Free Bad Boy's Last Race by Dallas Cole Page B

it? It looks like it must be at least ten o’clock, and I’m supposed to be at the youth center by two to help with the after-school crowd. I was hoping to get some work done on my thesis paper, grab a shower back at my place . . . There’s still time, but if I lie in bed with Jagger any longer, I know I’m going to let myself get dragged into another far too exciting round of—well, the possibilities are limitless.
    I slip out from under Jagger’s arm and tug my dress on. The clock on his alarm reads 10:12. Not as terrible as it could be. I take in one last look of his lean, limber form stretched out across the mattress. Man, I hate to interrupt that view . . .
    Jagger groans, pulls his empty arm toward his rippling chest, and rolls toward the door. “Hey. That’s no fun.”
    “What isn’t?”
    “You. Wearing clothes.”
    I grin. “For some reason, people generally expect me to be wearing them. Damn social contracts.”
    He laughs, tired, into his pillow. “What you said.” His biceps bunch as he lifts his arms overhead with a yawn, and I find myself staring just a little too long at the pattern of tattoos along his arms and torso. I’m starting to memorize them. As well as the contours of muscle beneath them. “You’re not rushing off again, are you?”
    “Not like before,” I say. “Just need to get some work done before I head to the center.”
    “Good. Maybe we can grab dinner after.”
    I hesitate, but then nod. No need to be afraid. Just having some fun. It feels good to have fun—to act for myself again. “I’d like that.”
    He looks about to fall asleep again, so I kiss his forehead, excuse myself, and slip toward the front door and down the stairs that lead to Drazic Muscleworks below. The stairs let out inside the garage bay, but thankfully, it’s still dark. I walk on the balls of my feet, none too eager to run into any of Jagger’s fellow crewmates just yet—
    But then the fluorescent lights overhead buzz to life and I’m pinned in place. Busted. A tan, dark-haired woman, maybe a few years younger than me, stands in the doorway that must lead to the main shop, a pair of goggles perched on top of her head. Her hands prop on her hips and a huge grin spreads across her face. She watches me like the cat who cornered the mouse.
    “Well, well, well.” She strides down the concrete steps toward me, still grinning. “About time we met.”
    I blink a few times, flustered. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t—”
    She picks up a wrench from one of the nearby open toolboxes and pats the wrench’s head into her palm. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, hon.”
    I swallow and step back. What have I done to piss her off? She looks familiar . . . Then I realize. She was the sole female driver in the race I saw. I tuck a loose curl behind my ear, nervous. “Um. Hi. I’m Sophie.”
    I start to stick out my hand, but she wraps me in a fierce hug instead. “Elena Drazic. My uncle runs the crew.” She steps back and holds me at arm’s length by my shoulders. “Damn. I always wondered who’d be the lucky girl to tame our swaggerin’ Jagger.”
    My face is burning up, but I smile through it. “You assume I’m not the one in need of taming.”
    Elena laughs, a bright, brassy sound. “Touché.”
    “You were driving in the race last weekend, weren’t you?” I ask. “You qualified, too.”
    She beams and gestures toward her Camaro, up on the lifters. “That’s me. And there’s my baby right there. Rebuilt her myself.” She heads toward her toolkit and trades the wrench out for some other tool I don’t recognize. “Actually, I build pretty much all of the crew’s cars.”
    “Amazing work. Not only with the cars and driving, I mean—with putting up with all of the goddamned testosterone around here, too.”
    Elena laughs again. “Yeah, well, I’m used to it. The guys are my family.”
    She says it breezily enough, but I get the underlying message. I better not fuck with her family. As she starts