Page 11 of The Fed Sex Man

The car was perfect in appearance and didn’t appear to be any sort of a project. I wrinkled my nose in opposition to his claim.

“Project?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“It had been wrecked, and there was significant interior damage. It was a declared a total loss from the insurance company. I rebuilt it with my bare hands. I replaced the damaged interior, added a supercharger, headers, high performance exhaust, bigger intake, a closer ratio…”

He continued to speak, but the words stopped registering. He sounded like my brother. I waited until his mouth stopped moving and then I smiled. Close ratio widgets and bigger thingamajigs did little to stimulate me. I wanted to devise a way to discuss above average penis sizes and the advantage of having a friend with benefits.

“Oh wow,” I said, beaming with false excitement. “That’s awesome.”

He smiled a lip-thinning grin, revealing his incredibly perfect teeth. I admired him longer than I probably should have, enjoying the minute details of his handsome facial features.

While I was deep in admiration, his smile twisted into a sly grin. “Watch. This.”

Dripping with intention, the two words hung in the air like a heavy fog. I craned my neck in anticipation, mentally prepared for him to pull out his cock. Believing the sight of it alone might fuel me to eat fish with vigor, I fixed my eyes on his torso and prepared for the show.

He met my wondrous stare. “Ready?”

I parted my dry lips. “Uh huh.”

His right hand reached for the gear shifter. He downshifted. A horrendous whining sound came from under the hood, and the car shot forward with so much force that it plastered my stomach against my spine.

I wanted to scream and laugh and vomit all at the same time, but the force of the car’s acceleration prevented me from doing any of them.

The rear tires screeched. The car shot forward at the pace of Mars-bound rocket. Incapable of doing something as natural as drawing a breath, I sat with my mouth agape and gawked through the windshield with bulging eyes. A quick glance at the speedometer revealed a 125 mile-an-hour – and still rapidly increasing – speed.

While my thrashing heart reminded me of the dangers associated with triple-digit speeds along a city street, my eyes tried to make sense of the objects as they sped past. Apart from what was inside the car, everything became a blur. Everything except for the flashing lights on the six police cars that blocked the road ahead.

I desperately needed to shout out a warning, but the words didn’t come.

Upon seeing the roadblock, he slammed on the brakes. “Those motherfuckers!”

The car slowed from warp speed to a crawl in an instant, slamming my chest against the seatbelt’s strap in the process. The force sent a shockwave of pain across my shoulder and along my spine.

I surveyed the roadblock. The police officers were carrying assault rifles, which wasn’t typical – even in Texas. I envisioned being yanked from the car, patted down for weapons, and handcuffed. I’d never been arrested and wondered if the experience was anything like what I’d read.

While an officer approached the car, I swallowed what felt like a throat full of sand and looked in my nameless date’s direction.

“What’s your name?” I squeaked. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s Tyson. Tyson Neese.”

I mentally prepared for being made the bitch of Collin County jail’s lesbian shot caller. “Are we going to jail, Tyson?”

“As long as you don’t say anything, we’ll be fine.”

“Say anything?” I stammered. “To who?”

“The cops,” he replied. “Don’t say anything when they start asking questions. Not a word.”

I swallowed heavily. “About what?”

“Anything,” he said through clenched teeth.

My mind went in a thousand different directions. Flashing lights. Speeding cars. Heavily armed cops. Maintaining silence. Spending a night – or more – in jail. While my perfect little world began to spiral down the drain of life, the officer rapped his knuckles against Tyson’s window. Beyond him, flashing lights and uniformed cops filled the street.

Tyson cracked the window no more than an inch.

“License and registration,” the officer said, his tone muffled by the car’s nearly shut window.