Faster (Stark Ink, #3) (2 page)

Apparently, Donny had stopped at the burger joint on the corner after Adam had tossed his ass out. Maybe he was soothing the sting with onions and ketchup. He jawed as enthusiastically on a patty as he had his tobacco. Ava’s stomach turned as she wondered if he’d even bothered to spit out the chew first. Donny took another bite, glanced over, and paused.

In her jacket and helmet, he couldn’t possibly recognize her as the receptionist from Stark Ink. In fact, unless they recognized the bike and helmet, it wasn’t unusual for Ava to be mistaken for just another teenage boy if you didn’t look too closely. Her boobs, sadly, were a tad on the smaller side and completely dwarfed in her jacket when it was zipped up. Donny had no clue who he was looking at.

He didn’t seem to care, though. He ditched his burger and lay on his accelerator. The Mustang’s engine roared loudly, muffled only somewhat by Ava’s fully enclosed helmet. She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t the first time; it wouldn’t be the last. There seemed to be some unspoken war between the good ol’ boys with their American muscle cars and the local kids with their crotch-rockets. Racing was a bit of a problem in downtown Rapid City. Especially in the summer.

Ava’s hand flexed on the grip of her bike. The hot June sun couldn’t disappear fast enough, as far as she was concerned. Donny revved his engine again. When she turned to him, he jerked his chin.

She should have ignored him. Street racing would eventually earn her a one-way ticket to walking everywhere she went. Pop would be livid. But the image of Donny the Douche slobbering over Ava’s B-cups as he made his tattoo appointment came unbidden into her mind. Donny was irritating and too full of himself. Plus, he was a Douche. And Ava could handle a douche like Donny.

No problem.

She twisted back to her bike and squeezed the grips. She kept one foot on the pavement and the other jammed onto the peg. Ready, steady. The light on the cross street switched from green to yellow and Ava revved her bike. She let her back wheel spin a bit, kicking up some smoke as the rubber made contact with the blacktop. Not too much, though, she cautioned herself. She needed those tires for later.

Ava held the gas and the handbrake simultaneously as the cross light went red. One second later, her own light gave her (and Donny) the all-clear. Ava let go of the handbrake and the Honda leaped forward into the intersection. Donny’s own tires squealed almost gleefully as he rocketed past the crosswalk, which for their purposes, doubled as a starting line. They both made it through the intersection and down the street in seconds flat. The distance to the next light was actually slightly less than a quarter mile, which was better for Ava since her bike was more agile and faster off the start than the Mustang. As she was about to let off the gas, right after she won, she noticed dumbass Donny wasn’t conceding.

Well, of course he wasn’t. He was, after all, a Douche.

He maintained his excessive speed even as they approached the next intersection.
Asshole
, thought Ava. Everyone knew an impromptu race was only between crosswalks.

“Sonofabitch,” she muttered. Her head told her to let go of the gas. Her pride wouldn’t let her lose that easily. “We can play this way,” she half-whispered as parked cars zipped past her peripheral vision, mere streaks of black, red, and gray. “You’re not gonna win.” She leaned forward, stabilizing her grip on the gas.

Few things were as pulse-pounding as barreling down a city street on two wheels. Except maybe crashing, which Ava realized she was about to do. She cursed. The epithet got lost in her helmet, never making its way to its intended target. The rear fender of Donny’s Mustang came within inches of her leg. She hit the handbrake and fell back, just behind the bumper of the car. Sixty feet, maybe a bit less, until the next light—so little and still so far with 2,000 pounds of Detroit steel blocking her.

Ava moved left along the guy’s rear, inching toward the double yellow. He tried to nudge over, box her out, but only just a bit of his left side tires crossed the line. A sedan screeched by going in the opposite direction, horn blaring. The Mustang jerked back toward the right. Ava smirked. He was afraid. She could sympathize. The paint job on the muscle car—flames licking everywhere, competing with the shiny chrome—must have cost about as much as Ava’s Honda.

But to win big you had to risk big. And even though there were no stakes in this particular race—just some asshole redneck who’d challenged her at the light—Ava took racing seriously. Any kind of racing, every kind. She’d only been doing it for a few months, but it felt like longer.

