“Wasn’t meant to be.”
Shrugging out of her hold and vacating her proximity, I squeeze myself between Zap and Wes. Zap isn’t interested in high school meat, my guy likes the cougars, but he sees something in her—unfortunately not a bullet. This is the only disappointment I reserve for my friend, as he could do much better than Ivy, especially with the older girls. Usually, if she isn’t at least ten years older than him, she won’t register on his radar. Wes though, he’d fuck a porcupine if you told him which hole to hit.
Ivy huffs and pouts when she can’t get to me, crossing her arms over her chest as her bottom lip pokes out—bitch only makes passes at me when Nadia isn’t around. I ought to tell her, watch Nadia beat her ass and grin like Cheshire when she cries to me for help. Nadia and I split up when I left for college. She wanted the break more than I did but if she demanded the winning lottery numbers, I would throat-punch someone over their prize-winning ticket.
In the end, I wasn’t sure why she needed the space when I thought we were doing so well together. Eventually it clicked, her abandonment issues. She had to control what happened with us or face a harsher ache when she looked in the mirror.
“I’m happy to see you though. You’re looking good too. College life is definitely your scene.” Ivy adds. Not so subtly reminding me she exists.
For fucks sake, someone come get this girl.
Wes steps in as Oliver and Wren try to redirect Ivy’s attention when I don’t reply to her. They’re picking up what I’m throwingdown even if the blind bimbo isn’t. Unfortunately, they rather save her feelings than correct her behavior—same can’t be said for my friends, I’d drag them over hot coals if needed.
“Iv, let’s get a drink.” Wren pipes up, Oliver adding to it. “Yeah, maybe we can find some of that trashcan punch you like. I heard Tommy brought some to the last party and he’s sitting on his truck right now, he always has the good shit.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds great! Rey, do you want anything?” She asks, still vying for my attention. If Nadia knew how shitty her friend is being, let’s just say I’d watch that ass chewing before getting her out of here before someone tries to press charges.
“No. Oliver, when’s Nadia going to be here?” I ask, seeing Ivy bristle out of the corner of my eye—jealous cunt.
“She went home after the ceremony,” he answers with a shrug. “Wanted to get permission from her dad or something like that. You know how she walks on eggshells around him.”
Yeah…I do.
“Gotcha, thanks.”
Waving them off, I sigh to myself in disappointment. Something tells me Nadia going home wasn’t the best thing to do, even if it was the smartest. I hate her dad, to put it lightly. Her friends are a nuisance too, thankfully Nadia isn’t very impressionable, but her dad? He sends me into a blinding rage. Out of the few disagreements we’ve had, they were always about him and how he treats her like dog shit.
I’ll bitch about it until I am blue in the face too; she deserves a family that will place her on a damn pedestal, encourage her when she needs it, and love her without any damn conditions. Not one that has her scrubbing the running boards or bleaching the walls, or treating her like a personal slave—Cinderelli, Cinderelli, night and day, oh Cinderelli.
I need to busy myself or I’ll end up being pissy all night—ruin her celebration, whenever she gets here.
A loud rumbling growl catches my attention and pulls me away from where I stand scowling between Wes and Zap. A devilish smile creeps across my face, arm hairs standing on end when my eyes land on the Challenger trying to crawl across the grass and park. ‘Bitch Maker’ is painted across the door skirt in an off white, almost blending in with the remainder of the pearl gloss. Blacked out rims, heavy tint, and the hard thump of bass pulses from the stunning piece of machinery. She’s built for the drag but I’ve had a few runs with her at my side; the sheer power sitting under her hood is what wet dreams are made of. All intake, torque, and raw horsepower.
Reaching the driver side, Sergio Fuentes pops the latch and swings it open with a hushed glide before stepping out. In his typical getup: backwards ball cap, white t-shirt, and dark jeans, he waves inside the cab before the passenger door springs open and a girl climbs out, fixing her skirt, and walks off like it’s nothing. Unsurprising, the guy always has girls falling on his dick. He’s a player, not that it matters, they like it, he likes it, therefore it works. His circuit and mine rarely cross and even if it did he can have his pick of women with the muscle he drives.
My hand shoots out for a quick bro-shake and slap on the back, greeting one another like we always do. A waft of his over-indulgent cologne smacks me in the face with its overpowering notes with the familiar scent of freshly toked green.
“Fuentes.”
“Rey, lookin’ good man. How ya been?” He asks, not a bit of Hispanic twang in his accent though he looks more the part than I ever have.
“Not too bad. Didn’t expect to see you out this way. You come for the race or do you know someone here?”
“Hmm. You know how I feel about questions, hermano.”
Deflection, why am I not surprised?
He runs drugs, I’ve seen him at a few frat parties making deals as if no one is looking and he has no qualms about getting picked out of a lineup. Pretty sure his side hustle is what pays for his speeding tickets and racing habits. As long as he makes a bill at every gathering, he calls it a win, racing or not.
I’ve caught wind of him talking to Nadia occasionally, since he graduated after me—it gave him an opportunity. My sources told me she never took the bait and I hope she never does. I rather be the one getting in trouble and tossed into a jail cell, not her, or the both of us together. I have a feeling though, you know the kind that sits low in your stomach and boils until the truth reveals itself? Your ‘gut feeling’, yeah that’s what I have. He’s bad fucking news for her, I just can’t wrap my head around how or why yet. What’s funny is my Uncle thinks I’m the problem when people like Fuentes roam the same streets he patrols.
I’m about to respond to him when he grins and cuts me off. Waving his hand, motioning to the gathering new-grads filling the field, one carful after another.
“Came for the race and a few of the sights. You in your rig today?”
AKA, he came to sell.
“Yeah, parked over there.” I point a couple of vehicles down. A few people standing at the hood and taking pictures with their flip phones. Kinda rude to take photos with other people’s cars but who am I to complain? As long as they don’t touch her, I’m golden.
