by Chloe Plume
My hand went instinctively to my forehead as I tried to fully process what was happening. “I…I…We’re…” I stared at him disoriented and bewildered.
Frank hushed the girl under him as she began to question the situation in high-pitched whispers of protest. “Winter, don’t look at me like that!” he spat, annoyed. “We’re not even married yet!”
“I can’t. Frank, I can’t.” The words finally tumbled out of me. I gripped my engagement ring and pried it painfully off my finger. “You can have this back Frank.” I threw the diamond ring right into the middle of the bed and it landed somewhere in the tangled mess of their bodies. “I know how much your mother wishes it went to someone better than me anyway.” I turned to leave.
Not one word of attempted apology came out of his lips. And I swear they got right back to fucking the minute I left the room. I broke down in tears. My hair stuck to the side of my cheeks as pushed the salty wetness from my eyes. I was a mess, as much on the inside as the outside. Now I really was lost. I had nothing, and after all that, I had no idea where my life was going.
Chapter Two
Rev
There were a million girls just like her. They’d show up at the tracks looking like wide-eyed deer in headlights. They were usually light blonde, perfectly done up, impeccably put together, and trying their best to look like the good-time girls of Las Vegas.
But daddy’s money always showed through. The expensive designer purse, red-bottomed shoes, and the entitled vibes they gave off—no, they didn’t belong here. For them, this was an act of rebellion. They came to the tracks with the most daring of their friends. They felt the reckless abandon and wild thrills of the races. But what they really came for was guys like me.
What they wanted was a night of sex they’d never get anywhere else. They wanted a story to tell when they started dating that boring asshole their dad liked so much. They wanted something to remember when they touched themselves late at night under those fancy sheets in the gilded cages they called home.
And hell, that was fine by me. I loved it. All those leggy girls showing off their assets, just waiting for me to pluck them out of the crowd and teach them what dirty, filthy fucking was really all about.
This one was something else. Smooth tan thighs, tight little leather micro-skirt barely containing her plump little ass, and those sky-high heels. But the nose had given it away. It was a little too perfect. Just like her tits. You could see daddy’s money all over her.
Which meant she had something to prove to herself. She’d suck my cock like a vacuum cleaner and take it everywhere I wanted just to show how naughty she was. Just as an act of defiance.
She’d said her dad was gone and we had all night—business trip or something. So I pushed all 707 horses of my Challenger SRT Hellcat along the flat, straight desert road to Vegas. The supercharged 6.2 L Hemi V8 screamed through the late afternoon air as we approached the upscale mansion neighborhood of The Ridges.
And already she was groping at the crotch of my jeans, rubbing against my cock and getting me hard and ready.
This’ll be fun.
I parked the car outside the obscenely large house. I assumed her dad was a real estate developer or something. That was the usual story. They’d buy 15,000 square foot houses above the golf courses just to have some place to stay while they conducted business in Las Vegas. They’d play a few rounds of golf with associates and fly off to another one of their mansions. The question was, why the hell was she here?
“You work with your dad or something?” I asked as we approached the huge front door and she fumbled in her purse for the key.
“What?” She looked confused. “Oh…no. I’m back from college. Just finished sophomore year.”
“Right.” I followed her in, past the marble foyer, and up a large twisting staircase.
“So…You wanna do it in the master bedroom?” she asked, her voice almost feverishly enthusiastic.
Shit. She must really not like her father.
“Yeah, sure.”
We passed through a series of hallways and finally into a massive bedroom complete with a sitting area and balcony terrace overlooking the golf courses below. I couldn’t help but notice a picture of her and her father above one of the many decorative tables holding huge vases and other extravagant ornamentation.
They seemed close.
Almost too close.
She leaned in against him, one heeled foot kicked back as he smiled and held her close.
“Uh, so your dad doesn’t really have any pictures of your mom around, huh?” I asked her, scanning across the Oriental rug covered floor to the opposite wall and only noting a second picture of her—just her, blown up large and in a gold frame leaning against the wall on top of a rich mahogany desk.
