Born to It

by Chelsea Camaron

  Tonight is game night. My energy is at an all time high like a thoroughbred horse in the contraption at the gate for the Kentucky Derby. I’m just waiting for the moment, the very second where it all falls into place and I take off with only one thing in mind … finishing.

  Everything counts. Before arriving, I used the same makeup techniques as yesterday to hide my true identity.

  An hour into my shift, my inner thighs burn from the dancing in heels, and my pussy is in revolt to have to rub up on one more man.

  The problem is my mark is late.

  This doesn’t fit the profile.

  Something is off.

  I don’t like it.

  I wonder if he caught wind of the threat. I wonder if something has changed stopping him from coming.

  Then Celeste rushes to my VIP room yanking me off the current client under me. He reaches out to grab me and Otis rushes over.

  “No touching!”

  “I fuckin’ paid, the bitch needs to finish.”

  Fury rushes through my veins. I don’t know what is going on for Celeste to grab me, but the man is not going to call me a bitch. I have to take whatever Titus and his men throw at me, but this shit, no. I don’t owe this dirty fucker a damn thing. I throw a hand up in Celeste’s face stopping her from talking as I turn and go to the man.

  His cock creates a tent in his pants. I reach out and grab it firmly. He tries to pull out of my grasp and I only tighten my grip. If I lose the job at Snatches, so be it. I’ll still find my mark and get the job done. It won’t be the first time adjustments had to be made and I’m most certain it won’t be the last.

  “Life lesson fucker, you wanna get laid so your dick can feel the inside of a pussy again, instead of just some broad rubbin’ on your junk, don’t call women bitches, especially a woman on your cock even if you are payin’ for the shit. Learn some respect and you might get laid and save your cash.”

  I release his shit. My eyes meet his and I relish the fear and pain I find in them.

  I continue on. “Instead of shooting your load in your pants leaving the chick feeling the disgusting remnants of your inability to control yourself, you could find your release deep inside a tight, wet cunt shooting so much you fill her full and dripping out of her. Women love the smell of sex when they respect the man giving it to them.”

  He thrusts absently twice and his pants saturate with moisture.

  “And consider this your only warning, you call me a bitch again, it’ll be the last words you mutter.”

  I turn and walk out. Celeste is on my heels as I calm my temper. That motherfucker doesn’t know me. Can I be a bitch? Absolutely. But to give a generalization that I’m a bitch because I’m a female serving him, wrong answer buddy.

  I have enough fucked up shit to deal with in this life.

  Before I can process how jacked up this night is becoming, Tony, the owner of Snatches comes in.

  “Sammi, you gotta go. Your Uncle Bernie called, your mother is at the hospital. He said it was critical. Since you were a guest dancer, your shift and time here is done.”

  He reaches out handing me an envelope. I glance inside to see cash and a note that simply reads, target cancelled move to assignment two.

  Titus.

  Every job puts me at risk. This one is no different. Every mistake, every change, the chances of me getting caught only climb higher.

  What’s at stake?

  My life.

  Chapter Two

  Blaine

  A lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinion of a sheep.

  At the gas station, I top off the tank. I look down at my sixty-four Chevy II and admire the beauty she is. The copper paint job with the crown accents make my girl, my car, Crown Royal pop because in the world of street racing, I where the fucking crown. The only person to beat me in the last two years is Ranger who helped build the car.

  Sliding back into the five-point harness seat, I buckle up and relish the throb in the steering wheel of the power of my Big Block Chevy 454 Twin Turbo engine. The hum of the motor soothes my soul. Contained fury, controlled power, all under my thumb. It’s a high no drug can ever top.

  The conversion on the big block to add the turbos took long, late night hours, but it is worth every bit of blood, sweat, and time that I put into it. Every inch of this car is me. From beginning to end there isn’t a section I didn’t work on, I didn’t touch, I didn’t cherish. Every line, every curve, like a woman I drank her in. She’s my crown.