She pulled left, way over the center line, and shifted into the next gear. Leaning over, back rigid, she gunned the Honda. Up ahead there was an SUV turning into the lane and another car approaching the intersection beyond that. The SUV’s headlights flashed in Ava’s eyes. The Mustang fishtailed a bit, as though the driver had panicked and hit the brakes too hard. The road was dry as a bone but at this speed, handling could still be an issue.

Ava turned in just a tiny bit, narrowly missing the SUV’s front bumper as it swung wide, too wide, to make such a simple turn. She caught a glimpse of long hair, hoop earrings, a gaping mouth red-ringed with lipstick.
Women drivers.
Ava huffed and shook her head. She kept on the gas and ducked back into her own lane, now ahead of the Mustang, and sailed under the traffic light just as it ticked from yellow to red. The Mustang was at a standstill in the intersection, rocking on its chassis.

In a fit of anger, he laid on the horn. The blast was high-pitched, almost whiny. Ava glanced back to see him giving her the finger. She laughed as she signaled her lane change and took the ramp for the interstate. Two minutes and two gears later, the lights of Rapid City fell away. Long shadows cast by the nearly full moon fell across the hills and blotted out the silhouette of the trees in the distance.

Ava liked old places, things with a past, since she had none herself. Adopted as a baby, she had no real idea where she came from. She preferred not to think about it, which of course meant it was all she ever did think about. To her right, the sharp, uneven lines of the Badlands set themselves against the dark horizon. She’d spent so much time here that it felt like home.

Two lefts and a right onto an unmarked fire road and she was deep in the darkness, far away from Rapid City, Stark Ink, and the Starks themselves. Ava was fine with it. For someone who spent so much time trying to fit in, she was surprised at how relieved she often was to get away.

Up ahead, the red glow of firelight guided her way.

A
va weaved her way through the gathering crowd. It was the usual mix of people she’d come to expect at these flash mob-like rallies—rednecks in trucks with radios blaring, bikers gathered in small groups, admiring each other’s rides. The races always brought out scantily clad females, for some reason. Ava marveled at the fact that they never seemed to get the memo that short shorts and heels weren’t exactly appropriate attire for riding in someone’s bitch seat. Her own leather pants and stacked-heel boots were better protection against road rash.

Up ahead, a small bonfire raged. Sparks ascended into the sky, which was an inky black now that the sun had set. For a moment, she wished she were all alone so that she could actually see the stars. The canyons were beautiful at night—quiet and expansive. In some ways the rallies ruined their appeal. The nearly full moon added to the soft glow of headlights all around her. For being in the middle of nowhere, the place was surprisingly well-lit.

Off to the far right, alone in the relative dark, Ava made out a rider on a black Yamaha. He was alone, taking in the scene. Though he was difficult to make out, Ava didn’t need any extra light to know the details of his rig. On his helmet was a silver wolf. The same image was also running down the sides of the chassis. She didn’t know his name. She barely knew any of these people in spite of the fact that she raced every time she could these days. She thought of him as The Wolf.

The Wolf never spoke to anyone, either.

Ava’s eyes passed him over and continued searching the crowd. Far to the left, she finally found what she was looking for—or whom, as it were. A scrawny guy with messy blond hair and a days-old beard was holding court while perched on the tailgate of a Ford. A spiked-haired dude in an oversized leather jacket was offering him a wad of bills.

Ava rolled her bike toward the smaller crowd, as close as she could get. Then she killed the engine and hopped off. Leaving the Honda close by and within sight, she stalked over to the blond. She managed to get just a few feet away before he turned and spotted her.

She unzipped the pocket of her leather jacket and fished out a wad of bills secured by a rubber band. She held it out to him.

His jaw twitched. “No,” he spat. “Oh, hell no.”

Ava didn’t move, still offering up the entry fee.

“You,” he bit out, “are a menace. A straight-up menace. And you fuck up my odds.”

Ava didn’t think of herself as a menace. She just assumed that racing had a steep learning curve. She’d wiped out instead of finishing, more than once, but not lately, though.

To their right, the guy with the spiked hair turned back around. “Oh, shit!” he shouted. “Oh, sheeit! Yo, man,” he said, slapping the blond’s arm, “is she racing? I want to change my bet.”

The blond ground his teeth together.

