Curveball(29)

“They weren’t wet before you started talking like this.” I keep my voice low even though the noise from the crowd drowns out our conversation.

He grins so wide, it reaches up to his green eyes. “Be a good girl, and take them off.”

With spring around the corner, the freezing cold temperature I had to endure the last race is on its way out, replaced by a cool breeze that only requires a thin jacket. I wore what Mark had instructed—a short, tight skirt and blouse, similar to my teacher outfit at the club, beneath a black trench coat. I hadn’t understood his choice in overcoat until now.

“Why didn’t you just ask for a pair of panties when you picked me up at my apartment?”

He shrugs. “Because this is more fun.”

Looking over my shoulder and to my sides, I pretend like I’m leaning over, and I use Mark’s thick body to shield myself as I quickly sneak beneath my skirt, slide my thong down my legs, and step out of it. I bunch my underwear in my right hand, now feeling exposed but somewhat free, and shove it into the pocket of his black Strickland University hoodie.

“Good girl.” He places his big hand at the back of my head and kisses my hair. “Now, I know I’m going to win.”

“Break a leg,” I say, smiling, before he disappears into the crowd.

He always manages to talk me into things I never would have done before I met him. At one time, I thought dating a student was the worst idea in the entire world and that I would burn in hell for committing some imaginary sin against my profession. That was, until I realized we’re both, in our own ways, sinners, living in a city of sinners. I dance on bars for money, and he illegally races cars to take care of his family.

Is it a sin if we’re doing it for a good reason?

I try to rationalize both of our behaviors, using everything I learned in college about ethics, to wrap my head around our situations, except choosing between right and wrong is not quite the same as representing a client with an adverse interest.

Mark gets into his car and hangs my thong around the rearview mirror, as if it were an air freshener, which makes me laugh uncontrollably.

Donna gives me a strange look, one eyebrow raised, and the corner of her mouth turns up. “You know, people think you’re crazy when you start laughing at yourself.”

“Shut up, brat.” I nudge her in the arm, and she chuckles. “I was laughing at Mark, not myself. I’m perfectly sane, thank you very much.”

“The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Are you worried about this race?” I ask, my expression matching the seriousness of my tone. “Mark says they’re the best, but it sounds like their methods are questionable.”

“Yeah, I guess so. They sound like a bunch of spoiled brats who are just used to getting what they want. But they haven’t dealt with our men yet. You have nothing to worry about. For all the tricks those rich dudes might try to pull, I’m sure our Philly boys have even more up their sleeves.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but Mark can’t afford to lose that kind of money.”

She pats me on the shoulder. “Stop worrying. He will be fine.” Then, she tugs on my jacket and pulls me through the crowd, so we can get a closer look.

Lined up in a row are six cars—three from each crew, all varying makes and models—waiting their turn for the race to begin. Mark inches forward from the center of the pack, the Mustang growling in the quiet air. A blue Subaru Impreza WRX STI pulls up next to Mark, and through his passenger window, the driver makes a gesture to Mark that I can’t make out.

Mark just nods, his usual evil grin plastered on his face, and rubs his index and middle fingers against his thumb, back and forth, as if telling the guy he’s going to take his money. He looks so damn sexy behind the wheel of such a powerful car, and with my panties hanging from his mirror of all places, it’s like I’m in the car with him. I wish he’d let me ride shotgun during the race, but he says it’s too dangerous.

Dressed in a tight red bandage dress and heels, a girl breaks away from the crowd and stands in the middle of the street. She gives herself just enough room for the two cars to drive past her as she holds the flag above her head and then lowers it, signaling them to go. The Mustang blows by so fast that the girl’s long black hair blows in her face. Getting a better jump-off at the start, Mark has a split-second lead on the other car, but both of them almost in a deadlock.

My stomach knots because I have no idea who’s winning once they disappear around the corner.

Donna assures me that Tony and their guys have people placed around the track to make sure no one cheats. All I can hear are the engines roaring from a distance and each sound of their tires as they squeal against the pavement, the noise alone causing the nerves to bubble in my chest.

Mark always tells me he has a twelve-second car. Well, it’s been more than twelve seconds, and there’s no sight of either car. After what feels like ten minutes—even though I know that’s all in my mind—both cars round the corner again with Mark in the lead.

I knew nothing about cars before I met Mark. But, over the last month, I’ve learned so much about things I hadn’t care about before I met Mark. He’s changed my life in ways I never expected.

Mark crosses the finish line, the fender of his car only an inch or two over before the man holding a clipboard and stopwatch yells out the time. Both cars come to a stop, and Mark steps out of the Mustang with a cocky smirk, looking victorious—as he should because my man won.