“Mercenary.” My new Prez flicks his hard gaze over me as he takes the seat beside me.
My eyebrow hikes, but that’s all. I owe fuck all to him or anybody else. You get my respect by earning it, even if everyone around this place claims you’re a bad motherfucker.
“Pretty sure the perfect job for you just fell in my lap.”
I grunt. If he asks me to mow out front, I’m going to have to tell him to fuck off. I doubt it since he’s not a pussy. Whatever he offers, I hope it’s not out in the middle of this Texas sun. I came from Chicago; I’m not used to this heat. It’s like being stuck in the depths of hell outside. The others don’t mind it too much, but the shit makes my skin want to shrivel up and fall off.
“Heard you know your way around a few muscle cars.”
“Then you heard right.” I turn my head to the side, my neck cracking with the movement.
“I’ve got some built up interest in a few, you could say. The bitch down at The Pit owes me a favor, and I’ve caught wind that a few Iron Fists have been nosin’ around. This is my fuckin’ turf, even where The Pit lies. I’m not trying to go to war, but I need any bit of information on these motherfuckers I can come up with.”
My tongue rakes across the front of my teeth, savoring any leftover liquor before I open my mouth to think. “The fuck’s The Pit?” I’ve already been briefed about the Iron Fists, a rival club up to no good where our colors and lives are concerned.
He smirks as his cousin Blaze sets a fresh beer down in front of him. “It’s a racetrack.”
“No shit?” I spent my teenage years racing old muscle cars with my father; it was the main thing we bonded over when I was growing up. Racing is in my blood the same as riding is. I can never get enough of the adrenaline, the speed, and the wind on my skin.
I’ll admit, he’s right about it being the perfect job for me if he wants me to drive for the club. “I don’t have a car.”
“Like I said, they owe me a few favors over there. They’ll let you use a car, just try not to fuck it up too badly. Supposedly a few pricks wearing Fists’ colors have been showing up lately to place bets. They should keep their distance from you, but if you’re around Chevelle, you may hear something useful.”
“All right, I can do that.”
“Bet. I’ll call down there, so they expect you. Ask for Chevelle. And keep your guard up; they’re not the welcoming type to new faces. They’ll try to ass rape you the moment they hear you can race too. I sure as fuck hope you know what you’re doin’ and aren’t dumb enough to place high bets.”
“I do. I’ll keep my ears open and win some money to boot.”
An amused smirk plays on his lips as if he knows something I don’t. However, I know how well I drive. They don’t have a fucking clue.
“How do I get there?”
“Hit the main road, hang a left. It’s about thirty minutes down on your left side if you run about eighty miles an hour. I’m assuming that’s not too fast for you.”
I shrug and get to my feet. Obviously, he’s trying to give me some shit being the new member around here, but I was in the Chicago charter since they put that bitch together. This isn’t my first rodeo; they’ll learn soon enough around here.
The Pit was easy enough to find. I thought it’d be some run-down dirt track off the side of the road. That’s not the case though. This place is a fully enclosed old stadium. It’s called The Pit because, at one time, it was a football field, and rather than having a field below, it’s been replaced with a large race track. And I’m guessing with a set up like this, these aren’t your backyard sports cars being raced.
Striding through the massive entry, I glance around for whoever is expecting me. There are a few guys walking around wearing blue and green STAFF shirts, but no one looking like they know who the hell I am.
“Hey, you know a Chevelle?” I holler at the dude closest to me.
His eyebrows raise, his curious gaze skirting over me from top to bottom. I get it; I look scary as fuck—been told that for years now. I think the only one not frightened when they see me is my parents. They’ve had years to get used to my ominous appearance.
“Thought I knew all the Oath Keepers,” he comments after a second, staring at the patch with my road name.
“I just got here,” I say in case he attempts to fill me full of some bullshit. Not being familiar with me, it wouldn’t surprise me if he thought I was an imposter. It damn sure wouldn’t be the first time randoms pop up dressed like rival club members. Normally I’d just tell him to fuck off, but the Prez needs me here, and I don’t want to return from already screwing shit up. Being the black sheep of my last club was bad enough. I’m not aiming to be the same here.
“Ah.” He nods. “You can find Chevelle down in the middle of The Pit, head tucked under a hood.” He gestures to the opening leading to a tunnel on his right.
“Appreciate it,” I reply, trekking in that direction. The building’s pretty bare. It’s like any other stadium with concrete and block walls. Various vendor carts not yet open for business pepper each side of the walkway. I bet this place makes a ton of money set up like this.
The cool tunnel opens up to stadium stacked seating, and I’m about halfway up. Glancing down, I take in multiple levels of stairs, all leading to the outside of the track. There’s a fence surrounding it at the bottom and a few doors to enter. Off to the far right in the back corner is an opening the size of a car bay. I’m guessing that’s how the drivers get in and out.
Pretty sweet set up, but how do they filter the exhaust out in the enclosed space? Glancing up, the very middle of the dome has various mechanisms attached to it, and it hits me. Race nights, they open the damn roof. Pretty fucking awesome. Not only do you get racing, bets, and food, but also the comforts of being inside and outside all at once. Whoever Chevelle is, they’re a genius turning the stadium into this.
In the very center of the circle track is a row of five classic muscle cars, so cherry they make my dick hard. They range from bright yellow, midnight, navy, ivory, maroon, and crimson—their flawless paint covered in a clear glossy topcoat that makes them look as if they were just sprayed. Whoever owns these babies doesn’t fuck around and sinks a pretty penny into keeping them top-notch. I can only imagine what’s under the hoods; they’re a grown man’s wet dream.