by Dahlia West
Ava turned in just a tiny bit, narrowly missing the SUV’s front bumper as it swung wide, too wide, to make such a simple turn. She caught a glimpse of long hair, hoop earrings, a gaping mouth red-ringed with lipstick. Women drivers. Ava huffed and shook her head. She kept on the gas and ducked back into her own lane, now ahead of the Mustang, and sailed under the traffic light just as it ticked from yellow to red. The Mustang was at a standstill in the intersection, rocking on its chassis.
In a fit of anger, he laid on the horn. The blast was high-pitched, almost whiny. Ava glanced back to see him giving her the finger. She laughed as she signaled her lane change and took the ramp for the interstate. Two minutes and two gears later, the lights of Rapid City fell away. Long shadows cast by the nearly full moon fell across the hills and blotted out the silhouette of the trees in the distance.
Ava liked old places, things with a past, since she had none herself. Adopted as a baby, she had no real idea where she came from. She preferred not to think about it, which of course meant it was all she ever did think about. To her right, the sharp, uneven lines of the Badlands set themselves against the dark horizon. She’d spent so much time here that it felt like home.
Two lefts and a right onto an unmarked fire road and she was deep in the darkness, far away from Rapid City, Stark Ink, and the Starks themselves. Ava was fine with it. For someone who spent so much time trying to fit in, she was surprised at how relieved she often was to get away.
Up ahead, the red glow of firelight guided her way.
Chapter Two
Ava weaved her way through the gathering crowd. It was the usual mix of people she’d come to expect at these flash mob-like rallies—rednecks in trucks with radios blaring, bikers gathered in small groups, admiring each other’s rides. The races always brought out scantily clad females, for some reason. Ava marveled at the fact that they never seemed to get the memo that short shorts and heels weren’t exactly appropriate attire for riding in someone’s bitch seat. Her own leather pants and stacked-heel boots were better protection against road rash.
Up ahead, a small bonfire raged. Sparks ascended into the sky, which was an inky black now that the sun had set. For a moment, she wished she were all alone so that she could actually see the stars. The canyons were beautiful at night—quiet and expansive. In some ways the rallies ruined their appeal. The nearly full moon added to the soft glow of headlights all around her. For being in the middle of nowhere, the place was surprisingly well-lit.
Off to the far right, alone in the relative dark, Ava made out a rider on a black Yamaha. He was alone, taking in the scene. Though he was difficult to make out, Ava didn’t need any extra light to know the details of his rig. On his helmet was a silver wolf. The same image was also running down the sides of the chassis. She didn’t know his name. She barely knew any of these people in spite of the fact that she raced every time she could these days. She thought of him as The Wolf.
The Wolf never spoke to anyone, either.
Ava’s eyes passed him over and continued searching the crowd. Far to the left, she finally found what she was looking for—or whom, as it were. A scrawny guy with messy blond hair and a days-old beard was holding court while perched on the tailgate of a Ford. A spiked-haired dude in an oversized leather jacket was offering him a wad of bills.
Ava rolled her bike toward the smaller crowd, as close as she could get. Then she killed the engine and hopped off. Leaving the Honda close by and within sight, she stalked over to the blond. She managed to get just a few feet away before he turned and spotted her.
She unzipped the pocket of her leather jacket and fished out a wad of bills secured by a rubber band. She held it out to him.
His jaw twitched. “No,” he spat. “Oh, hell no.”
Ava didn’t move, still offering up the entry fee.
“You,” he bit out, “are a menace. A straight-up menace. And you fuck up my odds.”
Ava didn’t think of herself as a menace. She just assumed that racing had a steep learning curve. She’d wiped out instead of finishing, more than once, but not lately, though.
To their right, the guy with the spiked hair turned back around. “Oh, shit!” he shouted. “Oh, sheeit! Yo, man,” he said, slapping the blond’s arm, “is she racing? I want to change my bet.”
The blond ground his teeth together.
