Page 1 of Born to Scar

CHAPTER 1

INDY

Have you ever had an orgasm so good that it made you cry? I just did. No thanks to another cock or pussy, but I can get myself off like a fucking god. The alarm blares as I’m coming down from my high. Groaning, I slam my hand over my clock.

I stretch and fall asleep again, just in time for my phone’s alarm to sound. “Fuck,” I mutter, sitting up and looking around my apartment. “What a fucking mess.”

I shake my head. Clothes everywhere. I need to clean. I need to do laundry. I need to buy food. I need a lobotomy.

After stumbling into my bathroom, I shower. Feeling a little better now, I wipe the steam from the mirror. All I see when I look in it are my scars. Everyone else sees the beautiful works of art I’ve decorated my skin with. All I wanted was to cover the wounds, but they’re still all I ever see.

The piercings were done to ease the pain, but nothing eases the pain. The high doesn’t last long enough.

I dry my silver hair straight down, line my eyes in thick black liner with sharp edges, and use my blackest lipstick. I put my dual labret rings and my Ashley back in my bottom lip. Both nostrils are pierced twice, and my septum is due for an upgrade. It’s my newest addition—I heard somewhere that this one specifically keeps the assholes away. Good.

Looking in my closet for anything clean, I find a dark bralette. My nipple rings are clearly outlined through it. I put on a long-sleeved fishnet shirt with thumb holes, torn jeans, and my black boots.

Micky will be waiting for me downstairs. I take a puff from my pen, allowing the smoke to settle in my lungs before blowing it out. Another day. Another dollar. That’s what they say, right?

Micky and I ride to work together. He is a bouncer, and I’m a bartender at The Cheshire Cat, a local bar owned by the head of an underground racing club that specializes in street racing—sport bikes or cars, it doesn’t matter. The only people who frequent the bar are those who race. Outsiders come and go, but the regulars all have a thing for speed and danger.

That’s how I got the job, racing for money I desperately needed. The only possession I had to my name was my crotch rocket. It worked out in my favor. Bik is a good man, regardless of what people say about him. He would give you the shirt off his back, but most people would turn away because of preconceived notions of what a giving person looks like. I would bet he’s more giving than that prim old lady you sit next to at church every Sunday.

It works out better for the people who truly need him, like me. He gave me this job at sixteen—well below the legal age of a bartender. That would have shut this place down instantly, but he managed to make it work. He had me sweeping floors and doing dishes. The only thing he asked of me was to finish high school. I graduated by the skin of my teeth.

I keep hair tools and accessories at the bar, so I can fix my helmet hair before my shift, not only to tame the windblown strands but also to fix what the humidity does to my hair. Living in South Florida, it’s always wet. A gross, sticky mess, really. While working, I usually have my hair in a high ponytail.

The bar is off the beaten path, but very close to all the touristy places. I’m thankful that, being as secluded as we are, it keeps the tourists at bay. My matte black R1 sits in the bike spot closest to the door, so I can keep an eye on her, my helmet sitting on the seat. This bitch is fast. Not the fastest, but quick enough. I win enough races with her. Micky’s Hayabusa is parked beside me.

Neither of us works on race nights, but Bik hasn’t had a race in months. He’s trying to lie low. Our last one was busted. None of the racers got caught. The cars and bikes are too fast for the cops to catch, even when we are all condensed together. I’m itching to get back to it, ready to smoke some assholes.

Being the only woman racer in the club, when I say smoke assholes, I truly mean it. Men love it, until they don’t. When they get beaten or if my sass and trash talk knock them down a level, they freak out. They don’t like either of those things very much. I chuckle at the thought. Men are such fucking babies.

I take another hit from my vape; it’s time to start my shift. We’re still closed after the lunch shift, but it’s Friday night. All my favorite degenerates come in on Fridays, my favorite day of the week.

“Ready?” I ask Micky. He gives me a quick nod.

I turn the sign on while he unlocks the door. The bar has mismatched stools, tables, and chairs, but there isn’t a soul here who cares. It’s part of the charm. The beer and liquor are high quality, and the food is just as good, thanks to Ray. We have darts and two pool tables that miraculously aren’t beaten to shit.

Taking my spot behind the bar, I prep for the night. It’s not long before every stool is full—full of the same people. The conversation is flowing, and so is the alcohol.

Jared, or Jay as most of us call him, is one of the best car racers in the club and is currently perched at the end of the bar. He’s been around for a long time, since before I was legal. He keeps moving from the table with his friends to my bar, then back again. He’s loud and obnoxious when he gets drunk. It’s not uncommon for me to cut him off. And I do, again, tonight.

“One more, Indy,” he hollers.

“Nah, man. You’re good. You need water,” I say as I wipe the counter down and grab his glass, setting it down in front of him. He glares at the glass, then at me. “Don’t give me that shit, Jared; you’re fucking hammered.”

He smirks, and I know my mistake before he even says a thing. I shake my head, but it flies from his mouth anyway.

“I want to fucking hammer you.”

Rolling my eyes, I turn away. “Drink your water.” I wouldn’t mind upgrading from my battery-operated friend tonight, and he is fucking hot.

His defined, strong jawline is clean-shaven. His body is lean but muscular under the white T-shirt and jeans he usually wears. He has two full sleeves that run to his wrists. Most of the time, he wears a backward cap, and his hair flips and curls out from under it. His hair is as black as night, and his eyes almost match; the brown of his irises is so dark with incredible gold specks. But he is drunk, and I don’t do that.

“Aww, come on, Indy.”

Spinning back toward him, my pussy talking over my brain, I lean over the bar by his ear. “If you remember this conversation when you’re sober, come find me.”