Burned: A Stepbrother Romance

by Kade, Teagan

  “Yes.”

  “You race the Camaro.”

  “Why would you want me to do that?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. I just find the idea of my two favorite girls getting it on kind of hot.”

  “Fine.”

  We shake on it.

  “When do you want this to go down?” I question.

  Brock grins. “There’s no better time than the present.”

  Great.

  *

  Second Bridge is a street, not a bridge at all, running perpendicular to Main for a good quarter mile. Running behind the major thoroughfare, it’s quiet for the most part, and flat, which I guess is the appeal for these guys. It’s like the council purposely built it like a dragstrip. Making it from the start and hitting Main at the top doesn’t seem implausible in twelve seconds until you realize it passes through two intersections.

  We arrive at the bottom of Second Bridge around nine PM. As suspected, Second Bridge itself is absent of traffic, but I can see cars moving through the intersections ahead. I’ve been down this run countless times before. I know there is no way you’ll get both intersections green. No car is fast enough for that.

  Brock sits on the side of the street observing. He doesn’t look nervous at all. “You ready?”

  I hold my cell phone set to stopwatch. The screen reads 0:00. My finger hovers over the ‘start’ button. “Last chance to pull out,” I warn.

  Brock turns to me. “I never pull out.” One foot on the brake, he brings the revs up sharply, the engine struggling to be let free. I look at the tachometer, RPMs reading three-thousand. I think that’s quite high in the scheme of things considering we’re standing still.

  Brock has to shout above the noise of the engine. “And… go!”

  I hit ‘start’ and he lets his foot off the brake, no sign of wheelspin at all, the rear tires hunkering down hard into the blackstuff and the front of the car lifting as we fire forward.

  “Heeeeeeelp!” I mutter, pushing back against the mighty torque of the motor. There’s a clunk as Brock shifts a gear, the car falling forward and picking up speed so quickly I’m scared my spine’s about to wind up in my mouth.

  I’m wedged hard into the seat, wired.

  I glance down at the screen and see it only reads five seconds.

  The lights go green as we approach the intersection just in time, the Camaro blitzing through and still gaining speed.

  Brock’s face is a mask of concentration, one hand on the steering wheel, the other firmly fixed to the shifter, absolutely no relent on the accelerator.

  We’re coming up fast to the next intersection—too fast. The lights are still red.

  “Brock,” I warn.

  He doesn’t pay any attention.

  “Brock!” I scream, harder, the intersection approaching too quickly, the time growing too short.

  “Trust me,” he says.

  Cars are blurring through the intersection going the other way. We are not going to make it. Still, I resist the urge to protest and grab onto the top of the door, holding myself tight for impact and praying Brock has a plan.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  The lights are still red.

  Brock shifts a gear, the engine soaring in aural agony, the back of the car swinging left and then right just enough to squeeze through the smallest of gaps between two lanes of cars coming in the opposite direction. We come so close to one I can see the shock register on the driver’s face, that look of ‘what the hell was that?’

  The car corrects and we power on, the revs growing slower now but still climbing and the end of Second Bridge approaching at lightning speed.

  We come onto Main and I hit ‘stop,’ Brock swinging the car in a wide drift until we’re back into the flow of traffic.

  I’m actually sitting off my seat, my feet planted onto the floor and my heart a wild horse set free.

  I look at the screen of my cell: 11:89. “Fuck.”

  Brock’s smiling like a goofy idiot. “Told you it could be done.”

  “You almost got us killed.”

  “I knew precisely what I was doing.”

  “There’s no way you could have equated for that gap.”

  The engine has simmered down ahead of us, the heat washing through the cabin, swimming around my ankles.

  Brock slowly nods his head. “It’s a gamble, yes, but that’s the rush. It’s just like life. You can’t always prepare yourself for what’s coming. The best you can be is ready.”

  “My, my, aren’t we full of wisdom today?”

  “Didn’t you even feel the slightest hint of excitement?”

  “I think I might have to wash out my pants when I get home is what I think.”

  Truthfully, I’m still buzzing. There was something there, the danger, the thrill. I can understand it. The rush isn’t there if the threat isn’t real. There has to be a clear and present danger. That’s what gets them off.

  “You ready to race?”

  I lower my head and lift my eyes. “You were kidding, right?”

  “No, maam.”

  “Don’t call me maam.”

  “No, officer. You’re racing whether you like it or not. But first, you’re going to need someone to race against.”

  “Let me guess, you have someone in mind.”

  “I do.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We make our way to the outskirts of town and pull up in front of an all-night donut shop. The shop itself doesn’t look like it’s seen a lick of paint in twenty years, but one thing stands out—the Lamborghini in front of it.

  Brock raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t know anything about cars?”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know a Lamborghini when I see one.”

  “A 2012 Murcielago to be precise, over 600 horse.”

  I take in the car in all its Batmobile swoopiness. Black, of course.

  There’s a major greaseball sitting on the hood, legs squatted out given how low the car is. He looks a bit like Hernandez from a distance.

  Brock parks the car. “Wait here.”

  I grab his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “Lay down terms.”

