Another Saturday has rolled around and another race in its place. The adrenaline and exhaust while racing around the track is the best type of escape I’ve ever found. I can just tune out and focus on driving and nothing else. It seems like whenever I’m not in my car, then someone is trying to talk to me and bother me with something. I swear it drives all these men mad around here to have a woman running The Pit.
But how can they complain if they can’t even beat me? It’s the way I’ve gotten all of my cars after all. I went into this with a busted up Chevelle. I started from the bottom and with each race, built my car up along with winning the others racing for pink slips and tuning them up as well. Yet it still doesn’t seem to be enough for some of these guys to stop trying to take my place around here. They’re dumb enough to realize that the only way they get my spot is if I fail to pay my loan and they take over payments with the owner.
The Pit was a shit hole the first time I showed up here. It’s not the Taj Mahal by any means, but you no longer race and bust up your whip for twenty bucks. Now, buy-in alone is a cool grand, and the winner of each race walks away with five k. Some weekends we have four different races, breaking them up between Friday and Saturday, it’s grown so popular.
As luck would have it, I come out with five grand nearly every Saturday. It’s hard to complain when you pull in that kind of money. Sure, I dump a ton of it into buying this place, my rent’s fourteen thousand a month and I have to repair my rides, but I still have enough left to live on. I have a small place here back by the offices that I use as a studio apartment, so that saves me from trying to pay for a place to sleep as well.
“Hey Chevy, you got everything set for tonight?” Ace, one of the floor guys, tilts his head with the question. He’s one of the few around here who get away with calling me by that nickname. He’s proved himself to be a good guy, someone I can rely on when it comes to working The Pit and doesn’t give me any grief.
“As much as I can, I suppose.” I shrug, polishing the hood of my fire engine red Nova I’m racing tonight. She’s stacked with a badass engine to leave some amateurs in my rearview mirror. The best way to see them, in my opinion.
“I’ve got a hundred on you taking first tonight.”
“Well then, at least your girlfriend won’t be pissed at you losing money again.”
He snorts and gives me the finger.
“Right back atcha, buddy!” I call as he strides away. He knows it’s true. His woman was livid the last time he bet on a race and went home a few hundred dollars poorer. At least he’s learned to bet on me and not some random rich asshole with a pretty sports car.
“Chevy?” A rasp like a thick warm caress comes from behind me.
I twirl around so quickly I nearly get whiplash. “It’s Chevelle.” I correct, and he grunts. I’m surprised to see biker boy came back. “And if I remember correctly, you’re cupcake.”
The side of his mouth tilts up in a cross between grimace and smirk. The man is broody as hell, and I don’t even know him. Not to mention hot in that bad boy don’t fuck with me sort of way. He’s the exact type that I can’t afford to get involved with either because their kind always hurts the girl in the end.
“I’ve knocked out teeth for less than that,” he admits, and I roll my eyes. A threat from him comes off sounding more like foreplay than something to fear.
“I’m sure. Well, you’re not knocking out shit here if you want a chance to stick around.”
“You’re taking me home tonight then?” he suggests.
“Nice try buddy, but it’s not fucking happening. Ever.”
He takes one step forward, and it’s enough to place us nearly chest to chest. He’s massive but moves like a damn cat. He licks his lips and bends closer. I swear to Christ if he touches me I’ll put him on his ass again.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he rasps and stands up fully. With a wink, he finishes with a growl, “Chevy.”
My name on his lips has my flesh breaking out in goosebumps. The man is alpha to the fullest degree, and it calls to me like a fresh set of staggered tires on a fast car. You want to put them to work, tear them up a little and make them scream for you. I could have that man on his knees, pleading with me to let him come.
With quick strides, he heads to the end of the track where my Camaro’s parked. He has Viking to thank for having a tuned car for him at the ready. I wouldn’t have let just anyone borrow one of my babies, but Viking’s good for his word.
Colored lights flicker across the stands as everyone rushes to their seats. I slide into the Nova and crank her over just as the speakers through The Pit blare to life. “Hands Up” by NF pours through them, signaling a race is about to begin, and people cheer.
My girl purrs toward the start line. I always get the first race. That way I can work the rest of the night. Breathe in and out, in and out. I chant silently to myself, watching as the three other vehicles come into line beside me. None of them are Mercenary though. He must’ve selected the second race. Smart move on his part too. He might actually have a fighting chance not going up against me. My Camaro’s quick, but she’s heavy. You have to know just how to push her to get her to respond to you.
One foot on the brake, my other presses down on the gas, smoking out my opponents as my tires squeal. The track is dry, but it’s still good practice to clean your tires and warm up your engine. The rice burner beside me spins his tires, but it’s nothing compared to the roar of my engine. I ease off the gas, and my eyes flick to the side just in time to catch Mercenary standing ominously, arms crossed over his chest, glare pointed in my direction.
A horn blares, and I drop it into first, my feet working the clutch and gas like my life depends on it. It does though; the money helps me survive. Without the wins, I’d be out on my ass again. The cash The Pit brings in only covers enough to pay the people working here and to maintain upkeep.
The front end jumps, the engine pushing out so much power it brings the front end off the ground for a split second. The trunks weighed down enough, so my ass end doesn’t slide all over the place as I take off, but my gaze is still trained on Mercenary all the way up until I pass him by. The man doesn’t blink the entire time either. It’s like he’s trying to get into my head, but for what? He needed to come in for his Prez, but I have nothing to do with whatever they’re involved in.
And for his sake, I hope he’s not trying to get me to fold. I’m one person who won’t let him win on this track. There’ve been plenty of others who’ve come through with a pretty face, thinking they’d bed me and I’d let them win. Not hardly. They didn’t get in my pants and they damn sure didn’t get my money. I learned growing up that being soft gets you nowhere.
“How ‘bout I take you to dinner?” A gravelly voice suggests coming into my office. I’m sitting behind the old oak desk—feet propped up, Converse sneakers resting on the edge.
“Hmm, how about no?” I reply smoothly, acting unruffled although his voice causes my lady parts to tingle with desire.
“I won’t make you pay, little one. I won tonight, after all.” He winks, and I scowl.