Page 148 of Vile Bastards
My eyes narrow.
“I’m not going up those stairs. Whatever paper I need to sign to get this over with, I’ll do it right fucking here.” I point at the desk, but Cody just shakes his head, reaching up to touch his blond hair. It’s clearly not a natural blond, the product of some high-end beauty place that charges five hundred bucks for a simple cut and dye.
“New racers always register upstairs. You’d know that if Jazz had sent you up.” Cody turns away and continues up the steps. Even as I know that I’m being led into a trap, I follow after him and up the stairs to find a short hallway with three doors leading off of it.
Cody’s already strolling through the doorway at the end, pausing beside a desk and pushing a clipboard across the surface.
“Here. Fill this out.” He takes a seat as I approach the room, studying the doorway to look for booby traps. A real Indiana Jones, eh, Force? I ignore my cynical thoughts, pausing in front of the clipboard and finding a blank registration form waiting to be filled out. The door remains open behind me, so I take a seat. “All it needs is the signature of a track rep—which I am—and this stamp right here.” He slides a large wooden stamp and a pad of red ink in front of me.
I don’t sign the form just yet.
“What do you want from me, Chet Jr. Cody Archer?” I ask as he stares back at me with blue eyes that remind me of his slimeball father. If anyone in this town is a serial killer, it’s that guy. I mean, he looks like a transmogrified Ken doll. The dude is as toxic as the plastic they make those things out of.
I shiver and put my palm flat on the page, hooking a brow up to encourage conversation. We’re in a bit of a hurry here. The race starts in less than an hour. That’s not a lot of time to prepare.
Wish I could describe the smug look on Cody’s face. This douche-bro is going to get what’s coming to him. Likely, he’ll get his at the hands of one of my boys. It’ll serve him right, too.
“As of right now, your boyfriend is being detained by track security,” Cody explains, and I laugh. That seems to derail the cocky bastard a bit. I shake my head and purse my lips at him.
“You don’t know Widow like I do. Ain’t nobody detaining him. Try harder, CJ. I’m starting to lose my temper. Why don’t we come to some sort of arrangement? You let me race here today, and I’ll continue to allow you at the Prescott track. That is, until you inevitably break one of my rules, and I’m forced to teach you a lesson.”
“That track won’t even exist in another six months,” he explains with a crooked smile. Cody comes around the desk as I rise to my feet, already prepped and ready to go for my knife. “Offer me something else.”
I just stare back at him. I mean, this isn’t unexpected, but it’s annoying as fuck. Having a vagina is awesome—I love sex—but also, it’s a prized possession for perverts. Being a woman blows sometimes.
I cross my arms over my chest.
If I ran away from every sexist prick I encountered, I’d be a mouse in a hole, quivering and worrying about the sky falling.
“Get me into the race today, and if I win, we’re even. If I get anything less than first place, I’ll tell you a secret about Aspen Kelly. It’s a good one, too. Pinky swear.” I lift up my hand, pinky finger extended, and wiggle it around suggestively. “What do you say, CJ?”
He frowns at me, eyes narrowing, lips pressed into a tight line. Come to think of it, he might also get fillers, just like Bicycle Lips. His aren’t as bad as hers, but he’s a lot younger, so that’s probably why.
Maybe—like with Ernest Bolin’s son—Alexei will put a bullet through this one’s head at some point. The world would be better off, I’m sure.
“Why don’t I tell you a secret about Aspen Kelly?” Cody asks, moving closer to me. He must expect me to take a step back. When I don’t, allowing him to get up close and personal with me, I slide my hand surreptitiously into my back pocket to withdraw my knife. “He and I …” Here he trails off with a smarmy laugh. “We took turns on that friend of yours. What was her name again? Something trashy as hell if I’m remembering right. Lemon, was it?”
I’m so surprised to hear him say her name that when he grabs for me, I actually lose control of the knife. It clatters to the floor as Cody’s fingers wrap my wrist in a similar fashion to Widow’s. The difference here is that Widow knows I want him to touch me. We have chemistry. We have flirtations. There’s buildup; there’s consent.
