by BB Easton
Hustling to catch up to him, I huffed, “What do you mean, the lady’s gonna call it? Call what? What do I do?”
Harley opened my door and turned to me with a smile. “You just stand on the X and put your hands in the air and when we signal that we’re ready…you drop ’em.” Giving me a quick kiss, he added, “Then, get the fuck outta there ’cause I’m gonna be back around before you even know I’m gone.”
Before I could protest, Harley slid my seat all the way back and climbed into my car. When he cranked the engine, Björk’s “Army of Me” came blaring out of my speakers. He didn’t even change it. Just gave me a wink and slammed the door.
As Harley pulled onto the track, the crowd of motorheads, rednecks, rockabillies, and thugs went wild. They screamed, clapped, hollered, and honked as he took what felt like a victory lap before the race even began. Meanwhile, I was having a minor panic attack trying to figure out where this mythical X was that I was supposed to be standing upon. I scanned the poorly lit pavement on my side of the track but couldn’t see shit.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Hey, Punk,” a twangy voice said from behind me. “I’ll take you to the starting line.”
I turned to find JR standing a few feet away, fiddling with his dip can, an apologetic look on his face.
“Sorry. I meant BB. Please don’t tell Harley I said that.”
I laughed and gratefully gripped his skinny bicep as he led me right through the center of the field. The crowd parted for us, but the attention didn’t feel good. It felt appraising. Judging. Questioning. The guys stared and elbowed each other. Their girlfriends glared and covered their mouths as they whispered. It was as if the entire crowd wanted to know who the little boy/girl with the shaved head was and what the hell their king had been doing with his tongue in her mouth.
When JR and I got to the other side of the track, both cars were idling at the starting line, which I could now see was just a white stripe spray-painted across the pavement. JR walked me a few paces in front of them and pointed to a tiny white X on the ground.
I squeezed his arm and mouthed, Thank you, as I stepped with knocking knees onto the mark…and into the blinding rays of four headlights.
I raised one hand to shield my eyes, thankful that the light had rendered me temporarily unable to see the hundreds of judgmental faces watching me. I knew they were there though, waiting for me to fuck up. They were about to get their wish, too, because the anxiety of literally being put on the spot had me dangerously close to barfing all over my combat boots.
What did Harley say? Raise my hands?
I swallowed hard and lifted my hands into the air. The action elicited an overwhelming cheer from the crowd. I turned and squinted out into the sea of people, my eyes adjusting to the glare, and saw…smiles. Fist-pumping. Beer cans and red plastic cups sloshing in the air. These were the people Harley had brought me here to meet. His people. They weren’t against me; they were with me. But more importantly, they were against the douche bag in the Porsche.
The douche bag who needed to go down.
Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yelled into the deafening crowd, “Har-ley!”
I wasn’t sure if they’d even be able to hear me until the entire crowd answered back in unison, “HAR-LEY!”
My mouth spread into a face-splitting grin in response.
“Har-ley!” I yelled again.
“HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY!” the crowd began to chant.
I beamed as the chorus of support for my man bounced off the surrounding trees and drowned out the sound of the racers’ engines. It was so loud, I knew Preston had to be able to hear it.
Fuck you, frat boy, I thought as I turned to face the racers again.
Harley flashed my headlights, the Porsche followed suit, and everything that happened next occurred in the span of one breath.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I dropped my hands.
A wind tunnel’s worth of air pressure, heat, and noise blasted me from all sides.
Two hands clamped down on my biceps and pulled me out of the street.
Another blast of hot air and screaming engine noise blew past me.
A symphony of, “Woohoo,” and, “Fuck yeah,” erupted behind me.
I opened my eyes and looked around. JR and Bubba were literally jumping up and down behind me, as was basically the entire crowd on the field.
No fucking way.
I scanned the track for The Little Mustang That Could and spotted it rounding the nearest curve, going significantly slower than before. Harley pulled to a stop on the pavement right next to me with Preston following close behind.