As he lounged on the flat tailgate, Ava noticed a large, green tarp that had been laid across the bed. It wasn’t fully secured, though, and as the blond reached for another Bud Light, Ava saw the tines of a garden rake peeking out from the covering. Apparently, he’d been doing a little landscaping in his free time.
“Yo, man, change my bet,” Spike pleaded.
“Bets are final.”
“Oh, come on, Weasel. Not until the Line Call,” Spike argued.
Beyond them, others moved forward, muttering to each other.
Weasel glared at Ava for a moment. Then, his eyes flicked past her shoulder. They lit up instantly and he looked back at Ava with a slow smile spreading on his face. “Yeah, all right,” he declared. He reached out and snatched away Ava’s entry fee.
With her now free hand she pushed down the visor on her helmet.
More people closed in on them. The excitement level was rising. As Ava started to turn away and head for the line, someone came into her peripheral vision.
“Damn!” someone called out.
She turned to see a red Honda Interceptor rolling up on them. So, that’s what had Weasel all hot and bothered—the entry of a high-end, fully modded racing bike. The thing probably cost more than twice Ava’s ride. The Interceptor pulled to a stop just a few feet from her own bike. The difference between the two machines was painfully obvious.
It was a sweet ride, she had to admit. Flowing, sleek lines; gleaming chrome. The engine purred like a contented kitten, but Ava knew what it could do if you opened it up on a highway. Too bad she hadn’t had enough cash to pay for one of those bad boys. Not that she could have bought one even if she did. It had been hard enough to explain away to Adam and Pop how she’d managed to come by her portion of the money for the machine she was riding now.
Nice as it was, she didn’t need one. Not really. Ava knew a racer’s bike was important, but so was the rider. And few people knew the Badlands better than she did, especially not some guy she’d never seen before tonight. He’d probably never even raced before. His bike looked brand new. He’d probably bought it just to show off.
As if on cue, he took off his helmet at that moment. He had bronze, smooth skin and hypnotic dark eyes that marked him as Hispanic. A few of the bunnies purred their approval. He shook out his dark, wavy hair while giving the women a grin. They giggled and waved.
The Mexican Paul Walker.
Ava snorted inside her helmet. He was hot, to be sure, but his arrogance was annoying. Especially in light of the fact that he seemed blissfully unaware of his impending loss. He filled out his leathers nicely, though. Ava hoped he didn’t get hurt too badly on his way to the loser’s circle. As he preened for the bunnies, Ava rolled her eyes. He might as well rip his shirt in half to show off his abs.
All that was missing was baby oil and an industrial fan.
Around them, more people were placing bets. Some of them put their money on the Interceptor, admiring the clean lines of the bike while knowing nothing about its rider. Ava didn’t care. Let them bet against her. It didn’t matter. That prize money was as good as hers. Their side bets meant nothing to her. He might have a better bike, but she doubted he could actually handle it.
Weasel called them to the line and Ava grabbed her bike. As she made her way to the start, the Interceptor slid up next to her and parked beside her. The Wolf pulled up on his other side. The newbie paid the line no mind, instead preferring to mug for the spectators. Big mistake, Ava thought to herself as she flexed her hands. They may not be at the X Games or a moto rally, but these were serious races, and dangerous. The newbie would pay for not taking it
seriously.
When he wiped out (and Ava had no doubt he would), he’d have more to worry about than his hair.
Ava snorted as she pictured him, in tears, over the scratches he was about to put on his gorgeous ride.
A fourth rider joined them. Ava had raced against him a couple of times. He was nothing special and neither was his bike. Why he kept entering, she didn’t know. Maybe he just liked the thrill. Two hundred bucks was a lot to pay, though, to keep getting your ass kicked. Ava thought he’d be better off investing in a PlayStation.
A few feet away, a curvy, big-titted brunette sauntered into their midst. She swayed comically on her impossibly high heels. Ava had seen her before—at every single race, in fact—but didn’t know her name. She’d dubbed the woman The Start-line Skank, because that seemed to be her chosen profession and the dress code for such a position was sorely lacking.
