1. She is built for a savage.

- M.A.

 

“Mercenary.” My new Prez flicks his hard gaze over me as he takes the seat beside me.

My eyebrow hikes, but that’s all. I owe fuck all to him or anybody else. You get my respect by earning it, even if everyone around this place claims you’re a bad motherfucker.

“Pretty sure the perfect job for you just fell in my lap.”

I grunt. If he asks me to mow out front, I’m going to have to tell him to fuck off. I doubt it since he’s not a pussy. Whatever he offers, I hope it’s not out in the middle of this Texas sun. I came from Chicago; I’m not used to this heat. It’s like being stuck in the depths of hell outside. The others don’t mind it too much, but the shit makes my skin want to shrivel up and fall off.

“Heard you know your way around a few muscle cars.”

“Then you heard right.” I turn my head to the side, my neck cracking with the movement.

“I’ve got some built up interest in a few, you could say. The bitch down at The Pit owes me a favor, and I’ve caught wind that a few Iron Fists have been nosin’ around. This is my fuckin’ turf, even where The Pit lies. I’m not trying to go to war, but I need any bit of information on these motherfuckers I can come up with.”

My tongue rakes across the front of my teeth, savoring any leftover liquor before I open my mouth to think. “The fuck’s The Pit?” I’ve already been briefed about the Iron Fists, a rival club up to no good where our colors and lives are concerned.

He smirks as his cousin Blaze sets a fresh beer down in front of him. “It’s a racetrack.”

“No shit?” I spent my teenage years racing old muscle cars with my father; it was the main thing we bonded over when I was growing up. Racing is in my blood the same as riding is. I can never get enough of the adrenaline, the speed, and the wind on my skin.

I’ll admit, he’s right about it being the perfect job for me if he wants me to drive for the club. “I don’t have a car.”

“Like I said, they owe me a few favors over there. They’ll let you use a car, just try not to fuck it up too badly. Supposedly a few pricks wearing Fists’ colors have been showing up lately to place bets. They should keep their distance from you, but if you’re around Chevelle, you may hear something useful.”

“All right, I can do that.”

“Bet. I’ll call down there, so they expect you. Ask for Chevelle. And keep your guard up; they’re not the welcoming type to new faces. They’ll try to ass rape you the moment they hear you can race too. I sure as fuck hope you know what you’re doin’ and aren’t dumb enough to place high bets.”

“I do. I’ll keep my ears open and win some money to boot.”

An amused smirk plays on his lips as if he knows something I don’t. However, I know how well I drive. They don’t have a fucking clue.

“How do I get there?”

“Hit the main road, hang a left. It’s about thirty minutes down on your left side if you run about eighty miles an hour. I’m assuming that’s not too fast for you.”

I shrug and get to my feet. Obviously, he’s trying to give me some shit being the new member around here, but I was in the Chicago charter since they put that bitch together. This isn’t my first rodeo; they’ll learn soon enough around here.

The Pit was easy enough to find. I thought it’d be some run-down dirt track off the side of the road. That’s not the case though. This place is a fully enclosed old stadium. It’s called The Pit because, at one time, it was a football field, and rather than having a field below, it’s been replaced with a large race track. And I’m guessing with a set up like this, these aren’t your backyard sports cars being raced.

Striding through the massive entry, I glance around for whoever is expecting me. There are a few guys walking around wearing blue and green STAFF shirts, but no one looking like they know who the hell I am.

“Hey, you know a Chevelle?” I holler at the dude closest to me.

His eyebrows raise, his curious gaze skirting over me from top to bottom. I get it; I look scary as fuck—been told that for years now. I think the only one not frightened when they see me is my parents. They’ve had years to get used to my ominous appearance.

“Thought I knew all the Oath Keepers,” he comments after a second, staring at the patch with my road name.

“I just got here,” I say in case he attempts to fill me full of some bullshit. Not being familiar with me, it wouldn’t surprise me if he thought I was an imposter. It damn sure wouldn’t be the first time randoms pop up dressed like rival club members. Normally I’d just tell him to fuck off, but the Prez needs me here, and I don’t want to return from already screwing shit up. Being the black sheep of my last club was bad enough. I’m not aiming to be the same here.

“Ah.” He nods. “You can find Chevelle down in the middle of The Pit, head tucked under a hood.” He gestures to the opening leading to a tunnel on his right.

“Appreciate it,” I reply, trekking in that direction. The building’s pretty bare. It’s like any other stadium with concrete and block walls. Various vendor carts not yet open for business pepper each side of the walkway. I bet this place makes a ton of money set up like this.

The cool tunnel opens up to stadium stacked seating, and I’m about halfway up. Glancing down, I take in multiple levels of stairs, all leading to the outside of the track. There’s a fence surrounding it at the bottom and a few doors to enter. Off to the far right in the back corner is an opening the size of a car bay. I’m guessing that’s how the drivers get in and out.