  He closes the door and walks over to the Lambo, the owner recognizing him instantly and the two of them talking. I can see the owner wave his hand in a ‘no, no, no’ gesture, before Brock turns his back to me.

  When I see them again the owner of the Lambo looks much happier. He’s pointing at the Camaro (or me?). He’s laughing.

  Brock shrugs his shoulders and heads back over.

  “No good?” I ask when he gets back in. Please, please.

  For a beautiful few seconds I think I’ve escaped, but no.

  “It’s on,” Brock beams.

  “Great,” I sigh sarcastically.

  The Lambo follows us as we head down the highway and turn off down a non-descript side street. Just like Second Bridge, it’s long and flat like a dragstrip, but this time there are no intersections, no other cars. Buildings shield us from the highway.

  Brock comes to a stop in the middle of the road, the Lambo coming up beside us. It’s so low I can’t even see it out the window.

  I lean over Brock and look down. It seems Lambo guy’s not alone. There’s a big-boobed Barbie doll type in the passenger seat.

  Brock takes off his harness. “Time to swap.”

  “You’re not serious, Brock. Come on. I can’t drive this car.”

  “You can and you will. That was the deal.”

  I’m still complaining as we swap seats. I pull the harness into place and grab the steering wheel. Brock checks his watch.

  I look sideways at the Lambo, the driver smiling back with teeth that are far too white for this time of night. He blows me a kiss.

  “Who is that guy?”

  “A real asshole. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Right.”

  Brock points through the windscreen at a light in the
distance. “See that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the railway crossing. A train will be through in two minutes. The lights will go red. When they go green, we race. First to cross the tracks wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Focus on the race.”

  I don’t think I’ve seen Brock this serious in forever. “What do I do?”

  “This is an auto. It’s easy. Let the car do the work. I’ll guide you through it.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  He reaches into the footwell and moves my legs. “One foot on the accelerator, the other hard on the brake pedal. Foot on the brake, you’re going to bring the revs up with the accelerator to 3500rpm. Got it?

  “Got it.”

  “You’re going to hold it there. Once the lights go green you’re going to lift your foot off the brake and press the accelerator all the way down. Whatever you do, don’t lift off. Keep that foot down.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I’m not joking around, Maddy.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He moves one of my hands from the steering wheel to the shifter. “Three shifts. I’ll help you, shifting every time that little light in the middle of the dash there lights up. Now tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Foot on the brake, revs up to five-thousand.”

  “Three-thousand-five-hundred! Jesus.”

  “Three-thousand-five-hundred, lift off brake and accelerator flat.”

  “Yes.”

  Brock checks his watch again, twitchy beside me. “Ready?”

  I grip the wheel tighter.

  “Whatever you do, don’t lift off the gas. If the car goes sideways, the answer is more speed, more gas.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ten seconds out.”

  The lights change and I can hear bells clanging in the distance. The Lambo revs beside us. I don’t want to look at it. I focus on the lights in the distance.

  The train starts to rush past ahead.

  I press my foot hard into the brake and begin to press the accelerator down. The revs move to 900rpm.

  “More,” says Brock.

  I push down a little more and they hit 1500rpm, the car beginning to lurch. It wants to be set free.

  The train’s almost through, the Lambo revving away wildly beside us.

  I bring it up to two-thousand-five-hundred, the engine really straining at the leash now, all that power under my fingertips.

  “More!” cries Brock and in fright I push down on the gas harder, the revs suddenly spiking to four-thousand and the car almost getting away. At the same time the lights go green ahead.

  “Now!”

  I lift off the brake and slam my foot down into the accelerator. The front of the Camaro lifts again and I’m pinned into my seat, forced to pull on the steering wheel hard as the entire thing begins to skew sideways.

  “Hold it!” cries Brock beside me, and I manage to bring the car back into line.

  The Lambo is already ahead, its slit-like taillights moving away.

  “Harder!”

  I mash my foot all the way to the floor and the Camaro picks up, slowly gaining on the Lambo.

  I’m blinded by a bright yellow light from the dash.

  “Shift!”

  Brock moves my hand on the shifter into the next gear. The distance between the Lambo narrows until we’re almost side by side. The crossing comes into clearer focus, the engine screaming with everything it’s got.

  I’m blinded again.

  “Shift!”

  Next gear and we’re pulling in front of the Lambo.

  The crossing’s coming up fast, Brock’s hand moving again and my foot pinned to the floor so hard my thigh burns.

  We come flying over the crossing airborne, the car crashing back down and Brock squeezing my thigh telling me to back off. I let my foot off the accelerator.

  We’ve done it—just.

  “Brake, brake.”

  I prod the brakes, the feeling like two bricks being mashed together coming shuddering from the back before the car finally comes to a halt.

  The Camaro ticks as we sit there. The Lambo pulls up on the passenger side. Brock exchanges words with the owner, but over the sound of the cars I can’t hear what’s going on.

  Greaseball throws something through the window. The plastic bag falls onto Brock’s lap, the Lambo doing a donut around us and whipping back down to the highway in a swirl of dust through the headlights.