As soon as his door was open, we were colliding magnets again.
“How the fuck did you do that?” I whisper-yelled into Harley’s ear, my fingers diving into his wild blond hair and my thighs reclaiming their rightful place around his waist.
Harley’s smug voice against my neck rumbled through me. “Turbos don’t kick in until you hit higher RPMs. They’re worthless on a short, round track. Fucking dumbass.” He chuckled, and the vibration sent a current of need straight to the place where I was split open and pressed against his taut abs. “To win here, you just need shit-tons of torque and grippy tires.”
The layers of clothing between us scorched my skin. I thought I was in awe of him before—his sense of humor, his attitude, that deadly baby-face-and-hard-body combo, the way he handled a car, the way he handled me—but I had no idea who the fuck I was dealing with. Harley James was a living legend, a working-class hero, and looking over my shoulder at the sea of adoring rebels cheering for him, I realized that I was the last one to know. As usual.
Preston approached us with a pouty fucking scowl on his pretty-boy face as the rest of the German import crew pulled up, single file, behind his precious nine-eleven Turbo. Harley gave me a quick kiss and set me down, flicking his chin toward JR and Bubba. I took that as my cue to let him handle his business, but it made me nervous. I gnawed on my fingernails as I stood by his friends and watched the pissing contest unfold. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other over the deafening heckles coming from the crowd, but Preston eventually shoved a wad of cash into Harley’s hand and stormed off, squealing his tires on the way out.
I swear, I could almost hear the sound of Nickelback floating on the breeze as those douche bags disappeared into the night. As soon as they were gone, the crowd swelled, swallowing Harley completely. I wanted him all to myself, but it looked like I was going to have to get in line. Literally. I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of him over the shoulders of full-grown fanboys and girls in high heels.
Engines rumbled as two lightweight trucks pulled up to the line, ready to race.
Shit! My car’s in the way!
I stayed low and pushed through the crowd, weaseling my way back over to Harley. I wasn’t going to interrupt him—just pat him down for my keys so that I could move my car—but as soon as my fingertips slipped into his pocket, Harley grabbed my wrist and pressed my palm against his package instead.
I squealed and yanked my hand away in shock, using it to punch Harley in the thigh. But as soon as my brain registered the heat and thickness of what I’d been palming, I immediately regretted my reaction. I’d been dying to touch him all day. I could still feel his phantom member in my palm as I stood up and gave Harley a playfully angry glare. I could still feel it when he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me into his side. And I was seriously considering reaching down and feeling it again when the sound of my name filtered through the excited blood pumping in my ears. I looked up at Harley, who smirked down at me as if he could read my mind.
“BB…this is everybody.”
Oh shit.
He’d introduced me, and I’d been too busy salivating over his dick to notice. A painful tingle flooded my neck and cheeks as I turned and gave about a dozen greasers a mortified smile.
“Hey,” I said, my voice rising a
n octave, as if I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
Harley’s fan club mumbled their greetings, gawking at me, as if I were a freak-show exhibit that they’d just paid five dollars to see. I was used to being stared at by strangers. I had a shaved head. I wore too much eye makeup. I was shockingly underweight, and I dressed like a wannabe rock star trying to sleep her way to the top. I gave people plenty of reasons to stare. Usually, I ignored the unwanted attention, chalked it up to natural human curiosity, but these stares felt different. The rockabillies weren’t interested in my look. They were interested in figuring out what the fuck made me worthy of their king. Their scrutiny made me want to bury my face in Harley’s T-shirt, but I squared my shoulders and smiled extra big instead.
Crack a joke, BB. For the love of God, this is awkward.
“So”—I rolled my eyes up toward Harley, feigning annoyance—“will one of you please tell this asshole that he owes me half of that money?”
I was rewarded with a collective symphony of deep, manly laughter.
Thank God, I thought as I sighed and relaxed into Harley’s side.
“She has a point, man.” A dark-haired Jailhouse Rock-era Elvis lookalike chuckled. “I mean, it was her car.”
