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Disgust and apprehension twine in my stomach. It’s not fear of him hurting me, but fear of being out of control. Of not acting on my own terms.
The next second his hand is gone. Someone new steps between us.
Jameson Ashford.
The back of his shirt brushes my lips and I inhale sharply, the scent of Knox replaced with Jameson’s subtle cologne.
He fists Knox’s shirt to lift him up on his toes.
“What the hell, Jamie?” Knox tosses, unrepentant.
Jameson lifts a flask out of the guy’s pocket. He turns it upside down and shakes, finding it empty.
“You know the rules. Get the fuck out.”
Quiet falls over the crowd. Someone’s cut the music, every eye in the room on this showdown.
When Jameson releases his classmate, Knox slinks off, muttering. I wrap my arms around my body, hating the relief I feel, the confusion hot on its heels.
Knox was drunk. So? It’s a party.
That’s when I realize both Ashfords look surprisingly lucid. What are they about to do that they have to be cold sober for? A deeper foreboding sets in.
“Shotgun,” Megan explains, suddenly at my ear and pulling me back toward her. “It’s a race. The drivers each pick a girl, and she rolls the dice. Whatever turns up is how many shots she drinks before getting in the car. The passenger side, of course,” she goes on at my expression.
“My big brother’s right. The birthday boy picks first,” Theo announces, scanning the crowd. His dancing eyes land back on me. “New Girl.”
I look around, surprised. Some other girls are giving me dirty looks.
“You’re lucky. They’re the best drivers in the world,” Megan says at my shoulder.
“Debatable.” I think of Jameson running me over.
But I wouldn’t be riding with Jameson, I’d be riding with Theo.
Maybe if Theo likes me, Jameson will stop hating me. The way he looked at me after class, I might need a protector.
I nod without being quite sure what I’m agreeing to, and hollers go up. The rest of the drivers pick their copilots. I don’t see Jameson make his choice, but a blond girl who looks like a model appears at his side.
Dice come out and the girls take turns. I roll mine and come up with a three.
Three shots appear next to me, and I take a steadying breath as the scent of vodka hits my nostrils.
I can hang on to the dash. Just brace myself in the passenger seat and pray for it to be over.
Until a butler appears with a tray bearing keys and Theo lifts a set. I see the Ducati logo glint before he tosses them at his brother.
“Plot twist.” He grins, and my tentative optimism evaporates.
We’re not racing cars.
We’re racing bikes.
5
Shay
Cars give you the illusion of safety.
