This story will have many chapters look for them to appear every 3-7 days (this is a novella broken down; each chapter will contain explicit sex).
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The night was warm, clear; perfect for racing. The heat of summer was just weeks away and the stars were out. The underground racing scene had been good to me, my partner Cal and I had run our game three times that night.
My 1967 Mustang Shelby GT500E had 400 HP, 350 lb/ft of torque, and nothing in these modern rice burners could beat it, not even the Hemis. Still these cars were run by gangs and enthusiasts, and enthusiasts knew better than to try and race me.
So my partner and I had to race drug dealers for pink slips, and Cal always collected the cars and drove them to our impound lot. The gangs got one month to give us thirty grand or we kept their cars. It was neat, clean, and untraceable. The racing was the fun end.
I had gotten three in one night, and it wasn't even one a.m. yet, so the night was mine. Cal had taken a Supra weighed down with every piece of chrome the owner could get add to it into the night, and so I was cruising around looking for trouble.
It came to me the way trouble always does. Waiting at a stoplight was a suped up Saturn Sky, chromed out, neon- lined, painted a deep blue with ghost flames so there was no mistaking the gender of the owner.
I came abreast to it in my deep green car, my tinted windows looking mysterious enough that the seat cover in the car leered at my window. She was young, younger than me, blonde, wore a water bra and hot pants and she was willing to dump the Sky for a GT500.
I rolled the window down just as she finished the come on and smiled. "Sorry sweetie, I don't swing that way. Not bad, for a Sky," I said to the driver.
He looked around the girl and gave me a cool look that had withered many a better man, but had never gotten rid of any of us girls. "I ain't racing for the P," he told me.
The girl whined and stroked him but he kept his eyes on mine, and I could tell he didn't like my smile. "How about a simpler bet?"
I'd raced a few times for money in my other cars but I knew that wouldn't get him this time. He needed a sure thing and the girl was close enough. "Like what?"
"Loser goes down on the winner." I rolled my window up letting him know I meant it, and I'd race him if he wanted. Rumor said he had Nitrous on that thing and if I wasn't careful or steady he might just win. I revved the engine, pushed up the Tac, and he smiled.
The girl made some fuss as I turned back to the light. Hell, she could watch for all I cared, when I said I wanted trouble I meant it. A good fight was almost as good as a fuck.
The light turned and I slammed the gas down with the clutch, popped into first and burst forward. It was better than a six second car but Patrick had his tuned to the nth degree. If the girl was still in the added weight would help, but in the end his car was plastic, mine steel.
He was right there but I didn't look. I shifted into second, third, fourth, climbed towards eighty, then hit fifth and he was behind me. We swung onto LSD now and I had three lanes to block, laying rubber as I went.
He was good at feinting but I was a pro. Sure, he had six or seven years on me but I had been racing since I was nine, and it was never legal. I didn't just run those streets, I owned the fuckers.
The end was coming up and I had the pedal to the metal but he was slipping past. Any moment now and he'd hit the Nitrous and only a good block would save me. That and sixth gear.
He hit it and I blocked but he slipped to the left and came up alongside me. I popped the clutch and slid into sixth and ran to his nose. The end was racing up but I never looked at him, pressed the gas in and roared ahead by half a car length.
We hit the brakes to a stop light and I looked over. The girl stormed out of the car and flipped us both off, but Patrick kept his eyes on my window. He couldn't see me and I couldn't read him. All the time we'd run the streets I'd wondered about him, and tonight I'd know.
He had a garage over on Western, and what he tuned out was better than anybody else north of the loop. He was thirty three, white, dark haired, muscled, with a couple of prison tats. No one knew anything about him except that he charged fair and made money hand over fist, and he looked like a demon.
I led him to an empty lot off Wacker I knew for a fact was secure. It was surrounded by three warehouses, my impound "lot," and the front had a high wall. Cal had already dropped off our kills save the Supra so that meant he was off finding his own trouble.
I parked the 'Stang and stepped out, stretching. Racing culture demanded you dress like a 'ho' but I didn't want to look like a seat cover, so I dressed carefully. The boots were leather, black, came up over my knees and fit like a second skin. My skirt was short, but not indecent, plain black with a little flounce. My shirt was tight, black, with a little sparkle at the deep V. I'd get into any club but nobody would think I'd cost anything per hour.
Hard to tell if he liked what he saw, but he'd taken the bet so that meant something. Patrick himself was six four and built like a brick shithouse, muscles everywhere. He wore motorcycle boots, a white denim button up with the sleeves ripped off, and pants that let me know he dressed to the left and he was, it turned out, happy to see me.
His hair was pure black and long to his collar, his face all perfect angles save a nose that had been broken at least twice. He didn't smile at me, but I didn't think he ever did.
"What is this place?"
I looked around and smiled. "It's mine, that's all that matters."
He looked from car to car to concrete. "Aileen, none of this looks comfortable."
It surprised me he knew my name. I raced as Elle, short for Eleanor, what most people called the car since that damn Nicholas Cage movie. I just raised an eyebrow and smiled. "And here I was hoping you'd have imagination."