She squinted, again looking confused. “Oh, well yeah, my dad’s divorced. It didn’t end well and he got rid of all the pictures of my mom.”
“I’m sorry,” I offered, nodding.
“Plus, it would be weird, you know, ‘cause he’s dating.”
“That’s true.”
“But anyway,” she purred, tracing her hands down my chest and over the bulge of my jeans, “we have all night. He’s on a date and won’t be back until very late, if at all.”
I smiled.
Finally…
I pulled off my shirt and pushed myself between her legs as she sat on the bed. I ripped off her flimsy top and stared admiringly at the swell of her breasts. They were fake. But I wasn’t complaining.
“Wait a second,” I said, stopping suddenly as I remembered what she’d said at the racetrack. “I thought your dad was at a business meeting?”
She pursed her face. “Oh, did I say that? I meant earlier. Then a date.”
I shrugged.
What do I care?
She unbuckled my jeans and slid them down to my ankles. My cock was hard and at attention, tenting the fabric of my boxer-briefs.
“This is so exciting,” she exclaimed, licking her lips. “I’ve never fucked a racecar driver.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly what I am… But hell, Carpe Diem.”
A baffled expression swept across her face. “Wait, what does that mean?”
“Never mind,” I answered.
Not the sharpest tool… But, anyway, I’m more interested in what she can do with my tool…
“Seize the moment,” I added.
“Oh!” She perked up. “YOLO!”
“Sure, right.” I slipped off my boxer-briefs and she gasped, pulling back with her hand over her mouth.
“It’s just like everyone says,” she suddenly blurted out. “Sarah told me you were big, and boy she wasn’t kidding.”
I smiled proudly.
If you’ve got it, flaunt it.
“Well, thank the Gryffin gene pool I guess,” I remarked.
She slipped off the bed and got on her knees, putting her hands on my hips. I closed my eyes, waiting for her mouth to cover the raging head of my cock. But she hesitated, thinking something over.
“Wait, Gryffin…” she started. “That’s the name on all those big trucks—they’re everywhere here. You must be really rich then.”
I grumbled unintelligibly.
Not this again.
Gryffin Transportation was the family business, and I had nothing to do with it. Instead, I spent my time evenly split between my two favorite things: fast cars and fast women. My dad didn’t like that. Which meant I didn’t take a cent from the family. I wouldn’t have either way.
My life, my rules.
Suddenly the loud sound of the front door slamming echoed from downstairs. The girl in front of me—whatever her name was—who not a moment ago had perched so delightfully in front of my hard dick, abruptly shot back up on her feet and grasped for her blouse.
“You should go!” she uttered in a harsh whisper.
I pulled up my boxer-briefs and grabbed my shirt and jeans. “I thought you said your dad—”
I didn’t bother finishing the sentence. Everything suddenly made sense.
How could I be so stupid?
Well, there was the bad habit I had. The one where I often did the thinking with my junk instead of my brain. Things started to make a lot more sense when I considered that this girl was the other type.
The other type of easy lay that showed up at the track. The kind of hot ass married to a much older, much richer guy who just couldn’t do it for her anymore.
Problem was, I drew the line at marriage. And my more immediate problem was I had to get the fuck out of here. Without thinking it over, I grabbed my jeans, shirt, and leather jacket, and hauled ass right down the hall.
He was in front of me, the old bastard. Eyes wide with fury and face flushed crimson red right up to his extremely receded hairline. I shrugged an apology, spat out something like “look I didn’t know,” and ducked under the swing of his punch.
Then I just barreled down the hall. Pretty sure I knocked a few things over in the process, but hell—this was Nevada. I wanted to get out of there before he got his gun. I mean, I know what it looked like. I was in my underwear, holding my clothes, and running right out of the bedroom with his wife peering out from behind the door.
