by Teagan Kade
“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 kin
d 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.
I finish up, just about to head back out to join the others when I hear voices coming from the men’s next door. I place my ear closer to the wall. One of the voices is Brock, but I can’t make out the other. They’re both trying to keep the volume down.
I close the toilet lid quietly and stand up on it to get closer to where the sound’s coming from. I find the vent and press my ear against it, wiping away a cobweb in the process.
It’s Brock and Hernandez. I can just make out what they’re saying.
Hernandez is speaking fast. “She’s a fucking cop, brother. We can’t have her kind hanging around, not when we’re trying to talk business.”
“Business?” Brock snaps. “Are you for real?”
“I’m always real. You’re the one who’s trippin’.”
“She’s fine,” Brock continues. “I vouch for her personally.”
I feel a streak of happiness at the way Brock’s standing up for me.
“That may be so,” says Hernandez, his voice dipping lower, “but I don’t want her getting too deep.”
Too late for that.
“What do you think she’s going to do? Call SWAT down here to take us away for a couple of mechanical defects?”
Silence from Hernandez.
Brock sounds annoyed. “I mean, we’ve got nothing to be worried about, do we?”
“Brother, brother,” comes a reassuring Hernandez, “it’s fine. The less you know, the better.”
“I want to know nothing is going on here that’s going to get us all fucked again.”
“You have my word.”
And that’s the end of it.
The door swings open and I jump down from the toilet, moving to the washbasin to clean up.
“Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t know you were in here. There’s no water next door.”
I turn and flick water from my hands in Brock’s face.
“Why you disgusting…” He comes forward and grabs me around the waist, pressing me up against the mirror.
I look into his eyes, the fluoros creating razor-sharp catchlights across the middle of his pupils, those endless pools of indigo.
“I heard you and Hernandez talking,” I confess.
“Oh that.”
“You were sticking up for me.”
“Shouldn’t I? I’m your stepbrother, after all.”
Saying it out loud makes it real. I don’t want it to be. I want us to be more than stepbrother and stepsister. I know he does too.
I reach down and begin to undo his belt. With Birdie away tonight, I’m the only girl here. I can’t imagine anyone is going to stumble in on us.
Brock looks at me curiously. He doesn’t try to s
top me, though. “What are you doing?”
I bite my lower lip, flick my eyes up to him in my best come-on expression. “I want you to be more than my stepbrother.”
I pull the belt free and start undoing buttons, my hand fishing inside his jocks. His cock grows hard in my hand as I stroke it up and down.
He presses his lips against my ear. “If that’s really what you want.”
“It is,” I moan.
“You don’t think it’s wrong?”
I roll my fingers around the head of his cock, massaging the pearly pre-cum leaking from his slit into his glans and taking in the musky scent of his sex. “Is it wrong? I don’t think so.”
“You’re not thinking straight.”
I reach down deep into his pants with my other hand and cup his balls, rolling them between my fingers. “And you are?”
“Not anymore.”
“Let me show you,” I plead.
“How?” comes his voice, hot against my ear. His cock is an iron bar in my hand.
I let go of him and push him away, kneeling on the cold tiles and taking hold of the top of his jeans. I pull them roughly down to his knees, his cock bobbing out red and angry.
I take hold of it again, pleased to be the one in control. In fact, more and more I’m finding that’s precisely where I want to be.
He runs a hand over my forehead, brushes away the hair there as I guide him towards my mouth.
I make sure I don’t break eye contact. I want him to look down into my hazel eyes and know how much I’m enjoying this, the taste of him in my mouth.
I part my lips just enough for the head of his member to slide inside. I let it sit there, pressing at its tip with my tongue and then whisking it around his glans until he’s bucking against me.
“Fuck, Maddy.”
I pull away and continue to jerk him off with my hand. “What? You think I’m such a good girl? You’re wrong.”
I open up my jaw and lower my head over him, taking him as deep as I can go. The action is met with a low moan that reverberates through his abdomen.
His fingers claw into my scalp and he tilts his hips trying to go deeper, spellbound by the sensation of my lips around his cock.
I’m wet below, panties saturated and a need building in my core that’s so strong I’m actually starting to think I might come without even taking off my pants.
Holding him by the root, fingers ringed around his shaft, I concentrate and take him all the way into the back of my throat, struggling with the length and coughing a little as I let him free, spittle joined from my lips to the side of his dick.