Skirting down each row of stairs, my calves burn from the lack of support that my broken-in black leather steel toed riding boots offer. Eventually, I wrench open a door made up of chain-link fence and head toward the vehicles. Each car has its hood raised, and I can make out someone underneath one of them.
I’m greeted with a gorgeous ass poking out from under a waxed red hood; the rest of her body’s buried under the metal. “I’m looking for Chevelle,” I grumble loud enough for the female to hear me. Hopefully, she knows where I can find him.
Her body stiffens before she replies, “Who?”
“Chevelle. I was told he was down here. Is he somewhere else?”
She curses but doesn’t say anything else.
I watch her wiggle around, doing who knows what under there. I’m not good at being patient, and it wears thin quickly. “You know where I can find him, sweet cheeks? It’s important.”
Another moment passes before she scoots back and stands to her full height, meeting my gaze. She’s got grease smudged above her eyebrow, and it’s pretty fucking hot to see a chick not scared to get a little grease on her.
“You a cop?”
I snort. “Do I look like a cop to you?”
Her eyes land on my Oath Keeper patch and she lets out a small sigh.
“I’m not here to cause any trouble.” I hold my hands up and attempt to look friendly. I’m sure my lips moving look more like a grimace than a smile, but I’m not here to make friends, so it’s the best I’ve got at the moment.
She licks her lips. “Chevelle.” She throws her hand out, eyeing me from my boots to the spikey locks on my head resembling the color of ink.
Not what I was expecting—not one fucking bit. I thought Chevelle was a nickname for a man, but the person in front of me with curves resembling the lines of the sleekest sports car is far from a man.
My paw engulfs her dainty hand, swallowing her tanned flesh up with mine, and my signature cocky smirk plays along my mouth. This bitch will be in my bed, no doubt. Shall I wager how long it’ll take me to make it happen? Nah, we’ll leave that up to my talents not many have the strength to resist. Women love me, and I couldn’t be more grateful for having that touch bestowed upon me.
My own gaze takes her in, looking my fill before she replaces her curiosity with a snarl. A fuckin’ angry kitten is what she reminds me of, and I have to bite my tongue from laughing and infuriating her further. “I was told to find you.”
“Yeah?” Shutters come over her bored gaze, and she turns, striding away without giving me so much as a second to finish speaking.
“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” The growl leaves me as I storm after her, the sway of her ass is a welcome site that’s for sure.
Her head dips under the hood of an ebony muscle car, wrist twisting away at a wrench.
“Want me to fix it for you?” I offer, hoping the olive branch will get her to cool her jets.
“Cute,” she scowls.
“Look, I got your name from my Prez. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to cause any shit.”
She finishes tightening whatever she’s been working on, standing back to her full height. I’d peg her around five feet six or so. A full foot shorter than myself, yet she doesn’t even blink, looking me over as if I’m another tool she doesn’t need to worry her pretty little head over. She’s mistaken.
I watch as she pulls a set of keys out of her pocket, flinging them in my direction. It takes me a moment to catch on but snatch the keys before they collide with my face. This kitten likes to scratch it seems.
My own smirk mirrors on her face. “You wanna talk?” Her brow raises, hands propped on her perfect birthing hips. “Then race me for it.” She nods to the car parked behind me, and I let loose a loud, devious chuckle.
“Fuck yes. Don’t get too wet watching me smoke your ass on that track.” I close the hood and hop in the awaiting vehicle before she can respond.
Slamming the hood of what I now see is a Chevelle, she slides in the driver seat. She winks my way as she turns the engine over and a rumble erupts so fucking loud it vibrates my feet. Gulping down, it hits me that clearly this isn’t her first race either, and from the sound of that car, she knows her shit.
She romps on it as I crank my own car's engine over and follow her to the starting line on the track in The Pit. She’s stuck me in a classic Camaro. Little does she know, but it’s one of my favorite models and years. She has good taste—not that I’d freely admit that to her.
I’m about to roll the passenger window up when a shrill whistle comes from my left. Glancing over, her smile’s purely wicked as she holds her finger up. Swinging from that finger is her tank top, leaving her clad in a black lacey bra. My mouth drops open, and so does her shirt. With that clear message, she hits the gas, and I’m easily left in her wake.
She has fucking balls—more than many of the men I’ve met who gather to race like they own the track. This is her house, and she’s making it clear from the start just who runs it. I’ve raced many times, beginning when I was damn near a kid. Having the experience, the grease and gas in your blood is almost like a disease. You can fight it, but the need is overwhelming to capture that sense of adrenaline, of dangerous peace you get when driving a car so fast you feel as if you’re flying.
No matter how much experience I have, her taillights mock me. I could easily hear the power her engine thundered with, feel its very breath like a hot caress against my neck. There was no way in hell I’d win this one; she’d taunted me like a dog with a bone. Making me believe I’d have her, catch her, and show her just how big my cock was. Not today, though. She has this one in the bag, and all I can do is lick my wounds at having my ass handed to me at the one place I’m most confident—the track.