I blasted through the entryway while grabbing my key from my pants pocket. I threw my clothes in the back of the car, hit the clutch, and turned the key.
Just as I peeled out backwards out of the driveway, past the front door, that old bastard came out swinging a baseball bat, face even redder this time.
Oh, thank you…thank you.
I was positively overjoyed it wasn’t a gun. Even when he swung, knocking off my passenger side-view mirror and denting the side of the car, I was still overjoyed. And I was still happier when, without having incurred any bodily harm whatsoever, I found myself happily speeding along the desert interstate in nothing but my boxer-briefs.
Then my phone buzzed. A text from Ink. Well, Julian, to be exact. But no one called him that except our parents.
You know Mayhem has a fight today. Expecting you here at 9.
Oh shit! I completely forgot.
Cage, or Mayhem as everyone called him, loved to box. He worked with my dad, all dressed up in business suits in the office, and then he’d go head to head with some of the best heavyweight fighters out there. Ink and I made a habit of showing up to every single one of our older brother’s matches. I mean, for one thing, we sure as hell didn’t want to disappoint Mayhem.
Yeah, I’ll be there.
My phone buzzed again:
Better get started, it’s getting late.
Yeah right…
I don’t think Ink fully appreciated how fast I could drive. He was always the cautious, reflective type. Mayhem was—well, Mayhem was just a beast.
Me—I was the reckless fool, as my dad reminded me every weekend. And I loved every minute of it.
Pedal to the metal, that’s the way to live.
I glanced at the time readout on the dash. At this rate, I’d have plenty of time.
I think I’ll stop for a drink.
Chapter Three
Winter
Somehow, I’d managed to get to sleep. The bottle of chilled vodka that Charlotte left out when she stumbled off to bed certainly helped. I’d rushed back across the casino floor and up to my room, only to find it maddeningly empty. It was like the whole thing was a dream and I was left to process it in solitude.
Except it wasn’t a dream.
Frank Wilson was a piece of garbage. The man I’d always felt I wasn’t good enough for was sticking it in some floozy, bimbo—whatever the hell you’d call her—and had the nerve to turn it all around on me. Far from being apologetic, he was aggressive and reproachful.
Somehow, it was my fault for stumbling in on him humping and groaning with another woman. Right when we were getting married. I guess there was a bit of twisted logic at play. I guess the idea was that if I hadn’t found out, it wouldn’t have mattered.
That’s pretty much what Samantha and Juliet had told me. I’d rushed into the suite in tears, grabbing the bottle of vodka and sinking into the massive chair Charlotte had finally abandoned. I was bawling and sobbing, and the noise finally got two of them up—Charlotte, of course, was out like a light.
I told them exactly what happened. And they listened, nodding and acknowledging the almost freakish reality of Frank grinding into some random girl just days before we were supposed to be married. When I was done letting it all out, fresh tears streamed down my face.
I was crushed, broken, and hopeless. I told them I couldn’t go through with it. The wedding was off. How could I?
“You can’t do that,” Juliet said. “Believe me. This is your one shot. It’s worth dealing with this kind of thing.”
And then Samantha chimed in. “I’m sure it was just Frank’s last hurrah. You’re very lucky, Winter. A man like Frank Wilson—well, if it was me, I’d just look the other way.”
My mother’s response wasn’t that much different. I’d called her in the morning, rising to the glaring Nevada sun focused through the windows I’d forgotten to curtain while soothing myself to sleep with the rest of Charlotte’s vodka. I’d taken a few Advil, rolled out of bed, and dialed impulsively. I’d figured at least my own mother would have a bit of sympathy, some words of solidarity…something to make me feel at least someone was in my corner.
“I understand, Winter,” she began. “But these are the things that men do.”
I was shocked to hear her recount the numerous times my stepfather had cheated on her, most recently with his secretary. Times she’d known about. Affairs she’d chosen to ignore.
“You have to learn to live with it,” my mother advised. “It’s all part of growing up.”
