Bad Boy's Last Race by Dallas Cole Page B

Sophie. “You know, it’s bad luck not to kiss me before the race.” I grip her by her hips and pull her toward me.
    “I dunno,” she says. “You seem to have done fine so far without my help.”
    I laugh and rest my forehead against hers. “Maybe this is what I look like without good luck.”
    Sophie presses her lips to mine. Her tongue darts against mine, hungry. I know the feeling. She tastes so goddamned sweet that I want to keep tasting it forever, deepening the kiss. Her mouth scorches me and I pull her closer and her whole body curves into me and she sucks at my lower lip and I get a little dizzy and fuck. What is this girl doing to me?
    Now I get to find out how to race with a bad case of blue balls.
    Sophie slaps me on the ass and steps back. “Go get ‘em.”
    I climb into the Firebird, pop my earpiece into place, and become one with the engine’s purr. Let the noisy onlookers and the other drivers melt away until it’s just me and the road. I slow my breathing, though it’s hard, after Sophie’s kiss, and get ready for the race.
    “Three! Two! One!”
    My foot hits the accelerator with just the right amount of weight. The Firebird leaps forward, eager to obey me.
    Everything’s clicking for me tonight. I find the flow of the race immediately, but I’m not content to just ride it. I need to surge ahead. Besides, might as well look good for Sophie. I spot one of the Sungs in their Hyundai and keep my focus on him as I rev up the Firebird, and then I sail past him just before the first butte.
    “Careful, Jag,” Cyrus warns me in my earpiece. “You’re probably going to lose some ground on the switchback.”
    “Not if I can help it.”
    The Firebird’s tires squeal beneath me and the stench of burning rubber fills the air. Sung’s trying to nose up past me, but I’m determined to keep him in my rearview mirror. Even as my steering wheel starts to fight me, I hold firm.
    The back of the Firebird starts to fishtail as I swing around the switchback, so I yank up on the emergency brake to even me out. More screeching; somewhere behind me, metal crunches with plastic as two of the drivers collide. Their fucking problem, not mine. I release the brake and keep plowing down the line.
    By the third butte Nash was so worried about, the other drivers are fucking specks of light behind me. Either the pileup caused a bigger mess than I thought, or I’m on goddamned fire. I’m guessing it’s a little bit of both. I blow a kiss to one of the drones as it buzzes past me and ease my way toward the finish line.
    First place. The rest of those jackoffs aren’t even close . I squeal the brakes after the finish line and pop out of the Firebird’s side with my best panty-dropping grin. Everyone’s screaming my name, there are camera flashes going off, confetti pouring down, and a vortex of sound pouring out of the DJ’s turntable.
    Finally the other drivers start to trickle in, but as soon as I spot Sophie in the crowd, I don’t even notice. She races toward me, the biggest grin splitting her face, and squeals as she gets close. I hoist her up in my arms and set her on the roof of the Firebird.
    “Fucking brilliant,” she says.
    I laugh and nuzzle her throat while the crowd cheers and tires whines around us.
    “You fucking show-off,” she teases me, hooking her arms around my neck. Then she pulls me in for a kiss. A deep, toe-curling, cock-hardening kiss. And I redefine the meaning of show-off for her as people whoop and holler around us.
    Someone pops a bottle of champagne, launching the cork into the crowd, and splashes it my way. Sophie laughs and covers her face, but I take the brunt of it on the back. “Great job, Jagger!” the track tramp chorus starts up. I ignore them all.
    Finally the rest of the crew gathers around us. Drazic claps me on the back. “That was some genius driving, man. First place. So glad one of ours could do it.”
    I look toward the rest of the crew, suddenly aware I have no