Page 8 of Throttle

“Yeah?” Am I drooling?

“Ready?” He shrugs on his club’s leather cut as his last piece.

To have someone like Throttle would be unparalleled. I can count the men I've slept with on one hand, and still have fingers left. It's obvious how many women he's been with, and I'm not foolish to not know. The idea of him being a flirt and sleeping around as if it's his second job is painful. Though, I’m not naïve.

Two guys stop in front of us. Both from the contest and both wearing snarky grins.

“Didn’t realize they let gang members into these races,” the one with blond hair and judgment says.

My first instinct, they’re assholes who are jealous because they didn’t place in the race. My second thought, people are quick to stereotype. Attacking someone and it gets under my skin.

They do not know who Throttle is.

Throttle's jaw muscles twitch, but he remains silent. Why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn't he defending himself?

Always sitting in the back of the classroom, I never had a ton of friends. I was the shy one. But for people I care about, game is over. Regarding Throttle, I can express that I'm a masochist in multiple ways.

I take a single step toward the douchebags. “You don’t even know him and based on your rudeness, I'd say he's a better person than you. Where is your trophy? He won one, though.” I tilt my head in Throttle’s direction. “Oh, and it’s not a gang. It’s a fucking family.” I puff out my chest like I’m a two-hundred-pound male instead of a one-hundred-and fifty-pound, five-foot four female.

“You got a mouth on you, b—”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you.” Throttle slams the tailgate closed and then walks over to me. “Tequila, get in the damn truck.” By the way he grinds his teeth, I’m going to assume he’s a bit mad.

I stare, blinking for a few seconds. “But—”

“Now.”

I slump into the passenger seat with a pout.

He casts a glance behind him, where the two jerks are. “I’d suggest leaving.”

“Come on, man, let’s go. It’s not worth it,” the blond buddy tells him.

“Your friend’s smart. I’d listen to him.” Throttle stands with an impressive calmness.

The guy murmurs "whatever" under his breath before they both leave.

“Why did you let them talk to you like that?”

After slamming his door, he pauses with his hand over the key. “Because it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. You deserve to be treated better.”

With a sigh, he rotates his body to face me. “It doesn’t matter because I don’t give a flying fuck what people think or say about me. The only thing that matters is going home to my brothers, my family, who are the only ones besides you I care about. Got it?”

His, I don’t give a shit attitude, doesn't fool me; I understand him better than anyone.

“Anyway...” He starts the truck. “I wasn’t about to get into a fist fight while you’re with me. I won't put you in danger because I'm not fucking stupid,” he tells me, and my hearts beats faster. “Let's get out of here. I just burned a huge number of calories, and it's not from sex.” He winces and my heart flutter turns to ache. “Sorry, sometimes I forget you’re not the guys.”

Ouch.

Knife. Chest. Twist. Yeah, my stomach isn’t laughing.

He takes something from his dashboard as I gaze at the tattoo on his forearm with the cross. He always wears the same matching figure around his neck, hanging from a silver chain that he never removes. I've wanted to ask him why, but it might appear insensitive.

One day I’ll find out about his past—his demons. I want to uncover all there is to understand about Throttle.

Throttle

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