Page 12 of Fatal Collision
“Where’s the damn lighter?” He finally finds it buried deep in his desk drawer and strikes the wheel, then proceeds to puff on his cigar as he eases back in the seat. He’s not using spoken threats, despite the dark look he gives me before removing tobacco from his tongue, but he doesn’t need to.
Everyone is under his thumb.
Me. My brother. And our mom.
“Anything you want to say?” he asks, squinting at me through the swirling smoke.
“No. I’ll take care of it.”
“Good.”
Another puff of his cigar, and he rests it in the ashtray on his desk. “The senator was very pleased after our last dinner.”
I’m careful not to let my emotions show on my face, but a wave of nausea climbs up the back of my throat. The twisted man in front of me doesn’t care either way, interlacing his fingers on the desk.
“You understand how important it is to keep him on our side?”
I’m good, but I’m not quitethatgood, and a muscle twitches in my jaw before I can leash the spike of anger that surges up inside me.
The corners of my father’s mouth lift, and hegestures around us, meaning the house. “This property has the best security money can buy. The senator’s favor, and other powerful men like him, is partly what keeps your mother safe and comfortable. You wouldn’t want something to jeopardize that, would you?”
When I remain silently fuming, he rises from the chair and collects the cigar again, flicking the ash and puffing on the butt as he studies me through a thick cloud of smoke. He would make a good lead role in an Al Pacino movie.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “I’m not this horrible villain you make me out to be, son. Everything I’ve done, every sacrifice I’ve made, was for our family.” He points the cigar in my direction. “And one day, you’ll grow to see that. We’re flesh and blood, you and I.”
He rounds the desk and stops in front of me, the embers crackling as he brings the cigar to his lips and sucks on it before slowly blowing the smoke in my face.
“Don’t fuck with me, son.”
With a hard slap to my shoulder and a smug look I wish I could wipe off his fucking face, he exits the room, leaving me standing there for a few seconds longer while trying to calm down. My body is shaking, and my hands are trembling. I swear on my mother’s life, one of these days I’m going to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger.
I don’t care what it fucking takes. I will be the last thing he ever sees.
Engines growl in the dark, one after the other, each rev bouncing off the concrete like thunder, while neon lights bleed over chrome hoods and polished rims, which paint the crowd in shades of toxic green and red.
We are parked by the racing line, watching tires leave scorched black signatures on the road as they squeal against the asphalt. The canary yellow color of Noah’s Lamborghini Aventador SVJ is obscenely bright, even in the dark.
“Our boy is up next after this race.” He tips his chin to Cash’s green Dodge Viper ACR rolling through the gathered crowds.
Cash is my twin and two minutes younger than me, a fact I’ll hold over his head for as long as we live.
I eye the black racing stripes on his car as one of the women he keeps on rotation leans over the window. She presses her forearms to the frame and offers him a view of her cleavage, her generous tits practically spilling out of her red leather dress when she smiles at him. My brother is a manwhore and always chasing tail. Me? I am a bit more… selective, let’s say.
Noah whistles under his breath when a redhead walks by in a short skirt. “Damn. Check out the legs on her.”
Someone smashes a bottle behind us, spraying glass everywhere. Maverick glances over his shoulder beforesparing the retreating woman a brief glance. “Who is Cash racing tonight?”
“Some loser from the Falls,” I reply, checking the time on my Rolex. It’s almost eight. I told her to be here.
Noah scoffs and kicks his leg up against the car at his back. He tips his bottleneck back and takes a large sip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to remove the excess beer. “Guy’s probably still paying off the tires, and he thinks he’s got a shot?”
Maverick chuckles before crooking two fingers at a girl in a leather jacket, who’s weaving through bodies and taking last-minute bids. She notices him and makes her way over to us.
Maverick pulls a thick wad of cash from his pocket and holds it out to her between his middle finger and pointer. “The Honda Civic.”
Noah chokes on his beer. “You’re placing your bet on north side scum?” he asks, laughing once he finishes coughing up a lung.
Maverick winks at the girl and smirks as she walks off. “Everyone loves an underdog.”
