Chapter One – Rick
“Aww, come on, Drew. I don’t want to go by myself.” Rick was whining, but hey, go big or whine. He had thrown himself across his roommate’s bed as Drew packed for Spring Break. “We’re not going to the beach… or Mexico… or anywhere fun. You’re visiting your brother and brother-in-law at spring training, and ho hum, I’m going home. Let’s do something exciting before you don’t see me for ten days.”
Drew glanced over his shoulder at Rick and raised an eyebrow. “I know it’ll be heartbreaking to not be with me every day, but I’m beat from the road march today. Who pissed off Master Sergeant Coffey?”
Rick sighed. “I think it was me. Apparently, he didn’t like my excuse that I danced at the frat house last night, so I’m too sore for PT.” He had to duck quickly to avoid the sock that Drew threw at him.
“You jackass. So all of us had to suffer through a ten-mile ruck because you wanted to twerk with a twink?” Drew’s glare was a sight to behold. If he weren’t like a brother and the best friend Rick ever had…he would be all over him. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I was trying to figure out the best way to apologize to you. I know. Let me take you out tonight to see the street race?” Rick gave a big grin, trying to use his charm on Drew.
“Nice try, asshole. I’ve got to hit the road super early tomorrow to make it to the exposition game tomorrow night. I should’ve booked a flight but wanted to have my car. I’m thinking of stopping to see my uncle Brian and Aunt Holly on the way back.”
Rick got off the bed and ran his hands down his shirt. “It’s Cam’s first game as a coach?”
“Yeah, he transitioned to in-field coach this year. He’s excited for this new opportunity with the O’s. Tris is nervous. No idea why, but he is. Dad and Mom are waiting until his first home game. Julia is tied up with something so…” Drew scanned the room. What he was looking for, Rick didn’t know.
“I’ll let you finish packing before crawling into bed. Wake me before you leave in the morning.” He tapped Drew on the cheek and strolled out the door. He had some bikes to check out, and if he checked out the riders too? Who would fault him on that? Those guys were ripped.
Rick walked down Hungate toward the parking lot on the corner of Old Firetower, where the race was tonight. He was looking forward to seeing how the bikes handled on the pavement. Granted, the road was an older one, but it was going to be cool. From what he understood, his cousin had said that the bikes were souped-up 450s with road wheels. With so many types of vehicles, no way he was going to be able to identify what was what.
Movement at the edge of the racers caught Rick’s eye.Holy fuck!If that guy with the 272 on the front of his bike wasn’t sex on a stick, Rick didn’t know who was. He looked to be Rick’s height and those jeans he was pretending to wear were the stuff for wet dreams. At least Rick’s dreams.
He wasn’t sure what type of bike the racer had between his legs, but Rick knew sure-as-shit, he wanted to take its place. Those legs wrapped around his hips while he pumped into theracer’s ass would be amazing. So tied up in his fantasy, Rick almost missed the start.
The two bikes took off andhis racer—yeah, he was claiming him even if it was only in his fantasies—jumped out in front. There was no way that he swung Rick’s way. As they got to the curve, the biker almost laid his bike horizontally on the ground. How he didn’t hit the pavement, Rick didn’t know, but damn. After the turn onto Bells Chapel, they were out of sight. It wouldn’t take too long for them to turn back onto Old Firetower at the speed they were going. He hoped no one crashed on Country Home; he knew that was a sharp turn. Soon enough, Rick heard the whine of the engines as they approached to start the second lap.
Appearedhis racer was still in front and…where was the other bike? Number 272 flew across the start/finish line and hit the curve, then he was out of sight again.
The crowd moved toward the finish line, and the guy with the clipboard was right in front, holding a flag. Did he think this was NASCAR? He waved the flag as 272 crossed the line. Looked likehis racerwasn’t only hot to look at, but rode a hot bike too.
