Page 156 of Vile Bastards
He turns away and opens the passenger side door of the Pantera as I roll my eyes.
“As if squirting all over my back in the library was gentle lovemaking.”
“It’ll look like it, when all is said and done.” He climbs into the car and slams the door. As intrigued as I am by that, I’ve got a race to win.
I hop in and give him a look as I start the car, watching as he smiles privately to himself about God only knows what.
“Do I want to know why you look so smug right now?” I query, wondering why I even bothered to ask. I’m not going to like his response, now am I?
“I think I’ve finally shed the last of my reservations. The next time I come for you, I won’t hold back.” He glances my way and then offers up an annoyingly smug little grin. “Also, I’m imagining the three fuckgirls I’ll have after you realize how unfair this dynamic is and finally give in.”
“Adrian, I’ve still got my knife on me. Do you really want me to cut your dick off before the race?” I ignore him as he offers up a low, dangerous laugh—it’s as much a warning as anything else—and follow the signs down to the track.
I might not get a trophy today (hopefully I won’t go to jail), but if Widow films this race and uploads it for me, well, who knows what doors that might open?
The grand marshal takes a look at the registration form but not before gaping at me like some sort of deranged clown that’s just crawled out of a sewer pipe. Apparently, the guy’s never seen a woman in all his life. That’s the only reason I can think that he’d be looking at me the way he is.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t receive your name or number on the list.” He gestures at his iPad with a single hand, as if that explains literally everything. “Whoever helped you in the office needs to scan this in and update the official list. Otherwise, you can’t race today.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask, looking past him as several cars take their places on the track. I’m cutting it close, but if this middle-aged bro would just cut me some slack, I can do this. “After all the trouble I went through to bring Alexei Grove here.”
I’m testing this guy, won’t lie, but whatever is going on with Alexei and that balding administrator guy, it’s clearly not a conspiracy that everyone at the track knows about. This dude seems entirely clueless, as if he’s never heard the name before.
“Alexei Borisov?” I try that instead, but the man just hands the registration form back to me, lips pursed. He’s got a receding hairline that, while not as bad as Baldy up at the office, makes him look like a total douche when paired with the designer glasses. He’s even got a bejeweled strap holding them around his neck. “Look, I’ve got three grand on me.” Thank you, Ash Kelly. “What if I give you that, and you add me to the list, and everyone is happy?”
“Sorry, lady, but I can’t help you.” He turns away and heads through a small gate beside the larger, automatic one that blocks the parking lot from the behind-the-scenes action like the garage and the track.
The man is lucky because my homicidal tendencies are feeling real, real itchy right about now. I want to blow this entire lot to kingdom come. With a frown, I tuck the registration form in my pocket and head toward the gate. What can the guy do if I climb over it and hit him in the back of the head with a crowbar or something? What then, you little bitch.
I’m just starting to climb when a hand wraps around my upper arm, and I glance back to see Widow waiting just behind me.
“Come with me.” He releases me and turns, moving around the corner. With a huff, I hop down and follow after him.
“They’re still not going to let me race,” I explain. “The whole point of racing at P-Trip was to actually earn a legitimate win, something that I could use to work my way up to the Stars and Stripes Vintage Classics. I was willing to go rogue, but now I can’t even get to the damn track.”
I scratch at the side of my head, but I take off after the silly fuckboy if only to see what his plan is here.
“I bet Bohnes knows at least one person who has access to dynamite,” I begin, pausing as I come around the corner and find ol’ Adrian Arden Lawless tearing his shirt off. My eyes drop right to the flat planes of his abs, and my mouth waters with the need to bite him. Holy shitballs, the guy might be an annoying prick, but he’s hot as hell.
