Page 157 of Vile Bastards
If I weren’t scheming on a way to turn this track into crater, I’d hit that hard.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but he just gives me a look, wrapping his shirt around his fist before punching the glass out on the frontmost window of a maintenance shed. He then uses the fabric to clear away the jagged shards, and climbs right in.
When he emerges, he’s got a pair of bolt cutters held in his inked hand.
“You’re not blowing this place up: you’re winning this race.” Widow stalks past me, and I do my best to swipe off the drool at the sight of his chiseled back. He moves right up to a side gate marked Track Staff Only and cuts the thick chain wrapped around it, muscles in his gorgeous arms bulging as the link snaps. He unwinds the chain and tosses it aside, opening the gate for me with a creak.
“How do I get the Pantera down to the track from here?” I wonder, studying the dark hallway that tunnels beneath the tiered stands of the crowd. It’s wide enough to drive the Devil down, but there’s a series of steps at the end of it. To the right, there’s a small road that tunnels beneath the track; I don’t know where it goes, but I’m certain I won’t be able to get to the starting line through there.
“Just do what you always do,” Widow explains, stepping to the side and gesturing with his t-shirt wrapped hand. “Jump it.” He glances back at me, mouth slightly parted, brows raised. “You aren’t about to pussy out, are ya?”
Hmm.
I mean, he isn’t wrong.
“You think?” I ask, and he turns back to me with a look that’s equal parts lust and trouble.
“I don’t think: I know.”
“Do you then?” I move past him and into the darkness of the tunnel, pausing as I study the empty seats below me. There are few spectators here today. Nobody gives a shit about the prelims. I nibble at my nail as I study the space, making mental calculations in my head the same way I did when I jumped the Miura off the cliff.
Hah. And see how that turned out? I mean, I lived, didn’t I? Good enough.
I smack my Victory Lap painted lips and glance back to see Widow studying his ruined Pantera t-shirt (the band not the car, but I think he wore it in support of me). He looks up and then tosses it aside, reaching up to run both palms over his jewel-toned hair. The way he does it, the way the sun hits him, swear to God, he sparkles.
“Are you even real?” I mumble, moving up to stand beside him. The look he gives me, well, if cocky could be bottled, this dude would be the prime ingredient.
“Meaning what, exactly?” he retorts, looking me up and down before hooking a sneer. “Too pretty for you?” Widow snorts and gestures over at the Pantera, parked nearby, that hideous red color as bright as the freshly spilled blood from Chet Jr.’s head. “Just get in the car, and I’ll fuck you later.”
“Not what I was asking,” I grind out, but with a huff, I head for the door anyway. “Oh, and don’t forget to film the whole thing.”
Widow responds with a single thumbs-up.
Stupid rich people track with their stupid bullshit bureaucracy. I would not be surprised to learn that all of these new rules about registration forms and whatnot were quite literally invented today with the sole purpose of keeping my pussy off the track.
I slam the driver’s side door shut just as the race starts, and I hear the cacophony of engines echoing up and around the arena.
Fuck it.
What could possibly go wrong here today?
With a smirk, I start the engine, press down the clutch, and fucking gun it.
Hello, P-Trip. Nice to meet you. My name is Scarlett Motherfucking Force, and I’m about to make you my bitch.
Sorry not sorry ‘bout that.
The Pantera shoots down the darkness of the tunnel, and I brace myself as I near the edge where the platform empties out above the seats. There’s that glorious feeling of disconnect, where I’m more a part of the sky than I am the earth, and we’re flying, baby.
It’s almost as fun as dumping a million-dollar Lambo into a river. Actually, I think this is going to be more fun. The racers have just finished their first lap meaning I’m starting one behind.
Eh.
I’ve faced worse odds.
The Devil slams into the ground with a disturbing crunch that I decide to worry about later. For now, there are a dozen cars flying my way. The vast majority of them spin out or clip the wall in an effort to avoid me. Some of them stop all together.
The best ones though, they rocket past as if I don’t exist.
