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Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth stiff. “Why don’t you leave?”
What the fuck?
Who the fuck did she think she was?
The fury I held back spilled over like a fucking active volcano, giving Mauna Loa a run for its money. Everything shut down around me, and I snapped.
“Because this is my spot! I own this fucking place!” I said, beating my fist into my chest and then pointing at her. “You don’t belong here.”
She jerked a little at my yelling but held her ground like the fucking queen she pretended to be. She tilted her head to the side and pinched her lips together as if she thought hard about something.
“Hmm? Nope. I think I’ll determine where I do and don’t belong. I kind of like it here. I think I’ll stay. I might even come back every weekend from here on out.”
The curvy blonde at her side reached out and touched Tori’s arm. “Maybe we should just leave,” she said so softly I almost didn’t hear her words.
She knew the deal, and the deal was if anyone belonged at The Strip, it was me. Not Miss High and Fucking Mighty.
Tori turned her way, and her cheeks filled with red heat.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” she said before turning my way and locking eyes with me. “This is a free country. IfSaintwants me gone, he can remove me himself.”
I hated the way she said my name, like it was disgusting or tasted vile on her tongue.
Before I could stop myself, I rushed her. My chest brushed against her breasts, and my brain exploded with the sensation of feeling her against me. I hadn’t expected that. If anything, it sent another wave of annoyance over me.
I pressed into her until her back touched the car parked behind her. Her eyes grew wide in fear briefly before her expression settled, and she glared up at me, daring me with her eyes to touch her.
Victoria Walsh was about to get a crash course in how bad boys played. If she wanted to challenge me, I would show her exactly what I would do to win.
6
Tori
Idon’tknowwhatpossessed me to go back to The Strip. Maybe it was the longest workweek known to man or the many burns I had gotten on my wrist from the grease on the fryers. Perhaps it was curiosity, but when Friday night came around, I found myself again on The Strip's sidelines, watching the motorcycles tear up the gravel.
The Sons of Sinister stayed in the corner of my eye. I knew they were there, and I worried Joker would pull some shit, but thankfully, that didn’t happen. It wasn’t until Koah pulled up to the start line, the lower part of his face covered by his handkerchief—black with white crosses—that I felt my spine stiffen.
Sweat covered his Polynesian tattoos, and they glistened in the car lights beaming on The Strip. He was perched on his bright yellow motorcycle like a god, the pink neons glowing beneath him and giving him an ethereal look.
Strangely, I couldn’t take my eyes away from him. It was the strength in his shoulders—the power in his hands when he revved the engine—the muscles popping in his forearms with each rev. And when he turned my way and I found myself the center of his attention, my heart slammed to a hard stop against my ribs. I turned to Sadie and started talking to her, but even that was useless. She hung on the arm of a tatted-up biker boy.
His eyes flickered back and forth between me and the road, and when it was his turn to go up to the start line, I was sure he clenched his teeth even though I couldn’t see under his handkerchief. I rolled my eyes but never broke eye contact with him. I refused to let him see he was getting to me. He pushed his helmet down over his head and revved his engine again.
I jumped when the gun exploded, signaling the start of their race. Koah took off from the start line, and his front tire came off the ground before he pulled ahead, dusting the other racer with smoke from his tires.
He turned my way as he passed me, and even though I couldn’t see his face through his helmet, I knew he wore a fierce expression. I glared back in his direction, and when the crowd around me gasped in surprise, I looked to see his opponent fly past him and over the finish line first.
He lost, and I had a feeling from the look on his face when he handed over his money to the other racer that losing wasn’t something he was accustomed to.
“Saint never loses,” Sadie said at my side, her eyes wide and mouth open in shock, answering the silent question I already knew the answer to.
I tried to keep my eyes away from him, but I peeked over, watching him drive his bike to his crew and push his kickstand down hard. Then he spent the subsequent hour smoking and drinking while occasionally shifting a glare in my direction.
Two hours later, he was still drinking and had smoked his way through three more joints. I was disgusted with myself for knowing that. I watched him too much. What could I say? It was a sickness. Looking at Saint made me burn inside, and not in a good way. Apparently, I was a glutton for punishment.
“Tori. Oh, Tori,” Sadie sang at my side.
She thumped me on my arm, drawing my attention to her.