Pretty sweet set up, but how do they filter the exhaust out in the enclosed space? Glancing up, the very middle of the dome has various mechanisms attached to it, and it hits me. Race nights, they open the damn roof. Pretty fucking awesome. Not only do you get racing, bets, and food, but also the comforts of being inside and outside all at once. Whoever Chevelle is, they’re a genius turning the stadium into this.

In the very center of the circle track is a row of five classic muscle cars, so cherry they make my dick hard. They range from bright yellow, midnight, navy, ivory, maroon, and crimson—their flawless paint covered in a clear glossy topcoat that makes them look as if they were just sprayed. Whoever owns these babies doesn’t fuck around and sinks a pretty penny into keeping them top-notch. I can only imagine what’s under the hoods; they’re a grown man’s wet dream.

Skirting down each row of stairs, my calves burn from the lack of support that my broken-in black leather steel toed riding boots offer. Eventually, I wrench open a door made up of chain-link fence and head toward the vehicles. Each car has its hood raised, and I can make out someone underneath one of them.

I’m greeted with a gorgeous ass poking out from under a waxed red hood; the rest of her body’s buried under the metal. “I’m looking for Chevelle,” I grumble loud enough for the female to hear me. Hopefully, she knows where I can find him.

Her body stiffens before she replies, “Who?”

“Chevelle. I was told he was down here. Is he somewhere else?”

She curses but doesn’t say anything else.

I watch her wiggle around, doing who knows what under there. I’m not good at being patient, and it wears thin quickly. “You know where I can find him, sweet cheeks? It’s important.”

Another moment passes before she scoots back and stands to her full height, meeting my gaze. She’s got grease smudged above her eyebrow, and it’s pretty fucking hot to see a chick not scared to get a little grease on her.

“You a cop?”

I snort. “Do I look like a cop to you?”

Her eyes land on my Oath Keeper patch and she lets out a small sigh.

“I’m not here to cause any trouble.” I hold my hands up and attempt to look friendly. I’m sure my lips moving look more like a grimace than a smile, but I’m not here to make friends, so it’s the best I’ve got at the moment.

She licks her lips. “Chevelle.” She throws her hand out, eyeing me from my boots to the spikey locks on my head resembling the color of ink.

Not what I was expecting—not one fucking bit. I thought Chevelle was a nickname for a man, but the person in front of me with curves resembling the lines of the sleekest sports car is far from a man.

My paw engulfs her dainty hand, swallowing her tanned flesh up with mine, and my signature cocky smirk plays along my mouth. This bitch will be in my bed, no doubt. Shall I wager how long it’ll take me to make it happen? Nah, we’ll leave that up to my talents not many have the strength to resist. Women love me, and I couldn’t be more grateful for having that touch bestowed upon me.

My own gaze takes her in, looking my fill before she replaces her curiosity with a snarl. A fuckin’ angry kitten is what she reminds me of, and I have to bite my tongue from laughing and infuriating her further. “I was told to find you.”

“Yeah?” Shutters come over her bored gaze, and she turns, striding away without giving me so much as a second to finish speaking.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” The growl leaves me as I storm after her, the sway of her ass is a welcome site that’s for sure.

Her head dips under the hood of an ebony muscle car, wrist twisting away at a wrench.

“Want me to fix it for you?” I offer, hoping the olive branch will get her to cool her jets.

“Cute,” she scowls.

“Look, I got your name from my Prez. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to cause any shit.”

She finishes tightening whatever she’s been working on, standing back to her full height. I’d peg her around five feet six or so. A full foot shorter than myself, yet she doesn’t even blink, looking me over as if I’m another tool she doesn’t need to worry her pretty little head over. She’s mistaken.

I watch as she pulls a set of keys out of her pocket, flinging them in my direction. It takes me a moment to catch on but snatch the keys before they collide with my face. This kitten likes to scratch it seems.

My own smirk mirrors on her face. “You wanna talk?” Her brow raises, hands propped on her perfect birthing hips. “Then race me for it.” She nods to the car parked behind me, and I let loose a loud, devious chuckle.

“Fuck yes. Don’t get too wet watching me smoke your ass on that track.” I close the hood and hop in the awaiting vehicle before she can respond.

Slamming the hood of what I now see is a Chevelle, she slides in the driver seat. She winks my way as she turns the engine over and a rumble erupts so fucking loud it vibrates my feet. Gulping down, it hits me that clearly this isn’t her first race either, and from the sound of that car, she knows her shit.

She romps on it as I crank my own car's engine over and follow her to the starting line on the track in The Pit. She’s stuck me in a classic Camaro. Little does she know, but it’s one of my favorite models and years. She has good taste—not that I’d freely admit that to her.

