Page 10 of Her Sloth

“So who’s racing tonight?” I ask.

“Not me,” he says. “Not against you at least.”

I laugh. “I heard no one dares to touch a certain Cass; sounds about my league.”

“Don’t do it,” he says. “You’ll lose everything you have.”

“I’m willing to take that bet,” I say with a grin. “Which one is hers?”

“The black Challenger Hellcat over there—” says Dominion, pointing to a group of people standing apart from the other cars, locked in a heated, closed-off discussion. I don’t even have to ask who Cass is.

A very muscular yet smaller, tomboyish woman with a tousled, layered bob that gives her the very masculine look, underlined by the black functional pants, a hoodie, and a leather belt. She has a beer in one hand and is boxing one of the men standing next to her with her free hand.

I can see what Tommy meant with ‘don’t touch her’. She is like the leader of a group of Rottweilers. And exactly the thrill I need for tonight. I love to challenge types like her—the untouchables.

Not for me. One of the only perks of growing up believing you own the world and having this hunger for pure thrill.

3

CASS

PLAYLIST: TURN DOWN FOR WHAT – DJ SNAKE, LIL JON, JUICY J, 2 CHAINZ, FRENCH MONTANA

“You fuck off,” I tell my brother. He’s such a dumbfucker.

“Nah, never, sis,” he says mockingly and punches me back.

“Hit me again and you’ll get a live-view of the ants.”

“All empty threats. The times of my bully big sister are over,” he says and flexes his biceps.

I sigh. Smirk. Shake my head and grab him by the neck with my fingers digging into that one spot⁠—

He sinks to his knees and I headlock him.

“The thing with all muscle is, my dear baby bro, you are stiffer than your penis in the morning, and just as volatile as it.”

He can’t answer a word because I have locked my arm so close around him that his face is swelling.

Everyone else laughs, especially Nikki. She loves when I handle him. I don’t even want to know what they do behind closed—or not-so-closed—doors, but Nikki is a feral kitten who enjoys all things rough.

I let go of Jackson the last possible moment as he starts getting limp in my grip and slap him forward onto the ground.

“So, back to where we were,” I say to the others as if nothing has happened. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but—” I continue, and then I see it from the corner of my eye.

No.

A silver-grey 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback with a tall, blonde, long-haired woman standing next to it, cap on, her back to us.

Goosebumps spread over my arms.

This is not real.

I’m seeing a ghost.

“Eleanor,” I breathe out before I walk, almost run over to where she stands⁠—

My mind is blank.