Page 9 of Wicked Spite
“Or maybe it’s about me not giving a shit,” I shoot back, wrapping the towel around my waist. “Sometimes you should take my words at face fucking value.”
“Yeah, okay,” Lincoln mutters, looking away. “Just…fucking talk to us or something. You keep all that shit bottled up inside and none of us are going to survive the aftermath of you snapping.”
“Too late for that,” I say, flashing them a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got better things to do than this family therapy session.”
“Like what?” Jeremiah asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I reply, heading for the showers. The sound of water hitting tiles drowns out their voices, but I can still feel their eyes burning holes in my back.
Exiting the shower, I pass Coach’s office. A basket of bananas catches my eye. Perfect. I pluck one from the bunch with an exaggerated flourish, peeling it with a smirk.
“Please do not deep throat that banana. I can’t deal with your porn-like sound effects.” Oh Graham, if you’d only just learn to not say shit like that to me and I wouldn’t exaggerate.
“I feel a calf cramp so gotta get my potassium, right? Nothing like a yellow tree dick to keep the energy up and keep these as the best ranked calves on campus.” The assistant coach snickers while the others just shake their heads. Graham flips me off before walking away.
I take a big bite, relishing the sweet taste as I stroll out ofthe building. The late afternoon sun hits my face, making me squint. My Ducati Superleggera waits for me—a sleek, pretty machine, all-black with blood-red accents, a reflection of everything I am. She’s a real fucking pretty ass bitch.
I swing a leg over the bike, feeling its power hum beneath me. The vibrations from the tank and the scent of the exhaust are almost enough for me to sport wood. A restlessness stirs in my chest, and I have to get out of here. I need therapy, the kind that’s two wheels, the asphalt beneath me and the air barely entering my lungs as it flies past me.
I speed off, not even bothering to put on my lid. Tires screeching against the asphalt. Wind slaps my face, but it’s a welcome sting, a reminder that I’m alive, reckless, and untouchable. The campus blurs past me, reduced to mere blobs in my peripheral vision.
“Fuck ‘em all,” I shout into the wind, twisting the throttle harder. The Ducati responds instantly, surging forward with a burst of speed. The world narrows to a tunnel of adrenaline and my engine, the scent of gasoline sharp in my nostrils.
I lean into a turn, my tires barely gripping as my knee drags along the pebbles and little shards of glass. I love this little gamble with fate, and the freedom two wheels gives me.
For now, it’s just me, my bike, and the open road. No brothers, no coaches, no fucking responsibilities. Just raw, unfiltered freedom.
They don’t get it. They never will. This is where I belong—on the edge, where every second counts and every mistake could be your last.
I spot a police cruiser parked up ahead. A smirk curls my lips. They’re like vultures, always circling.
I rev the engine; the roar echoing against the buildings. Ipop a wheelie, the front tire lifting off the ground as the bike surges forward. Adrenaline spikes.
“Yee-haw, fuck the law!” I shout, flipping the cop the middle finger as I zoom past. The officer’s eyes widen in surprise before narrowing in determination. Challenge accepted Officer Wilbur.
His lights flash, siren wailing. Here we fucking go.
“Come on, you pig,” I whisper, leaning into a turn. The cop’s on my tail, but he’s no match. Not today or ever.
I weave through traffic, each car a potential obstacle, a game of high-stakes dodgeball. My senses are razor sharp, though. I’ve never crashed my bike and today won’t be the day either.
The city sprawls out, a maze of concrete and chaos. Perfect for losing dead weight.
A sharp turn, tires screeching. The cop’s still behind, persistent little fucker. But I know these streets—every alley, every shortcut. Another sharp left, then down a narrow side street.
The speed on that overpriced fucking Challenger is no match, as I twist the throttle. The Ducati leaps forward, the cop’s struggling now, his bulkier cruiser not built for this kind of chase.
“Bye-bye, piggy,” I hiss, taking another tight corner. I glance back—he’s gone.
Yep, still got it. I slow down just enough to savor the victory.
My bike purrs to a stop at the rusted gates of the junkyard, the smell of oil and decay thick in the air. I kill the engine, swing my leg over, and pocket the keys. The place is a graveyard for metal, but tonight, it’s gonna give me a present of lips wrapped around my cock.
“Hey, Penn,” Weston’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He steps out from behind an old Chevy, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His eyes light up when he sees me, and I can’t help but smirk.
“Evening, Wes. Got time for a quick chat?” My tone drips with sarcasm, my grin widening as I lean against a stack of tires.
“Always got time for you,” he says, dropping the rag and making his way over. There’s hunger in his eyes that matches mine.