  Behind me, Red pulls up in his 1967 Chevy Nova SS. The very one his dad, Tank once attempted to steal from my grandfather. We always joke that when you drive that car, the old saying drive it like you stole it, takes on a whole different meaning. It doesn’t look a damn thing like it did when Tank stole it, but it’s Red’s personal pride to have a piece of the man who raised him and the club who gave him a home all in one as his own.

  Tonight we’re heading to the track a few towns over for a street legal night. While I’ve been busted for street racing, the cops here don’t do anything more than give me a warning when I’m caught because well, I’m a motherfucking Hellion and I’m sure they expect the shit by now. Some heavy hitters from the East Coast are in town for the street night at the drag strip so our car club Mayhem Monsters is attending to represent.

  Ranger, my buddy from high school, owns his own performance shop Mayhem where we all go for our Dyno’s and upgrades to keep pressing the limits. He created Mayhem Monsters and organizes everyone’s call outs when we go to the big events. Red and I don’t get much time in the streets compared to the rest of Ranger’s crew, but we make it when we can.

  I love anything I can drive fast and hard.

  Tonight, the rules are simple: the car must be registered as a valid street legal car in the state of North Carolina. Your tags are your way in. The entrance fee is five hundred dollars a car and winner takes the purse after the track takes a fifteen percent handling cut.

  Do I need the fucking money?

  Nope.

  This is about pride.

  Pride in my ride. Pride in my work. Pride in being fearless.

  We pull into the track right behind Ranger in his 1956 Chevy Belair. The car is painted taxi-cab yellow and we call it Streaks because once he releases the trans brake all you’ll see are streaks of yellow. The car isn’t exactly street legal, but he’s got a set of tags on it that are legal and registered to the car so he’ll get her in the race. Same thing for me, Red, and most of the Mayhem crew along with most of the bastards here.

  A completely legal car wouldn’t be able to truly compete at a place like this in a race like tonight.

  My adrenaline is pumping as we drive in lining up and everyone’s engine is rumbling around us. The people are all standing around the parked cars admiring the craft that went into each one. The women are all dressed in barely-there clothes waiting to see if they can score their own winner for the night.

  I’m not here for some screwdriver broad to just grind on a gearhead. I’m here to fucking drive the fuck out of my car.

  As we pass the parked cars, I give a finger lift in acknowledgement until I park. Climbing out of Crown Royal, I smirk as pride fills me. I’m going to drive the fucking tires off her tonight.

  In the distance I can hear the cars at the track popping, revving, and taking off. The squeal of the tires, the sounds of the crowd, the air is charged with power.

  Horsepower.

  Test hits are offered first, and I decline. I don’t want anyone to be using a test pass to determine how to tune their cars. Nitrous is off tonight. It’s the biggest way to get busted for having an illegal car at the street legal race. Nitrous, is the spray some guys add to their cars. Sure that shit ain’t legal on the street, but like me I’m sure some guys have cars that aren’t truly legal but managed to get a set of plates and matching registration to get through the sign up. Tonight, though, sucks for them because they can’t u
se that shit and to race me, they need it.

  Personally, I don’t give a shit, a man who drives spray can race me as hard as a man with a procharger. Sometimes the bigger engine doesn’t win. Each race is a challenge of it’s own. Some races are won and lost based solely on the battle between the driver and the car. Shit happens, shit no one can predict. Until the finish line is reached, the race isn’t over. Each time I pull to the line it’s me against my machine before it’s me against any other fucker.

  You win some.

  You lose some.

  You never hang your head in shame.

  You drive the bitch as hard and fast every single race like it’s your last because it might just be.

  The drivers meeting for the race begins. We draw our chips, get our matches and lane assignments sorted out. As I stand around waiting for everyone to get their numbers, a woman steps up catching my eye.