“Your little five-oh smoked that motherfucker,” an extra from the movie Grease added, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline in surprise.
“Pssh, that was all Harley,” I said, glancing up at him with a dreamy grin on my face.
“Don’t listen to her,” Harley said, clamping his free hand down over my mouth. “This little girl knows fucking everything about muscle cars. She’s gonna beat all your asses one day.”
I swatted Harley’s hand away as the guys all laughed and elbowed each other over his joke. But I knew he wasn’t joking. Harley really thought I could do this—race grown men in my little Mustang hatchback. The idea was both incredibly flattering and incredibly frightening. And altogether insane.
A horn blared from the starting line, causing me to jump and cling to Harley even tighter.
Goddamn catlike reflexes.
Harley rubbed my bare arm and said, “We better move the ’Stang before Jimbo and Cal Junior start their bitchin’.”
Before we could get away, the guys all had to take turns slapping Harley on the shoulder and clapping him on the back in a masculine show of congratulations.
“Hang on to this one,” they said.
“Keep an eye on her.”
“You better watch out, man. This one’s trouble.”
I took their sarcastic sentiments as a show of acceptance, and beamed as Harley steered me toward the little black hatchback’s passenger door and opened it for me. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Harley cranked the engine and was met with a fresh blast of AC and a fresh round of cheers from the crowd as he pulled away.
“Jesus,” I said, sitting sideways so that I could admire him. “They fucking love you, man.”
Harley smiled. “They only love me ’cause I’m not takin’ their money every weekend anymore.”
He steered my car into the grass next to his and killed the engine. That corner of the track was empty now that everyone had gathered around the starting line, and once my headlights were off it was dark too.
“Speakin’ of money,” Harley said, reaching into his front pocket, “I do believe I owe you half of Preston’s college fund.”
“What? No!” I yelled, grabbing Harley’s forearm to keep his hand buried in his pocket. “I was totally kidding! I can’t take your money!”
Harley smiled, his lip ring glinting in the dark. “I love how you think you have a say in this.”
I couldn’t respond. The words I love coming out of that mouth rendered me temporarily paralyzed. Had I really thought he was going to say I love you? That was ridiculous. We’d only known each other for four days.
Get a grip, BB. Christ.
Ignoring my slack-jawed stupor, Harley graciously changed the subject. “Hey, I put your chair and that antler bunny in my room. Wanna come see?”
The wicked gleam in his eye and the quirk in his eyebrow made it apparent that Harley was as eager as I was to resume our activities from the day before.
My body screamed yes, but based on how long it had been dark outside, I knew my curfew was rapidly approaching.
“I wish I could, but I have to get home,” I pouted. “And, for your information, that antler bunny is called a jackalope.”
Harley smiled. “Well, I’m gonna start calling him Dave because that motherfucker totally watched me jerk off this morning.”
Swallow.
Blink.
Breathe.
I had guy friends. I knew how they talked. But hearing this guy talk like that, after the hours I’d spent wrapped around his talented dick the day before, opened a chasm of lust and longing inside my chest. Among other places.
“Oh, really?” I asked, my voice husky and my pulse racing as I tucked one of my longer side pieces of hair behind my ear.
“Mmhmm,” Harley said, reaching over and tucking the matching chin-length lock of hair behind my other ear. “I was thinking about you.”
I held my breath, confident that my heart was beating fast enough to keep me alive without air.
“Were you thinking about me too?” Harley asked, sliding his index finger down the side of my neck and under my jaw.
“Mmhmm.” I nodded slightly, caught in his stare.
“Did you touch yourself while you thought about me?” Harley asked, his finger poised under my chin.
I swallowed hard, then nodded again.
Harley closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. When he opened them again, they were puppy-dogified. Brows pulled together in the middle, eyes wide, bottom lip full and pouty. Harley didn’t just take whatever he wanted from me, like Knight had. He used his pretty face and begged for it.
“Will you show me?” he asked, knowing good and goddamn well that I was going to fulfill any request that came out of that pretty, pierced mouth.
