No Limits (Stacked Deck Book 5)

by Emilia Finn

  I burst out with loud, startling laughter that makes the crowd around us jump. “I took your car, I took your cash, your date sure as shit didn’t leave with you, and I jacked up your face. Remind me, Price. When was my beatdown? Because it seems to have slipped my mind.”

  “I’ve come back with a better car,” he growls. “You can keep my piece of shit. I was in the market for something else, anyway.”

  “And when you hand over the keys to this one in a couple hours, I’ll be sure to thank you for going to the trouble of picking out such a pretty color.” I lean a little closer to the Challenger and try to peek through the tinted windows. “Who’d you bring for me? Is she pretty?”

  He surges forward with a battle cry, only to be stopped feet before he reaches me.

  Tucker steps in and shoves him back, and then more of our crowd join in to hold him back.

  “Fuck you, Kincaid!”

  I laugh, loud and obnoxious, since I know it pisses him off so much. “No thanks, but I’ll be sure to fuck whoever you got in that car. Tell me she’s pretty. It’s always easier to steal from you when she’s pretty.”

  “You don’t touch her!” he roars. “You don’t fuckin’ touch.”

  “Probably should have considered how often and how hard I’m gonna fuck you over when you decided to play with my sister. There are lines, Price. And you crossed mine. You will never be able to undo that.”

  Since Tuck still has Jackson, I move around to the passenger side of the Challenger and send people skittering back when my jaw ticks and my fists flex.

  Being a Kincaid means I come with a reputation. My daddy was a world champion fighter – literally, with shiny belts and all of the fame that comes with. My mom was a fighter. My aunt was a fighter. All of my uncles, most of my cousins… To be a Kincaid means you know how to lay a person out.

  Being me, specifically – the peacock’s son, and the original Bryan Kincaid’s namesake – means I long ago ignored all of those lessons we got from our parents about not hurting people just because we can. I don’t hurt people if they never hurt me, but fucking with my sister is a line that a man can never be redeemed from.

  With my shoulders back, and a fuckload of bad attitude sitting in my sneer, I stop by the shiny door, swing it wide open, and crouch down to look into a pair of tawny doe eyes.

  “Well, shit.” I grin.

  Long, dark brown hair, a proud, angular jaw, and a set of plump lips that shimmer with cherry red lipstick.

  “How the fuck he keeps talking pretty girls into his car, I’ll never know. It’s one of those marvels of the world.”

  She watches me with curious eyes. “Either that,” I continue, “or the female population are getting dumber with every year that passes.”

  And now they’re pissed.

  I offer my hand to pull her out, but she slaps me away with a stinging smack, pushes out on her own, and stands tall in a pair of high heels that brings her forehead in line with my mouth, her hair in line with my nose.

  Her knee in line with my balls.

  She swings that denim-covered weapon up without a single word, slams my balls up into my throat, and pushes a hand to the top of my head until I drop to the dirt with tears in my eyes.

  “Hooo…” I squeak. “Ahhhhhh…”

  She moves into a crouch so we’re eye to eye, and flashes the world’s prettiest smile. “I’m not dumb, I’m not easy, and you’re a misogynistic asshole that will never touch me. Hi.” She offers a hand. “I’m Madilyn Tosky.”

  Squeaking, whistling breath passing through my collapsed lungs, I take her hand and shake.

  “And you’re Bryan Kincaid. Yes,” she smarts when my tear-filled eyes come to hers, “I know your name. Everyone knows your name, but it’s not for the reasons you think.”

  She stands so my eyes are now in line with her crotch. With her hands, as she drops them on her trim hips. On the inch of bare skin that shows between her jeans and her top.

  “In my circles – as in, all of womankind – you’re known as an STD one-stop-shop. We’ve heard about your tiny dick, your inability to take no for an answer, and though I’m inclined to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, you’ve proved everything I’ve heard in a single second of knowing you.”

  She lifts a heeled foot – it’s pretty, the heel and the foot – presses it to my chest, and pushes me to my back until plumes of dust waft into the air. She stands over me, grins, and I swear, even through the nausea that rolls in my stomach, a part of my brain still manages to focus on how fucking pretty she is.