  She’s short at around five feet two or three inches. With my height of six-feet-three-inches, I am a solid foot taller than her. She has long blonde hair going down her back in waves like she has spent the day at the beach.

  She has tone legs that I follow up from her sneakers to the edge of her cut-off denim shorts. Her ass is round, full, and leads to her toned stomach that peeks out when she reaches up to grab into the draw bag for her chip racing order. She’s in a tank-top that fits her snugly showing her ample tits. The rules tonight are we have to wear a race suit and helmet and I can’t help but think it’s a shame to cover all that sexiness up.

  Red slaps my chest getting my attention before pointing to Ranger’s car. We see two men at the car trying to open the hood. Ranger is up with the ride organizers helping keep track of the set up so Red and I take off to see who these fuckers are.

  Blondie forgotten, I go to my friend’s ride.

  “You got a death wish,” I call out approaching.

  They immediately raise up their hands like they’re innocent. Yeah, I’m not buying that shit for a second.

  “Nah, man. Admiring the work.”

  “You always admire with a pair of wire cutters in your pocket?” Red asks stepping up to the man in front of him with slicked back hair.

  “Who you representin’?” I ask.

  They don’t reply. Neither man is anyone we’ve seen before so they aren’t a local crew. One of them has tan skin and frizzy hair that is blown out into an afro while the other looks Hispanic and has his black hair slicked back and shiny. They both have brown eyes and some sort of tattoo on the front of their necks that in the dark, I can’t quite make out.

  “Let’s get some shit straight. I’m tall in height. I’m big on drinkin’, drivin’, and fuckin’. I’m short in patience, and repeatin’ myself. So last chance, who the fuck you represent?”

  “Latin LoLo’s,” afro man finally answers.

  “You come near this car, or any Mayhem cars again, your entire crew is at war with us.” Red tells them both.

  They nod and take off while Red and I check Ranger’s car. Seeing nothing touched, we go to our cars to prep for the race. Since it’s a street race, we don’t have teams to line us up. It’s literally every car getting in a line and moving two by two through the races.

  I drew Shift-faced as my rival for this first round. We’re race three so I suit up and climb in my car.

  Getting into place, the first pair take off and the left line wins. I’m in the right lane so this isn’t a good start, but I’ll make the best of it.

  We’re doing quarter-mile runs so each rotation should go relatively quick.

  With my focus being on my race, I forget the bullshit and ready my mind. The second racers line up and take off. There’s chatter at the end of my lane. Men stand around inspecting something before giving the thumbs up to line us up.

  I hit my mark. I sit letting the car build boost.

  My eyes are locked to the tree. Just ahead of us is a tree of lights, they go off in a sequence so the racers in a traditional drag race know how to prep the car and build the boost before they release at green and go straight to the finish, at least that’s the goal.

  The lights ready and boom it’s go time.

  I release my beast. I press the gas and let her shift. The car comes alive under me. The surroundings pass in a blur as the seconds tick by. The rush. The speedometer climbs higher.

  One-twenty.

  One-thirty.

  The digital read out keeps going as I press my car hard, my body hums, and my mind closes out everything but the end. My opponent is no where to be seen. This is me, my car, and the pavement under me.

  The back end gets swirly as I let off. I fight for control. The other guy drives around me as I continue to slow without hitting my brakes trying to maintain my lane. There is definitely something slick out there. I wonder who is driving with a leak. If they keep running especially on this lane it’s going to spell disaster for someone.

  Before I can sort it out though, I make it to the end of the track where we round back to the pit area. As I drive past each car, I take in who has their team working on the ride so I can keep an eye on where this problem is coming from. The last thing anyone wants to see tonight is someone wreck and get hurt … or worse.

  One race down, five more to the prize.

  The night goes on and they clean up the mess after the car causing it makes a second pass coating the blacktop in oil. After a bit of the oil absorbing stuff goes down and a lot of scrubbing with brooms on the track, it’s all clear, making it safe for the runs to continue.