I’m about to roll the passenger window up when a shrill whistle comes from my left. Glancing over, her smile’s purely wicked as she holds her finger up. Swinging from that finger is her tank top, leaving her clad in a black lacey bra. My mouth drops open, and so does her shirt. With that clear message, she hits the gas, and I’m easily left in her wake.

She has fucking balls—more than many of the men I’ve met who gather to race like they own the track. This is her house, and she’s making it clear from the start just who runs it. I’ve raced many times, beginning when I was damn near a kid. Having the experience, the grease and gas in your blood is almost like a disease. You can fight it, but the need is overwhelming to capture that sense of adrenaline, of dangerous peace you get when driving a car so fast you feel as if you’re flying.

No matter how much experience I have, her taillights mock me. I could easily hear the power her engine thundered with, feel its very breath like a hot caress against my neck. There was no way in hell I’d win this one; she’d taunted me like a dog with a bone. Making me believe I’d have her, catch her, and show her just how big my cock was. Not today, though. She has this one in the bag, and all I can do is lick my wounds at having my ass handed to me at the one place I’m most confident—the track.

She’s sitting on her hood by the time I pull up next to her. Shirt back in place, covering the gorgeous exposed flesh that I’d only gotten a brief glance of. Even more fucking beautiful than I’d initially thought. It’s rare in my case that you meet an alpha female that can truly capture your attention. I like them meek and willing usually, but this chick...well, she lights a fire under my ass so hot it burns inside, and we’ve barely even spoken to one another.

Climbing out, I come to stand in front of her. Legs spread shoulder width apart, arms firmly crossed over my chest, brow cocked. I know she has something to say after that show of dominance. That thought has me snorting, wondering what she’d do if I bent her ass over that hood and fucked her until she begged to know my name? Doubt she’s had a man in her life or bed wild enough to stand up to her, but she’ll learn.

“That lap took me one minute, fourteen seconds.”

I don’t ask how she knows, only swallow and remain quiet, because that time is damn good.

“That’s how long you have my attention,” she finishes, and I breathe deeply to keep my temper under control. It’s not often that I’m not the one bending people to my will. I don’t like it, but I need her to hear me out. I’ll take the minute.

“Viking said you have some Iron Fists around here. I want in. He wants me in.”

She scoffs. “I see you know where the gas pedal is in my car. Do you have anything besides that two-wheeled machine you rode in on?”

How does she know I rode my bike? I could’ve driven...maybe because of the vest.

“He said you owe him.”

“He said a lot, apparently. Where is he?”

“With his woman at his club, as he should be. We do his bidding. You damn well know that.”

She smirks again, and I don’t know if it needs to be kissed off her or smacked off at this point. She’s arrogant, more so than even possibly myself. I don’t know how to deal with bitches like this. I prefer it when they crave my touch, wallow in my protection. Clearly, Chevelle doesn’t think she needs either. She’s wrong, however. If the Fists are around, then she needs me here whether she wants to admit it or not.

“Fine.” She breathes the word after a beat. “Keep the Camaro, but listen closely cupcake. You fuck up my car, I’ll bust your goddamn knee caps so badly you’ll never walk straight again. This is my pit. Learn the rules and play by them or get the hell out. Tell your President that my debt is paid. And you get one race, and then you pay entry fees like every other snake in this place.” She slides off the hood, landing on her feet.

Cupcake...she called me a fucking cupcake.

“My name is Mercenary.” It sounds positively feral, more animal than man.

“I heard you the first time,” she smarts off, and before she can blink, I have her hair in my fist, her head wrenched back as I lean in.

Scenting her neck, my hard gaze set intently on hers. “Then you’d be smart to remember it.” I rasp, and she cackles. With a grip on my wrist, she twists, bends, and sends me flying.

My back lands on the packed dirt and rocks knock the breath from lungs. Not often does someone get the beat on me. I’m blinking up at the sky, getting my thoughts together, willing myself not to kill her when her head pops over me. She blocks out the brightness of the industrial size lights, her hair draped around her enough to make out every single feature of her face.

“I wasn’t kidding about busting out your knees. First race is Saturday night. Oh, and cupcake? Keep your hands to yourself, for your own safety.”

I can’t speak. I’m positively livid, and my growl gives it away easily enough. She smiles and then trots off without another word. Climbing to my feet, I glance around, thankful for the small mercy of being alone. I’d have to kill someone if they witnessed what just happened.

Instantly I seek her out, watching as she walks away. Her ass is beyond perfect, her hair nearly touching the juicy globes. Her attitude makes me want to rip someone’s head off. Her smirk makes me want to implant my fist into a wall, and that body, fuck me, do I want to do things to that body.