Page 143 of Vile Bastards
“Don’t touch me.” The words are a warning from me, one that gets Widow frowning heavily, the atmosphere in the air heating up and tightening the way a car’s engine delivers torque to the drive shaft. Ooo, score. Mechanical know-how for the win. “How dare you propose to me in front of the entire track. You knew I couldn’t say no there without risking both of our reputations. That’s entrapment, bitch.”
Widow snorts with derisive laughter, but he’s still obviously pissed off with me for rejecting his advances.
“I warned you away from me multiple times; this is partially your fault.” He sounds dead serious when he says that, and now it’s my turn to laugh.
“You think I don’t know how to crash this car in such a way that only you die? Don’t tempt me, Adrian.”
He bristles at the sound of his name but ends up just shaking his head.
“You’d never do that to the Devil,” he replies, sounding assured.
I’m glad that he’s aware he ranks below my car on my list of priorities.
Good fuckboy. Very good fuckboy.
I reach out and turn the radio up on another CHANMINA song: this one’s called ‘BIJIN’, and I feel it in my fucking soul. Also, it’s mostly in Japanese again. Stupid Ash Kelly. He’s like a splinter in my heart. I can forget about him for brief periods, but if I move the wrong way, the pain digs deeper and refuses to stop throbbing.
Widow scowls and turns toward the window, clearly aware of the direction of my thoughts.
Fine by me.
If he wants to be more than a fuckboy—that is, he wants to skip right over boyfriend to … to … gag … fiancé—he needs to learn to behave.
My phone warns me of an upcoming speed trap, and I grin.
There’s nothing I love more than outrunning the cops.
The P-Trip track is located on the northwest side of Portland, in the industrial district. Factories and warehouses abound (along with a crapload of crime, I’m sure) but nestled amongst it all is a gated property surrounded by high, brick walls topped with barbed wire and littered with cameras.
Kid you not.
“Whoa. If this isn’t the very definition of a boys’ club, I don’t know what is.” I pause in the driveway just outside the first of two gates, inputting the code that Alexei gave me while Widow frowns heavily at the guardhouse just past the intricate ironwork.
“I don’t like the idea of this. Places like this aren’t just meant to keep people out, they’re meant to keep people in, too.” He glances in the rearview mirror to see the Chevelle pull up behind us, followed by the Lotus.
“Why else do you think I’d ever bring fuckboys to such an important race?” I smile tightly at him as the gate slides open. “It’s your job to make sure I get out of here alive, comprende?” I ease down on the gas, allowing the other two cars time to follow behind me before the gate slides shut.
The guard is already waiting half outside his door, looking both perplexed and annoyed. I roll right up to him, flashing an award-winning smile that’s all teeth and sass and zero bullshit.
“Name.” It’s a demand, not a question, and it just royally pisses me the hell off. My smile flickers but doesn’t falter. Actually, I guess it’s more of a grimace now, but eh.
“Scarlett Force.” That, too, is a demand. A demand for this asshat to get the hell out of my way. I try not to hold his annoying demeanor against him. After all, I’m sure he gets paid pennies to keep the riffraff out of the holy land. He’s a pleb, nothing more.
“Scarlett Force …” The man trails off and then leans down to peer across the interior of the car at Widow. I take it based on his perplexed expression that I may actually be on the list. “Is this your plus-one?”
“He’s my manager.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder at the other two idling vehicles. “Also brought my mechanic, my publicist, and my coach. We cool? I don’t want to be late.”
The man stands up and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, but you can only bring one guest onto the property. You’ll have to ask the rest of your team to wait outside.”
I cock a brow. ‘Wait outside’ is a relative term. There’s nowhere to park here. It’s just factories and trucks and several homeless camps, complete with tents, some with wood pallet fences, and there’s clearly a dude in the middle of a serious trip stumbling down the street. Ah, Portland, Oregon, such paradise. I can’t wait for Eugene/Springfield to follow on such an inglorious journey.
My hands tighten around the wheel.
“Listen, Adam”—I read the guy’s name tag with squinted eyes—“I can’t race without my team. What does it matter if a few extra folks sit in the bleachers?” I lift my brows and flash a white-toothed smile. Some men find it charming. Others recognize it for what it is: a warning.
