Page 4 of Born to Scar

I can’t help but smile, my heart pounding with her excitement. She takes her shot, and these guys do the same. She jumps down and slams her fists three times, again. Everyone else follows her lead. The place is buzzing now. The excitement is palpable; even the drunk guy who can’t leave until he finds a ride is excited.

“You race?” I ask when she comes back to check on me.

She nods. “Almost everyone in here does, except the women. They’re fuck buddies.” She chuckles. “I’m the only woman in the club.”

“What do you race?”

She beams a bright smile right at me. “A Yamaha R1. Not the fastest, but it gets the job done most of the time. The guy trying to fuck me, Jared, is the best car racer here, and that one in the corner at the same table, the Asian man, that’s Kia. He’s the best of the best, the professional.”

“This isn’t professional?”

She snorts. “Do these guys really look like professionals?” She drops her head back in laughter. “This is underground. The money is in it if done right, but it’s always more fun. Bik’s been keeping a low profile for a while because the last meet was busted.” She laughs again. “But you can only keep us from racing for so long before we go a little crazy.”

After downing my drink, I ask for another. She pours it extra heavy this time. I love riding, and to have met a woman who races one of the fastest street bikes is…interesting. I like it a lot.

No one in my circle of friends rides, and the women I know are too scared to even get on the back with me. My Ducati sits in my garage, mostly unused.

I hardly ever have time to ride anyway, now that my father has his hooks so far in me. I’m meant to take over his law firm one day. My entire life has been spent working toward that moment, the moment I make partner and become the eventual owner.

That’s why I’m here, in this city. I’ll be moving here after the party tomorrow. This move is an extension to our clientele here.

Over the buzzing excitement, Micky yells, “Oh fuck!” while jumping up and rushing out the door. Indy scrambles from behind the bar, rushing through the door, too.

“Oh god, oh no!” she cries, with literal tears falling from her eyes. “No, no, no!”

“I didn’t see it; it’s so dark.” An older man’s voice trembles. Looking out the door, I see that she is bent over her very black bike, which has been crushed under an SUV.

It’s the vehicle they sent from the hotel I’m staying at—my driver fucked her shit up. They exchange insurance information, but understanding how this works, I know the hotel will find a way out of paying for this.

The parking lot is lit well enough that he should have seen it. I snap pictures on my almost-charged phone of the lighting, the bike, the SUV, and anything else I can for proof.

“FUCK!” she screams and throws her helmet across the lot, pacing.

“You need to call the police.”

She jerks her head in my direction. “The fuck? We can’t call the cops here. They’ve been trying to take us all down. That will end in…just no.” She shakes her head.

“I’m an attorney, and this will go through the hotel’s insurance. They’ll do anything they can to avoid paying for it. You have to do this carefully. I already took the pictures as proof, but you need to call the police. File the report.”

She closes her eyes, and more tears fall.

“Get the fuck out of here, guys,” Micky yells over everyone. “We have to get the cops here. It’s over for the night.”

People start piling out. They want nothing to do with the cops. Indy sits on the curb. Every single person touches or squeezes her shoulder as they pass. They seem to like her here.

Jared crouches and kisses her tear-stained cheek before heading inside with Kia and Ray. Why aren’t they leaving?

The cops show up, and they’re absolute assholes. She’s doing a good job answering their questions, but the look in her eye tells me she’d rather have their heads on plates. They interview the driver and get his statement.

Looking at the lighting around the lot, one of the officers has a shit-eating smile as they approach Indy again.

“Of course, we are going to file this, but the lighting in this parking lot isn’t up to standard. So, don’t hold your breath on getting this paid out through insurance.”

“Why would you tell her that?”

“History,” the cop grits, looking me up and down. “You don’t belong here. You’re not one of these lowlifes.”

Indy rolls her eyes but keeps her mouth shut, and I give him my most charming smile. “Cameron Beck of Beck and Associates, and I can assure you, you are wrong.”