The Start-line Skank hobbled to the front of the line, still not finding it easy to walk on the scrub of the canyons in her strappy heels. Ava shrugged. Maybe she preferred tables.
She squeezed in between Ava and the newbie, running her hand along his thigh as she made her way to the front. When she got in front of the bikes, she turned and shook her tits at him. The newbie grinned at her.
Ava groaned, though, as they jiggled awkwardly. There was no way they were real. The skank batted her eyes and pursed her kewpie-doll lips. This was probably the thrill of her life, counting off races. This particular skank had started every race since Ava had discovered them. Usually, she had a hate-on for Ava, determined as she was to screw every race winner. But Ava won more often than she lost these days and, apparently, screwing the second-place finisher was a shitty consolation prize in the skank’s estimation.
Tonight, though, the girl actually seemed oblivious to Ava’s presence. Apparently, screwing on a Honda Interceptor was on her Fuckit list and she was prepared to overlook the fact that the rider was about to place no better than second in this race. If he finished at all.
Engines revved and tensions were high. Everyone was anxious to get the show on the road. Everyone, that was, except for the skank and the newbie racer. They were too busy making eyes at each other to notice the ticking clock.
The skank peeled off the silk scarf around her neck slowly, as if it were only the first thing to go. The newbie grinned and nodded his appreciation of her assets. Suddenly, Ava wasn’t sure if this was a race or an orgy. The Interceptor’s rider didn’t seem certain, either. He seemed happy enough to ditch the race altogether and ride off into the sunset with the girl in front of them.
Ava wouldn’t be sorry to see them go.
The skank raised her arms and her tits threatened to pop out of her shirt. She giggled as though it was a distinct possibility.
Ava gunned her engine to remind her why they were here. It earned her an Eat-Shit-And-Die glare. The Interceptor’s rider laughed.
Almost reluctantly, the skank finally dropped the silk. Ava leaned hard on the gas and shot forward, leaving her and Number Two to their budding romance.
Chapter Three
As predicted, the summer sun had baked the canyon bone dry, despite last night’s rain. Dust kicked up when their tires raked across it and the Interceptor’s rider was forced to reach up and slam down his visor. The move cost him precious seconds of lead-time, though. Ava made it out ahead of him as The Wolf came up hard on his other side.
Ava lay on the gas hard and shifted through her Honda’s gears quickly, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. She knew the Badlands and she knew the racers, unlike this newbie behind her. She knew The Wolf, too, if not his name. She knew the most important thing anyone needed to know about The Wolf.
The Wolf was a cheater.
He had apparently spent all his money on his matching helmet and chassis and forgot that he actually needed a tricked-out bike to win a race. He made up for his lack of a high-grade fuel injector and oxygen-rich intake mixer by focusing all his efforts into running his opponents off the goddamn road.
Ava had found that out the hard way once.
Luckily, she’d walked away with only a scratched-up bike and bruised pride. Someday, though, someone might not be so lucky. Weasel didn’t seem to give a shit, though, and let the asshole continue to line up so long as he could pay his entry fee.
True to form, instead of pulling ahead, The Wolf closed in on the Interceptor and tried to crowd it out. He got close, too close, to the Interceptor’s rear tire, forcing the rider to swerve sharply to avoid collision. The road was dry but loose and Ava was sure the Interceptor would wipe out on recovery. Miraculously, he didn’t, though.
As she hit the first turn, she risked a look back. He’d recovered nicely and was coming up hard on The Wolf. Possibly looking for revenge. Ava shrugged and turned back to the road ahead. Revenge might feel good, but it was a loser’s game.
To make up for the lack of streetlights, Weasel had the fire road lined with road flares. Their bright red glow zipped past her vision as she continued to lie on the gas. Now wasn’t the time to worry about the other riders. The only thing in her sights now was the finish line.