As he lounged on the flat tailgate, Ava noticed a large, green tarp that had been laid across the bed. It wasn’t fully secured, though, and as the blond reached for another Bud Light, Ava saw the tines of a garden rake peeking out from the covering. Apparently, he’d been doing a little landscaping in his free time.

“Yo, man, change my bet,” Spike pleaded.

“Bets are final.”

“Oh, come on, Weasel. Not until the Line Call,” Spike argued.

Beyond them, others moved forward, muttering to each other.

Weasel glared at Ava for a moment. Then, his eyes flicked past her shoulder. They lit up instantly and he looked back at Ava with a slow smile spreading on his face. “Yeah, all right,” he declared. He reached out and snatched away Ava’s entry fee.

With her now free hand she pushed down the visor on her helmet.

More people closed in on them. The excitement level was rising. As Ava started to turn away and head for the line, someone came into her peripheral vision.

“Damn!” someone called out.

She turned to see a red Honda Interceptor rolling up on them. So, that’s what had Weasel all hot and bothered—the entry of a high-end, fully modded racing bike. The thing probably cost more than twice Ava’s ride. The Interceptor pulled to a stop just a few feet from her own bike. The difference between the two machines was painfully obvious.

It was a sweet ride, she had to admit. Flowing, sleek lines; gleaming chrome. The engine purred like a contented kitten, but Ava knew what it could do if you opened it up on a highway. Too bad she hadn’t had enough cash to pay for one of
those
bad boys. Not that she could have bought one even if she did. It had been hard enough to explain away to Adam and Pop how she’d managed to come by her portion of the money for the machine she was riding
now.

Nice as it was, she didn’t need one. Not really. Ava knew a racer’s bike was important, but so was the rider. And few people knew the Badlands better than she did, especially not some guy she’d never seen before tonight. He’d probably never even raced before. His bike looked brand new. He’d probably bought it just to show off.

As if on cue, he took off his helmet at that moment. He had bronze, smooth skin and hypnotic dark eyes that marked him as Hispanic. A few of the bunnies purred their approval. He shook out his dark, wavy hair while giving the women a grin. They giggled and waved.

The Mexican Paul Walker.

Ava snorted inside her helmet. He was hot, to be sure, but his arrogance was annoying. Especially in light of the fact that he seemed blissfully unaware of his impending loss. He filled out his leathers nicely, though. Ava hoped he didn’t get hurt too badly on his way to the loser’s circle. As he preened for the bunnies, Ava rolled her eyes. He might as well rip his shirt in half to show off his abs.

All that was missing was baby oil and an industrial fan.

Around them, more people were placing bets. Some of them put their money on the Interceptor, admiring the clean lines of the bike while knowing nothing about its rider. Ava didn’t care. Let them bet against her. It didn’t matter. That prize money was as good as hers. Their side bets meant nothing to her. He might have a better bike, but she doubted he could actually handle it.

Weasel called them to the line and Ava grabbed her bike. As she made her way to the start, the Interceptor slid up next to her and parked beside her. The Wolf pulled up on his other side. The newbie paid the line no mind, instead preferring to mug for the spectators.
Big mistake
, Ava thought to herself as she flexed her hands. They may not be at the X Games or a moto rally, but these were serious races, and dangerous. The newbie would pay for not taking it seriously.

When he wiped out (and Ava had no doubt he would), he’d have more to worry about than his hair.

Ava snorted as she pictured him, in tears, over the scratches he was about to put on his gorgeous ride.

A fourth rider joined them. Ava had raced against him a couple of times. He was nothing special and neither was his bike. Why he kept entering, she didn’t know. Maybe he just liked the thrill. Two hundred bucks was a lot to pay, though, to keep getting your ass kicked. Ava thought he’d be better off investing in a PlayStation.

A few feet away, a curvy, big-titted brunette sauntered into their midst. She swayed comically on her impossibly high heels. Ava had seen her before—at every single race, in fact—but didn’t know her name. She’d dubbed the woman The Start-line Skank, because that seemed to be her chosen profession and the dress code for such a position was sorely lacking.

The Start-line Skank hobbled to the front of the line, still not finding it easy to walk on the scrub of the canyons in her strappy heels. Ava shrugged. Maybe she preferred tables.