One day, Rick was going to have to try a bike. Maybe he’d get one at his first duty assignment and he could ride on good days. His old Malibu wasn’t going to last forever.
Rick moved closer to the curb, where everyone gathered on Old Firetower. Maybe, if he were lucky, he could talk about bikes with the guy. Get some pointers on what to look for. When he got closer, the guy was still straddling the bike with a few barely covered women pushing up against him until some guy stepped up and guided them away.
Biting his lip, he debated how to get closer when the guy called him over.What the fuck? Was this his lucky night?
Chapter Two – Coop
Coop shouldered his way through the crowd to Vick, who was holding his bike for him on the Old Firetower Road, where they were starting the races. He’d been told not to race tonight. He’d been told not to fuck up his ride. Then Vick dared him. He could always count on Vick to get under his skin, the asshole. They’d grown up together. That didn’t mean they were good for each other. They weren’t, and Coop knew it. If he was going to blow his sponsorship in the Arenacross circuit, it would most definitely have something to do with Vick.
“Yo! Lucas!” Vick called out, waving his hand in the air. Coop grumbled under his breath. Vick was also the only person in the world, outside of his parents, who called him that. Everyone else just used Coop. Or Cooper, his last name.
“Fuck right off with that, Victor.” He pronounced his friends name very distinctly to get under his skin, but Vick just smirked then gave him a knuckle bump.
“You’re in the next round. Bike looks good. You ready?”
Cooper tucked the front of his shirt into his jeans. He preferred track pants, but the people in the illegal street races here had a different kind of attitude, one he needed to match. He was Coop. Hotshot dirt bike racer, grandson of Dustin Cooper, who won all kinds of shit in his day. He was a legend, but not in the prestigious leagues like Arena or Supercross. He did some moto, but mostly, he raced on the streets. All across the US, he’d left a legacy that Coop had to live up to. He squared his shoulders and flipped a leg over the bike. “Let’s do this.”
The crowds parted easily for him when he was on the bike, obviously not wanting to get run over. He motored at a safe speed through them. Everywhere, people were cheering,laughing. Once they lined up to start, the crowd would move back a bit, but they’d be all along the side of the roadway, watching. The bikes would race down Old Firetower, then hit a turn that banked out at almost ninety degrees onto Bells Chapel. He hoped people had enough sense not to stand on that corner. That was probably the second most dangerous spot on the track for racers and spectators alike. The only spot worse was at the end of Bells Chapel when they had to make a sharp right onto Country Home. That led straight back to Old Firetower. They’d do two circuits.
It wasn’t much of a track but deceptively challenging for street racing. It was mostly an old commercial area with an old trailer park nearby, and a few open fields where people were partying. It was a recipe for disaster. If anyone got hurt, the cops would more than likely be called. At least he was in one of the earlier races. Maybe he could win and get the fuck out of there before all that chaos ensued.
Past the crowds, vehicles were lined up on the far side of Country Home and down Old Firetower in front of the businesses and across from them in front of a couple of houses. A few residents were outside enjoying the commotion, and perhaps some of them weren’t home, the houses casting dark shadows across their expansive lawns.
Bikes of all kinds were there. Some were modified dirt bikes like his, but others were street-legal crotch rockets, a couple of low-profile Scramblers, probably owned by spoiled rich kids whose parents had even more money than Coop’s did. There were plenty of dual-sports, too. They were well suited for street racing, if they had enough engine. But they wouldn’t beat Cooper.
He killed his engine and balanced the bike with one foot on the pavement. He crossed his arms over his chest and let a boredexpression cross his face. A few minutes later, Vick showed up with his helmet. That was about as much of a crew as he’d get here. He’d worked on the bike, setting it up, earlier in the day. He’d never be too good to get his hands dirty, but he was looking forward to someone else being responsible for his bike. Bandy Tires would have a mechanic and an assistant for him at the Arenacross races. His first race was in two weeks. He had to kill it there, but first, he needed to blow his competition away here.