They approached the final, hairpin turn, the last before the straightaway to the finish line. Ava hit the brakes and The Wolf surged past her, trying to take it wide. Ava knew that would be a costly mistake. She, herself, skidded left and had to put her foot down to keep the Honda upright. She’d misjudged how much she’d need to decelerate. The Wolf hadn’t known he’d need to slow down at all, and when he hit the turn at top speed, his bike slid and lost all traction.
Ava didn’t see him hit the wall of the canyon; she was too far out in front to risk a look back. She heard it, though, and knew there was some chance that he might not walk away from that one.
Karma’s a bitch, she thought as she picked up speed. One day Weasel would get his, too. Someday Ava would get him alone, grease his sphincter with motor oil, and shove that rake up his ass.
For all his shortcomings, Weasel knew the odds... and how to stack them in his favor.
Ava managed to keep her Honda in check down the final stretch. At least the straightaway was clean, thankfully, because Weasel had to have a big finish to keep the lookie-loos and the bunnies happy. No one felt like a champ if they had to wobble their way across the finish line.
Ava leaned forward and kicked her bike into high gear. Over her shoulder, she saw the Interceptor coming up hard. He was flanked, though, by the fourth rider, who’d managed to make it through the sabotaged hairpin as well. Unsure of what to expect from this last competitor, the Interceptor gave him a wide berth.
Too distracted by another would-be cheater, the Interceptor’s rider missed the chance to open up his bike and overtake Ava down to the finish line. God knew his bike was better than hers, but he was too new, too unfamiliar with the track and its players. Racing wasn’t just about driving fast, but he hadn’t figured that out just yet.
Ava was the first over the line at a cruising speed of almost 65 miles per hour, pretty ballsy considering the terrain they were on. The crowd was a mix of elated cheers and people lobbing half-full beer cans to the ground in anger at their lost money.
Ava ignored all of them and let the Honda slow gradually as she looked for Weasel. She still wasn’t sure if she’d just take his money or run him over. She spotted him holding court near his truck and nosed her bike in his direction. She pulled to a stop just a few feet away from the gathered crowd of bettors and parked.
The sound of an engine rumbled in her ears, despite the fact that she was still wearing her helmet. She turned to see the Interceptor come to a sliding stop just a few feet away from her. Its rider jumped off the bike, tore off his helmet, and stalked toward Weasel. “What the hell was that? You fucked up that track!” he accused.
Weasel merely shrugged and continued counting the stack of money in his hand. The crowd around him thinned out. The looks on people’s faces directly correlated to the amount of money they ha
d crammed into their fists. The rider ignored them as they dispersed, zeroing in on Weasel.
“And that asshole...” The guy jerked his thumb to The Wolf who was pushing his bike down the final stretch.
Ava was a little irritated to see he could still walk.
“That asshole tried to run the rest of us off the damn road!”
Weasel grinned at him while the guy seethed. “Assholes aren’t my specialty.”
“You sure about that?” the guy snapped back.
Some people laughed and Weasel glared at him. “Ain’t my problem. The people come here for a show and I give ‘em one.” He separated some bills from the stack, folded them up and started toward Ava. Over his shoulder, he called, “Look, you lost, esé.” Weasel sneered at Ava. “And, yeah, I get how that would sting, considering...”
He held out the wad of bills and she took it from him, rolling her eyes at him from behind her visor. Weasel turned back to the guy. “You can’t handle it, then I guess this’ll be your first and last race, won’t it? Capisce?”
Ava snorted. She wasn’t surprised that Weasel could somehow manage to piss off two ethnic groups with one spectacularly ignorant comment. He walked past the incensed newbie, a little too close in Ava’s opinion. She watched to see if the new guy would reach out and collar him, but he didn’t. In an admirable feat of self-restraint, he let Weasel wander away toward the bonfire, unscathed.
The newbie turned his gaze to Ava. “Gonna celebrate?” he asked.
She didn’t respond as she shoved the money into her inside zipper pocket. Sadly, no. She chipped in for the bills at the house and anything leftover, she squirreled away. One day she’d get out of here, just for a little while, and see whatever was out there that was worth seeing.