  Brock opens the bag and tosses a wad of notes into my lap.

  I pick it up. “Holy fuck. How much is this?”

  “Five large.”

  “Five-thousand dollars?”

  “You earned it.”

  I thumb through the bills, more money than I’ve seen in my life. “Are you kidding me?”

  Brock’s hand wedges itself between my legs. “Now tell me you aren’t just the littlest bit excited?”

  I have to admit I am. It’s like my blood’s been replaced with soda pop. “Okay, fine. That was kind of exciting. I can’t say the money’s bad either. Maybe I could take this up full time.”

  Brock shakes his head. “Not a good idea. Take it from me personally.”

  I’m buzzed. I don’t want this night to end. “Where to now?”

  “Well, aren’t we the eager beaver?”

  “Maybe I’m changing.”

  “The others are go-karting. What do you say?”

  I put on my best Tom Cruise face. “I feel the need, the need for speed.”

  Brock rolls his eyes. “Jesus.”

  *

  We’ve got the whole go-kart place to ourselves. It’s set over two floors in a giant warehouse in yet another grimy anomaly of the city. It’s just the Midnight Club members here, everyone seemingly enjoying themselves and kicking back. Drinking and driving is clearly allowed—nay, encouraged—here.

  Brock passes me a cold Corona and points to two karts sitting side by side. “Take you on?”

  I’ve driven go-karts before. Something about being that close to the ground is unnerving. “I’m not much good.”

  “Doesn’t matter. This is just for fun, right?”

  “Nothing with you is ‘just for fun.’”

  He looks around before working a hand between my legs and groping the crotch of my jeans. I wonder if he knows how wet I am down there, how urgent I am for a finger, more… Thank god no one has noticed.

  “I don’t know about that,” he continues. “I do a lot for fun.”

  I give in. “Okay, a quick race.”

  Someone hands me a helmet. I slip it on and maneuver myself into the tight bucket seat. If it’s one thing I work out instantly, it’s that these go-karts are much more powerful than the fairground ones I remember from when I was ten.

  This thing blasts away, so much so I almost go smashing through the first wall. I remember how responsive the steering is and try to follow the back of Brock’s cart, sticking as close as I can while the motor buzzsaws away behind my back.

  Even with the helmet on I can smell petrol and grease, the tar of the track warmed up by the slick tires.

  Oh, what the hell.

  I push harder and come into the next corner, surprised by the way I slide out but still manage to avoid the wall. Jay is clapping from the side as I come past. “Not bad!” he shouts.

  I’m actually not that far off Brock. He’s good, but I find if I can follow his line I can stick to him pretty well.

  I start to get used to the sensation, the directness of the steering. Champers doesn’t have power steering, so in a way this feels much closer to driving my own car—just on an infinitely smaller scale.

  Coming down the back straight I actually manage to clip Brock’s back bumper. He snaps around with a ‘what the fuck?’ expression in his eyes.

  I’m laughing, cracking up inside as he winds down, pulling into the pits.

  I take off my helmet, hair damp and turned
into spiralized tendrils.

  “Hot,” says Brock, “but I don’t know how you caught me.”

  Jay comes over with his hand raised. “Perhaps I might of put the limiter on your cart, friend.”

  “You fucker…” and Brock pulls Jay into a headlock, both of them wrestling across the track.

  I laugh. I thought it was a little too good to be true.

  I see Hernandez on the other side of the track. He looks serious. I’ve seen that look before, but there’s something else going on. He’s looking at me with suspicion.

  I smile and focus back on the boys, both of them flat on their backs and Brock trying to pull Jay’s hoodie over his head while the others laugh behind me.

  When they’re done fucking each other we all sit at a table and sink back beers, Jay and Brock now on opposite sides of the table.

  “I can’t believe you did that, bro.”

  Jay shrugs. “Got to keep things fair.”

  “Fair? Like those twin bottles of gas in your Corvette are fair?”

  “It’s perfectly legal. Ask any boy racer.”

  Brock takes a glug. “Yeah, ‘boy’ sums it up really well.”

  Jay turns his attention to me. “Heard you took down Marcus and his Lambo. That is impressive.”

  I look to Brock. “I had help.”

  “What are you going to do with the money?” continues Jay.

  “No idea. Pedicure, maybe?”

  “That would be some pedicure,” Brock interjects.

  “You’ve got a better idea?” I throw at him.

  “Matter of fact…”

  “I don’t want to hear it. The money’s going to our folks. They need it.”

  “Oh?” says Jay. “Everything okay.”

  “It will be,” and for the first time I believe it. Five-thousand is a long way off what Dad and Michelle owe the bank, but it’s a pretty good start that should keep the wolves off their backs for now.

  “Back in the day,” says Jay, “Brock would have kept it all for himself. He’s changed, he has.”

  I run my finger around the rim of the beer bottle. “Not that much.”

  My bladder’s about to pop. “Bathrooms?”

  Jay points to the far wall. “Just past the vending machine.”

  I excuse myself and head off to the toilets. Hernandez watches me as I pass. I’m sure he’s following my ass. Let him.