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This is why me and my brother support one another. He helps me keep the secrets of my illegal street racing, and I help him cover up his cuts and bruises.
Thankfully, he’s actually pretty good and it’s a rare occasion when a fighter can land a hit on his face.
“Shoot!” Lydia pulls to a stop beside us, her eyes on someone in the crowd. We follow her gaze and find her fuckface boyfriend, Fernando, glaring daggers at her—or more specifically, her arm linked with Vicente’s.
He’s a jealous prick, but yet he has literally no issue being a lying, cheating scumbag. We’ve watched him break Lydia’s heart more times than we can count, but she always goes back to him.
Fernando is like a nasty, incurrable fucking rash.
The bastard looks up, his eyes sliding over to me with a wink. My lip curls in disgust. Vin growls and steps forward, ready to beat the shit out of the prickagain, but Lydia pulls on his arm.
“Your parents are here!” she hisses at my brother.
“I don’t give a fuck, Lyd.” He yanks his arm free, but we both latch onto him once more. “Why do you stand up for him? He’s a fucking loser, onlypendejasgo for fuckboys like him.”
As soon as his words fly like flaming arrows, a sigh leaves me as I close my eyes in exasperation. Lydia steps back like Vicente slapped her, and in a way, he did.
I try to look for a way to fix the situation, but Lydia is already turning red with hurt and anger.
“Thanks a lot, Vicente,” she huffs, tears building quickly as she backs away.
“Lyd,” my brother says softly, realizing he screwed up. “C’mon, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sure you didn’t,” she tells him with a shaky voice.
“Lyd—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Congrats again, Vi.” Then she turns and bolts, leaving us and Fernando behind.
“Lydia!” Vicente shouts after her, but she’s lost to us for now.
I pull on my brother’s hand, trying to keep him from running after her and talking out of his ass again. “Let’s go. She’ll come around when she stops wanting to bash your teeth in.”
He looks back at Fernando, his lip curling in anger, before turning and pulling me with him as we continue toward the exit. I look at the piece of shit one more time, almost gagging when he makes a vulgar sign with his tongue and fingers.
God, he’s such a disgusting human that not even his pretty face can make up for it. Why Lydia is into him, I have no clue. He showed up as a new student in our college class almost a year ago and she was instantly interested in him. Maybe it was his face, paired with his accented voice? Whatever it was, I just don’t understand how she can look past his disgusting behavior and leering eyes that always seem to be on me.
My polite façade stays in place as we walk through the crowds, accepting congratulations from people as we pass them, but the minute we’re outside in the night air, I drop the smile and breathe easier.
Fuck, I wish I didn’t find humans so difficult to be around.
I absolutely hate being around them. I hate dealing with their complexities and their irrational need to be needed. The only two people I feel comfortable around are Vicente and Lydia. That’s it. But even with them, I need my space and my quiet loneliness. Solitude issafeto me. It’s why I love motorcycles so much. When I’m riding, it’s just me, the machine purring between my legs, and the road. No one to coddle, no one to explain myself to, no one’s sensitive feelings begging for my attention.
I have such a sweet love affair with loneliness that I am in a constant state of withdrawal every time we’re separated.
“Wanna go riding tonight?” I ask Vicente when we’re seated in his car. The Audi Q3 was a gift from our parents when he got accepted into Harvard. Of course, the stipulation is that he pursues his financial degree.
He won’t have this car for very much longer. Neither will he have a home to come back to once he saves enough to skip town and move to New York where he plans to fight in the underground ring there.
A foolish choice, if you ask me, but I’d rather see him do what he wants than to suffer through the bullshit life Victor has planned for him.
He types out a text to someone before answering me.
“Yeah. I need to clear my head before the fight.”
My brows shoot upward. “What fight? I thought you didn’t have a slot until next weekend.”
Vicente fights every three weekends, despite the demand for more from the crowd. He can’t fight as much as I can race since the bruises and swelling would be too difficult to hide. Dad will undoubtedly notice and blow up.