Everyone around me was urging working past this. I wasn’t so sure. But the overwhelming response to my situation was to give it another try. And as insufficient as that seemed, it was the path of least resistance. So I caved in. I texted Frank:
Meet you at airport. We’ll talk.
But then I saw him at the airport. He didn’t have the slightest bit of contrition in him. Unfazed, he stood waiting at the terminal, hands gesticulating wildly in front of him as he recounted the wild night of his bachelor party.
Though I’m sure he left one part out…
His buddies snorted and laughed as Frank nodded and smirked. His face settled into his characteristic shit-eating grin, and the whole thing looked like a nightmarish hallucination.
Frank acted like nothing happened. He was carefree. His usual smug self. Charlotte, Samantha, and Juliet sat beside him, waiting for the flight. They were equally untroubled by what Frank had done. Everything was back to normal. I guess I was supposed to just forget about it.
Except I couldn’t.
Which is how I found myself taking a long taxi ride out of Vegas and to my Aunt Silvia’s. I’d run out of the airport like I’d run out of Frank’s hotel room. Something about just stepping back into the same old felt unbearably uncomfortable. Boarding that plane with those people and jumping into the usual routine was just plain wrong.
So I texted my Aunt to let her know I’d be stopping by.
I’m sure my mom will love that.
Aunt Sylvia had left home right after high school, traveling to Vegas and starting a career as a showgirl. Her decision left her estranged from my grandmother and mother, who were always concerned about the right image and cultivating a refined aesthetic for the purposes of marrying well.
But, though she did it with reluctance, my mom gave me Aunt Sylvia’s number and address, “ to use in cases of emergency only.” I was pretty sure what happened last night counted. At the very least, I needed some time away from everyone and everything—away from a life I felt I didn’t belong in.
I’d emailed my mom, letting her know I’d be taking some time. Then I’d texted Frank:
I’m not coming back. Don’t wait up. Don’t bother calling.
And that’s where the real adventure began. As the shocking events of last night and this morning played over and over in my mind, I got the feeling the cab ride was taking way too long. Before my phone had died, I’d thrown up the address on Google maps and saw it was under half-an-hour outside the Vegas Strip. Problem was, we’d been driving for 45 minutes. And we weren’t in traffic.
Of course, my complaint resulted in argument. All I heard from an angry stream of broken English was that I owed him $75 and I gave it to him, hoping against all hope to prevent further hostility.
Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. The enraged taxi driver refused to acknowledge that he’d been practicing that long and noble Vegas cab tradition of “long hauling.” Not only that, but once he had the cash in his grubby hands, the car came to a screeching stop and I was promptly kicked to the curb.
So, there I was. One unfortunate event after another had culminated in my very peculiar situation. I stood there at the side of the road, powder-blue blouse tucked into my beige skirt, rocking the whole J. Crew look with a brightly colored wheeled suitcase at my side. Across the street was a bar with a sign that read “Cash Only.” And outside of that bar were about a dozen motorcycles and a couple mean looking guys smoking and transacting some kind of business that I’d bet wasn’t exactly legal.
I was out of place. I was lost. And my phone was dead.
Well, this is unexpected.
I didn’t seem to be having much luck of late. But I had to be somewhere near my Aunt Sylvia’s. Though, how close, I didn’t know, thanks to that dishonest Vegas area taxi driver.
Big surprise there.
I made my way towards the bar and got a couple puzzled looks from the men smoking outside. I had a feeling it wasn’t very often they saw someone dressed like me, walking into the bar with a suitcase in tow. I remembered my Aunt Sylvia’s address, so all I needed was someone to point me in the right direction and maybe let me make a call for a car.
The moment I pushed the door open, I was an object of curiosity. The bar was full of tough looking, gritty men; a massive tattooed bartender whose face was frozen in a grimace; and a scantily clad waitress with rough, furrowed skin that had baked for years in the Nevada sun. This wasn’t the Vegas Strip. My pastel, preppy getup stuck out like a sore thumb.