Emboldened by my raging hormones and the cover of darkness, I obediently unbuttoned my ratty jean shorts and slid them down my legs and over my combat boots. Knowing there was no way I could gracefully take off a pair of pantyhose in a car while wearing boots, I simply propped my left foot up on the center console, hooked a finger into one of the holes of my fishnets, and used it to pull my black cotton thong over to one side, exposing myself to him through the mesh. There wasn’t much light in the car, but the way Harley stared and tongued his lip ring told me that he could see plenty.
He groaned as I massaged my clit in slow circles, sucking his lip and sliding his right hand up my left leg. When he reached the apex of my thighs, Harley stuck his middle finger through the fishnet material and used it to circle the perimeter of my entrance. “Fuck, you’re wet,” he whispered just before sliding that finger all the way inside me, all the way to the last knuckle.
When his fist met my sex, I whimpered.
Harley withdrew, leaving me achingly empty. Then he wrapped both hands around my waist and pulled me onto his lap. My surprised squeal turned into a shameless moan as soon as my ass pressed against the rock-hard bulge in Harley’s pants. He wrapped his hands around my thighs and shifted my body so that my back was against his front, my legs were spread open, and my knees were being held apart by his.
Then Harley laced his fingertips into the stretchy mesh covering my bald, pierced pussy and ripped that shit wide open.
Harley looked down over my shoulder as he plunged his finger into me again. I rolled my hips and ground my ass into his straining cock, praying that he would read my mind and fill me with it like he had the day before. Like I needed him to.
“What do you want?” Harley rasped into my ear before trailing kisses down the side of my neck.
“You,” I whispered into the thick, humid air.
“You have me, lady,” Harley growled into my shoulder. “Now tell me what you wanna do with me.”
&nbs
p; “I want to fuck you.” My words came out as a plea. I hadn’t meant to sound so needy, but that was exactly what I was. I needed Harley to fill the void more than I needed air in my lungs or blood in my veins. I needed him to patch my holes. I needed him to make my brain make the chemicals that would keep me afloat.
“Goddamn, I love it when you say that.”
I was glad it was dark outside so that Harley couldn’t see me blush. I rolled off his lap and dug through my purse on the floorboard until I found a condom, which gave Harley just enough room to shimmy his pants and boxers down below his ass. After sheathing himself, Harley pulled me back onto his lap, lined himself up with my emptiness, and then, I sank.
“Fuck,” Harley groaned as we reconnected, wrapping his hard arms around my torso and dropping his chin to my shoulder.
The way he held me felt intimate. Loving. He felt the magic, too. There was just something so right about us like that.
Harley held me tight and kissed whatever exposed flesh his mouth had access to as he slowly thrust into me from underneath. The pleasure was perfect. We were perfect. I threw my head back onto his shoulder and gripped his thighs with both hands, content to live in that moment forever.
As Harley’s pace quickened, I turned my face toward his and captured his mouth with my own. The combination of his pillow-soft lips, unyielding steel jewelry, and warm, determined tongue made me even more desperate than before. I didn’t want to come. I didn’t want that perfection to end. But when Harley’s fingers found the place where I was soft and wet and pierced with steel, my need took over completely.
The fingertips digging into Harley’s thighs were replaced with fingernails. The lip I was sucking was met with teeth. My mews and purrs were replaced by growls. And Harley only stoked the fire. He drove harder, rubbed faster, and kissed deeper until I was afraid to come. Not because I would lose our connection, but because I might not survive it.
My fear lost the battle, however, when Harley thrust into me fully, lifting both of our bodies off the seat, and stilled. I felt his cock buck inside me as he came, and the image of him pouring himself into me caused my core to spasm and contract, as if on cue. Immaculate pleasure washed over me—lifting my burdens, drowning my pain, and flooding my fears—until my body went limp against Harley’s chest. I rode the wave of relief until it receded, leaving me right back where I began—on the rocky shore of reality.