  “I’m the girl that will break your streak in regards to stealing Jackson Price’s dates. I’m not a she-bot, I don’t lack in self-respect, and my ears are open to your ugly behavior toward women. But your streak was fun, I’m sure.”

  She scrunches her nose, and bends down to get closer. Her hand comes toward my face – like maybe she’s going to stroke my cheek and do the there, there – but in reality, she snags my ballcap and places it over her perfectly styled hair.

  “Thanks, handsome. Now maybe stand back while the grownups race their cars.”

  “Ice,” I cry to Tuck as soon as I make my limping way across the racetrack and stand behind a tall VW van. “Gimme some fuckin’ ice.”

  A true friend he is not, because though he moves around the van, reaches into a cooler, and fills a bag with melting ice, he laughs. Big, belly chortling, chest-bouncing laughter that gives his face wrinkles when we’re too damn young for wrinkles. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he giggles. “I’ve never in my life seen you hit the ground so fuckin’ fast.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I snatch the bag when he offers it, and shove it straight into my jeans until the cold sends that single descending ball straight back up into my throat. “Oh my fuck, man. Have you ever tasted ballsack before?” I swear, genuine tears blind me. “It’s not nice.”

  He only laughs and leans against the side of the van. “You know that ninety-nine percent of the women here tonight wish they could knee you in the junk. That chick just became queen bee around here.”

  “Why? I don’t hurt anybody!”

  He lifts a brow.

  “I hurt Jackson, but he doesn’t count. He’s a fuckin’ toolbag. He deserves everything I give him. He’s the one who should get his dick rearranged.”

  “You announced you were gonna fuck his date!” Tuck throws his arm out, like I care where the fuck Jackson and his Madilyn are right now. “You literally announced you were gonna bag her – without even asking her opinion – and you mentioned it would be less of a hardship if she was pretty.”

  “I was talkin’ out my ass,” I groan. “Fuckkkk.” I rearrange the ice. “I wasn’t going to pick her up and have my way with her.” I pause. “I mean…” Despite the pain that touches every nerve ending in my body, I still manage to grin. “Shit, I would if she offered. You see how pretty she was?”

  I peek around the van, and search for those long legs amid the hundreds of people watching the cars race.

  I turn back to Tuck. “She new to town?”

  He shrugs.

  “You don’t know her?”

  Stealing a Coke from the cooler he stole ice from, Tuck cracks the can open and takes a sip. “Nope. But you know me; I keep to myself when I can. I don’t tolerate humans very well.”

  “You tolerate me.”

  He barks out a loud laugh. “I fix your car. You pay me well for ten minutes’ work. Hell yeah, I tolerate you. You got me into a race circuit that wouldn’t accept me until you vouched. Now I’m in, I win, I get side business, and I get to watch hot chicks put you on your ass. This has been the best night of my life.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I throw my head back and breathe through the last zings of pain that one trim woman with luscious hair and biteable lips was able to inflict on me.

  Twenty-two years of learning how to fight. Perfecting the armbar. Practicing the triangle. Finding the exact pressure points in someone’s neck, so
I can put them out in a second and disable them from taking a swing at me. Tens of thousands of hours spent in a gym learning how to defend myself, all to be put down by one chick and her sneaky knee.

  I can never tell my family. They’ll never let me forget the humiliation.

  “It’s almost your turn,” Tuck murmurs. He studies the cars lining up for their race. “You got two more.”

  “You’re in front of me?”

  “Mm,” he grunts. “I gotta go.” He sets his Coke on the roof of the van and turns back to me. “You coming out, or you still crying about being beaten up by a girl?”

  “I’ll come.” I drag the dripping bag of ice from my pants, and set it on the roof of some poor dude’s van, then I look down and groan at the wet patch on my crotch. “Looks like I pissed myself.”

  “It was inevitable.”

  He starts walking when I come around the van and join him. We move toward the crowd, toward my car as it sits exactly where I left it earlier. In the way, but I had zero fucks to give as I tried my damnedest not to cry in front of a few hundred people.