  I’m waiting between rounds watching. A red fox body Mustang takes the right lane that has been stellar all evening. The blonde driving it is as hot as her car. In the left lane is a Toyota Camry.

  Something isn’t right.

  I look to Red and he shrugs his shoulders.

  The Camry hasn’t been an any race before this and we are down to the second to last round. This car shouldn’t be at the line. It doesn’t have a spot. Everything in me screams something isn’t right.

  Red and I stand at the wall watching.

  The lights go off. The cars move. The Camry makes a hard right into the Mustang’s lane.

  The Camry clips the rear quarter panel spinning the Mustang around and into the wall. Being so close, when the car comes to a stop, Red and I jump the wall and go help the driver. The Camry driver climbs out and takes off running with a crowd of angry racers behind him.

  My only focus is the blonde woman behind the wheel.

  She opens her door and climbs out from the five-point harness racing seat ripping off her helmet. Her face is fury.

  “You alright, darlin’?”

  “My fuckin’ car!” She screeches. “Where is that motherfucker so I can cut his fuckin’ nuts off.”

  Her sassy mouth makes my dick hard.

  “They’ll get him, baby. Need to make sure your alright.”

  “I’m fuckin’ breathin’, I’m alright.”

  Red goes to her car to inspect the damage.

  “Busted radiator and the front quarter panel is cutting into the wheel well, gonna need a tow,” he tells me.

  “Fuck,” hottie says to my friend.

  “No worries, darlin’. We’ll make a call.”

  “No, I can make my own call. AAA has me covered.”

  I smirk. Her spirit, her challenge, her independence, it’s all hot as hell.

  “Baby, I promise we got a tow truck. Insured and bonded. We work at a garage. We’ll have you fixed up tomorrow.”

  Red makes the call to Jasper to bring the truck. He knew to be on call tonight should one of us wreck or break something.

  “Jasper’s on his way,” Red tells me.

  “Call your man and tell him, I’ll sort it out.” She studies the car expecting me to actually listen to her which isn’t going to happen.

  “Can’t do that. Sorry, babe, not the men we were raised to be.”

  She studies me then Red. She t
akes in our cuts. “And what kind of men would that be?” She taps her chin. “Bikers. You gonna make me property.”

  I laugh. “Misconception on that term, just so you know. And baby, just sayin’ I make you mine, you’d be proud to get claimed.”

  “So why help me? You trying to be Prince Charming?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Charming, I can be. Prince, I’m not fuckin’ royalty. Savior, far from it. I was raised by good people to help when I can help. You got a situation. I can help. Simple as that.”

  She nods her head finally giving an inch. Reaching out, I drape my arm over her shoulder pulling her to my side.

  Fire shoots through me at the contact. I look down at her and she looks up at me feeling the same spark.

  “Let’s get your car towed, darlin’.”

  She falls in step with me. “I’m far from darlin’ anything, just like you’re no royalty.”

  “Then what’s your name?”

  “You can call me Fox.”

  She leaves it at that and I don’t press the issue. Her name doesn’t matter. She’s alive, safe, and I’m making it my mission to find out who ran into her. That’s not the kind of shit any of us from Mayhem or the Hellions will stand for.

  “Red, get the word out, I want the name.” I look over my shoulder to him as he preps the car for the tow and he nods.

  “Already figured as much, brother.”

  She looks to Red and then to me. “He’s your brother?”

  I laugh. Red has red hair, freckles, a short beard, and green eyes while I have spikey blonde hair, a solid tan, no facial hair because I shave every two days, and blue eyes.

  “Blood brother, no. Club brother, yes. And to me, the club means more than blood.”

  She nods but doesn’t reply.

  “You’re a man of mystery.”

  I realize then I hadn’t told her my name. “I’m Blaine. Everyone calls me BW.”

  “Blaine. I like the name,” she says as we walk back to my car.

  “Let me win this money for the night and I’ll give you a ride home, Fox.”