Page 11 of Fast

“Thank you, Ares,” my hand comes up to his shoulder blade. Heat radiates from his wide, muscular back. “I’ve got this.” I say, feeling safer than earlier at the racetrack.

Cal wouldn’t really try anything in the middle of a crowded party.

“Are you sure?” he turns to look at me, his gray eyes blazing silver with the glare of the bonfire.

“Yeah,” I sigh, turning back to look at my ex-boyfriend. “Maybe you’re right, Cal. I’m just a stupid little girl. So stupid that I thought I was falling for you. Here’s your proof.”

I turn around and lift Heather’s blouse, showing my lower back to the guy I’ve been dating for the last three months.

The winged heart with the name “CAL” etched in the middle still hurts, as the tattoo hasn’t healed completely.

My ex’s eyes bore into me, but I can’t tell what kind of emotion is flashing in the depths of his dark gaze. “You got my name tramp stamped on you?”

I flinch at his choice of words. I thought this was a romantic gesture, but hearing Cal call it a “tramp stamp” makes me feel sostupid. I had to use my fake ID to get the tattoo. Mom would kill me if she knew, and right now, I can’t even blame her. I marked my body forever with the name of a loser who tried to force himself on me and hit me when I said no.

Maybe she’s right about being strict with me. Maybe I’m as easily influenced as she says if I got a tattoo to impress someone who doesn’t deserve me. “I did that when I thought you cared about me, Cal.” I taste bitterness on my tongue. “I guess the joke’s on me. We’re over. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

The corner of Cal’s lips lifts in a lopsided, arrogant smirk. “Nah. I don’t think we’re over. That tattoo says you’re mine and I know you’re going to stop pouting about our little fight, sooner or later. When you do, we can pick up right where we left off.”

CHANCE

I’m dying to wipe that arrogant smirk off Cal Fox’s face. And I know I’m not the only one. The tension in Ares’s shoulders is a telltale sign that he’s about to try to finish the job he started earlier at the racetrack.

My hand lands on his shoulder to hold him back.

Lev nods at me, ready to keep my brother from committing murder if my warning isn’t enough to calm him down.

Zara, however, is quick to react. We might have just met, but it’s clear that she isn’t the type to let anyone push her around.

“No, I won’t stop pouting, Cal. This isn’t just a little fight. We were over the second you decided to ignore my ‘no’ and to put your hands on me. You’re a loser.”

The motherfucker takes one step forward. Ares, Lev and I tense up, ready to kick his ass if he even tries to lay one finger on Zara.

“Aww,” he chides. “How cute. You guys must think that playing saviors is going to get you in her pants? I’d call off thegang-bang you’ve been planning, if I were you. Zara will tease you to within an inch of your life, but she doesn’t give it up once she has you ready and raring to go. That’s why I was trying to teach her a lesson before you douche bags got involved. Begging for someone’s sloppy seconds makes you the losers.”

That’s it.

We look at each other, and it’s clear that we should have broken all his teeth earlier. But we won’t make the mistake of letting Calvin Fox get away with disrespecting us—and Zara—a second time.

“I’d be very careful about throwing around the word ‘loser,’ Fox,” Atlas’s voice comes from behind us. “After all, you’re starting tomorrow’s race from the third row. That’s behind each of us, the last time I checked. So, if you think about it, that would make you the loser.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “That’s fucking pathetic,” Cal snarls. “You didn’t even have the guts to race today, Hunter. You sent your little brother to earn your pole position. You’re clearly afraid to compete with me. I’m the better racer and I have the best bike.”

To my surprise, Atlas doesn’t let his rival’s words ruffle his feathers. “Or,” he chuckles. “I didn’t even need to race you for the pole position. Chance isn’t even interested in racing professionally and yet, you ate his dust. Besides, I would look for better sponsors, because it would take a much better racer than you to beat my MTT 420-RR with your Beamer.”

A small crowd has gathered to witness the dick measuring contest between Fox and my brother.

No one is dancing around the bonfires anymore and people are watching us, like you watch a tennis match.

The air is rife with animosity. The rivalry between my brothers and Fox has been intense since the Super Bike League was launched last year; things have gotten worse with every raceand it feels like we’ve reached boiling point when the MotoGP teams have started watching the Super League as a talent pool.

“My Beamer has been tweaked since last time we raced, and today I used my second bike. Tomorrow we’ll see who’s the real loser.” Fox challenges him.

Atlas’s smile widens. “Do you think you’re the only one who has more than one bike and has been working on his racing prototype? Tomorrow we’ll see who’s the loser.”

“Or,” a woman steps forward, looking at the two contenders. “We could settle this little matter tonight.”

The blonde looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place her; she’s in a pair of skintight, black leather pants decorated with gold zippers and a red bandanna at her waist; a black corset top pushes her tits practically all the way up to her chin. Her long, platinum blonde hair is shaved on one side of her head, flowing down to her waist on the other side. Piercings gleam from one of her eyebrows, her septum and the corner of her bottom lip, catching the bonfires’ light. Her thin arms have full sleeves of tattoos that crawl up her neck. She even has a small black heart tattooed under her left eye.

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