  “What are you betting?” I ask my friend. “Slips?”

  “Nah.” He pushes through the crowds and approaches his beat-up bike.

  Most of the folks around here have money enough to bring something shiny to the tracks. Not that our town is full of rich people, but there are a few families with enough to flash around that most everyone benefits somehow. But Tuck doesn’t follow those unspoken rules. His bike looks like he pulled it off the road – after a dump truck reversed over it a few times. It’s ugly as sin, and looks like it might fall apart in a stiff wind, but beneath the aesthetics is the best engine that slides over these tracks.

  Tucker Morris is a gifted mechanic, and his humility allows him to ride something that looks like shit, because he knows he’ll almost always walk away with the win.

  “Cash?” I watch as he throws his leg over the narrow frame.

  His opponent rides a slick-ass Honda CBR, which, in theory should easily wipe out Tuck’s KTM, but Tuck has magic in his blood. He slides onto his bike, and he commands the tracks. He doesn’t seem to give a fuck about physics or what’s right.

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Five grand.” He reaches up and pulls his red helmet on. He leaves the front visor open, and flashes a wicked grin as he fastens the clasps. “Easiest five-k I’ll make this week.”

  “So fucking cocky.” I clap him on the back and step away with a laugh as he starts his engine and revs it so loud that I’m almost tempted to cover my ears. But considering a girl already took me out tonight, covering my ears might be too much weakness to show in one hour.

  I back away as he releases the clutch, and lean on my hood as others mill around; half of them are watching the bikes, and the other half are watching me.

  “What?” I throw my hands up and grin when most of them spin away to do the ‘I’m just minding my business’ dance. “Don’t fuckin’ look at me,” I grumble. I fold my arms, and watch as Manda leads Tuck and the Honda toward the starting line.

  “Hey, Bry.” Blonde, blue, and quite pretty in the traditional sense, this chick sidles closer to me while most other eyes are on Tuck and the pending race.

  Shyly, she comes closer, closer, closer, and wrings her hands together until she stands between my open legs, and her voluptuous push-up bra is in my face.

  Slowly, I run my gaze along her clavicle, over a pretty necklace with Hayley written in gold script, and up to eyes that look uncomfortably similar to my sister’s.

  Hard nope.

  Instead of speaking, I only raise my brows and wait.

  “Um…” She thrusts a hand forward, lets it dangle a little, and smiles when I shake it. “I’m Hayley.”

  I release her hand, and finger the delicate necklace. “I know. Says so right here.”

  “Oh!” Chittering – is that the word a guy would use when a nervous girl can’t decide between giggling and dissolving into a panic attack? – well, that’s the word that comes to mind. Her laughter is nervous, crackling, and awkward. “I forgot about that.” She takes the necklace, and squeaks when her hand brushes over mine. “My best friend got this for my last birthday.”

  “Yeah?” I look around. Act like I might know who her best friend is if I saw her. Then I bring my eyes back to hers. “And how old were you at your last birthday, Hayley?”

  Her cheeks flush hot red. “Seventeen, but—”

  “Nope.” I push away from my car and gently move her back at least ten paces.

  Hands on her shoulders, I keep us going until we run out of space, then I look down into her eyes and wait for her to stop fidgeting.

  “You need to go the fuck home, Hayley. You need to not sneak out to Piper’s Lane on the weekends, you need to not hit on men much older than you. You’re gonna get yourself into trouble, and believe it or not, you’ll get him in trouble too.”

  “Oh… I… well…”

  “Did you know that on average, three babies are conceived at Piper’s Lane every single Friday and Saturday night?”

  Her eyes pop wide. “What?”

  “Uh huh. They did research on it. Three babies per night, and that’s an average, which means sometimes it’s way more.” I’m such a fuckin’ liar. “On top of that, they say that of the three hundred and seventy-three couples that casually hook up, seven guys are arrested because they fucked an underage chick, and twenty-three end up with chlamydia.”

  “Is that…” Her hands shake. “Seriously?”

  “Yup. Are you a statistic, Hayley? Or are you too smart for that stupid shit?”

