying. About what, I don’t know.
As I make my way back to his car, a group of men turn a corner behind him. They’re a full block away, and by the way they’re looking at his car, I don’t think they’ll be stopping to simply chat about the gas mileage.
I open the door and secure myself in the passenger seat.
“About time,” he says out loud as he struts back to his side and gets in.
He cranks the engine and quickly releases the clutch, roaring the exhaust as we drive away. The sound vibrates through my body. When I get a good look at the guys who are glaring back at us, my stomach turns. That wasn’t my smartest moment, and I’m glad he gave in so fast.
“What’s your address?” he asks bluntly.
“Take me back to the race.”
“Beckett’s not there. Fucker took off as soon as the sirens blared, and if he stayed, the cops took him in. Wouldn’t matter either way because he’s never coming back — I won the race. Besides, what do you care? He gave you up, remember?” He tsks, tsks and then shows me a devilish smirk. “Here’s a thought; let’s go back to his place.”
I clench my jaw at the thought. “Oh, so now, you want to look like the big badass who not only beat him, but also stole his girl?”
“No, I like the term knight in shining armor better. You know, the guy who swoops in to save the girl from the big, bad wolf.”
“I think you’re getting your fairy tales and nursery rhymes mixed up. Your mouth is as big as your ego.”
“Better to eat you with, my dear.”
He’s toying with me, and I can’t decipher if he’s always like this or just trying to make me squirm, which I am … but not in the frightened way.
Whatever the case might be, I need to get home. “I live in the Mission, on the corner of Sixteenth and Valencia.”
He seems to know where it is because he just nods and slightly sits back.
We drive in silence. His eyes are focused on the road, as if he’s appreciating every curve like that of a beautiful woman’s body. We’re on the side streets of a seedy part of town, yet his eyes widen in anticipation as he makes each turn.
When he hops onto the freeway toward the Bay Bridge, it’s like his soul had been set free, and he leans back fully, enjoying the freedom of the open road.
He must feel my stare because he turns his head and raises a questioning brow.
“Did you expect me to recognize you?” I ask.
He swallows as he considers my question. “Well, yeah. I’m kind of famous.”
Okay, so he’s not a serial killer, but he can’t be that famous because I’m looking right at him, and I still have no clue who he is. “Like Justin Bieber famous?”
“I should have left you with the fucking meth heads.” He pulls at the collar of his sweatshirt.
I’m warm, and I’m in a short-sleeved shirt. He must be stifling.
“Just take it off. Clearly, you don’t need it anymore. I’ve already seen your famous face.” I don’t use air quotes, but I say it as if I did.
He lets out a long groan and then concedes. With one hand on the steering wheel, he holds the other arm out toward me. It takes a second too long for me to see that he wants me to help him get undressed.
Mentally noting the oddness of the situation, I tug on his sleeve, and he pulls his arm in toward himself. He switches hands, and we repeat the process before he lifts the sweatshirt over his head and tosses it into the backseat.
A sigh of comfort escapes his lips while I choke back a gasp at some seriously strong arms.
Great. I’m turned on by the jerk. Just what I need in my life.
“Like what you see?” he says.
I give my head a little shake as my eyes fall to the Foo Fighters T-shirt he’s wearing.
“I’m a huge Dave Grohl fan,” I say, trying to find some type of normalcy for the reminder of the drive.
He leans forward and taps his iPhone. His speakers roar to life with the opening chords of “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters. This is one of my favorite songs but only when it’s played acoustically, which is what he just happened to put on.
Figures.
“You have good taste in music,” I say nonchalantly as I sit back in my seat.
His lips tilt up in a slight grin. “Only this version though. Did you hear it when they played it on Howard Stern?”
I hate that he knows that. I don’t want him to be someone I have common interests with. He’s the prick who pushed me into his car. I need to remember that, but I’ve never met someone who knew the history of the acoustic version.
In any other situation, I would be totally turned on and excited to open the conversation about other music trivia, but I bite my lip and only respond with, “Yeah.”
As it turns out, we have a lot of the same music tastes. Our iTunes accounts could be synonymous, and we listen in ease as we sail toward the city. The bright lights of San Francisco against the blackness of the bay draw closer with every song.
We pull up to a stoplight, my house just blocks away. I look out the passenger window as I drum my fingers along my thigh, feeling the measured beats echo through me. The darkness of the night outside my window mixed with the interior lights of the car makes it easy to see my refection.
And not just mine.
I can see him chancing casual glances my way. His gaze focuses on my fingers tapping my skin and then moves straight up to the side of my face.
He’s looking at me.
Taking me in.
It’s unnerving to know someone is watching you when you don’t want to turn to acknowledge it.
“Do I at least get your name?” I ask as a way to break the spell.
In the glass, I watch as his mouth opens and then closes.
“Do I get yours?”