  “I’m not stupid,” she murmurs. “Swear.”

  “Good. Get your ass home. Take your girlfriends, don’t let a single guy talk you into his car, and maybe you can try this again in a couple years.” I look around. Then back to her. “You got a ride?”

  She nods. “My best friend’s brother brought us. He’s driving tonight.”

  “He’s a shitty brother,” I snap. “I have a little sister too, Hayley. And I can assure you, if I brought her here to hang out, which I never would, by the way, but if I did, she and her friend would be on my arm the whole damn time, not being given freedom to hit on men they have no business hitting on.”

  “I just…” Her eyes literally water.

  I made her cry! This is why I have a bad reputation. Because word spreads that I make chicks cry.

  “I was having a little fun,” she whimpers.

  “Yeah, and the next thing you know, you can’t see your toes, because you’re pregnant, the man that tangoed with you is nowhere to be seen, and that best friend and her brother; they’re still hanging at the track, having fun, because you and your baby don’t matter to them.”

  She gasps. “You’re a jerk!”

  Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “I literally can’t win. Do whatever you’re gonna do, doll. But I strongly encourage you to take your underage ass home.”

  “All the other girls are right,” she tantrums… and draws eyes. Just my fuckin’ luck. “You’re a piece of shit. You’re rude, and you treat women like objects.”

  Laughing, I wish for my hat back, only so I can squish it down lower as I turn away from the child and slide into my car.

  I’m the asshole, and the guy that actually takes her to bed tonight will be praised as the prince charming who soothed her aching heart. Oh, that Bryan Kincaid is such a prick. How dare he try to save me from my own bad choices? That’s until shit turns sour, and he ghosts her naïve ass.

  I slide into my Camaro and close out the looky-loos. Manda calls up her flag girl, situates her between the two bikes with her slip of material to get the race started, and when she drops her arm, Tuck’s KTM screams away from the starting line with a deafening roar.

  Yeah, easiest five-grand he’ll make this week.

  Switching my engine on, I amble forward and pull up beside Kallan’s car. We’ve raced before, I’ve beaten him before, but at
least when he loses, he tends to accept his fate and step the fuck aside.

  Unlike pricks like Jackson Price.

  I stop at the starting line, and leave my windows and music up. DMX screams in my ear about never giving up. About being the best. About survival. So I leave my eyes forward, tunnel in, and study the spotlit dirt track.

  This is the same track my grandfather raced. My grandmother stood where the flag girl is now. Rumor has it, my grandmother wanted to ride with Grandpa while he raced, but like how all Bryan Kincaids seem to be cursed, we’re made out to be the asshole when we’re only trying to do the right thing.

  The first Bryan Kincaid was released from the starting line, he raced off to win a few dollars to get him through another week, and while he was doing that, Grandma walked her ass onto the track and seemingly left her brain somewhere else – presumably in her bedroom, the bedroom her seventeen-year-old self snuck out of without her daddy’s approval.

  Of course, in our case, it all worked out, since we kind of needed them to hook up and live their happily ever after for us to exist today. But for girls like Hayley, the likelihood of her forever being here is slim to none. It’s definitely not me, so that proves she’s here at the wrong time, the wrong weekend, the wrong year.

  The heavy bass of my stereo pounds through my blood so I feel the vibrations right up into my chest. My balls ache, and my heart races a little faster when I catch sight of Jackson’s Challenger pulling into line behind me. He’s racing soon, and later, when we reach the finals, I’ll liberate him of his fancy car.

  The darkness outside of the spotlights is all-encompassing, like a blanket that hides even the mountains that surround the town I was born and raised in. This is the only town I know, the only racetrack I know. My family, all of them, live only miles from here; far enough away that the sounds of roaring engines won’t wake them at night, but close enough that I come out here a few times a week to blow off steam and push my car faster and faster when there’s no one to watch me spin out of control if I take the turn wrong.

  Tuck’s bike outstrips the Honda by a long way, and when he crosses the line and the crowd roars their approval, I flex my hands around my steering wheel and let my music help me find my zen.