Page 5 of Fatal Collision
When I get home tonight, I will have to take care of the throbbing ache between my legs while recalling the blazing fury on his face.
I lean closer, my mask brushing his nose. “Yet this sloppy touch is about to make you come harder than you ever have. How’s that for irony?”
My mask drags across his stubbly cheek, and I whisper near his ear, “Come for me, little rabbit. Come.”
A choked grunt escapes him, and he lets out a curse. Three strokes later, cum is squirting from his dick in thick ropes that coat his pristine shirt and mess him up.
Before he has a chance to recover fully, I climb off his lap, swipe my bag off the floor and run like my fucking life depends on it.
I half expect him to take chase, but something tellsme that a proud man like Kane Ravencourt would rather take a bullet to the head than enter his own party, covered in cum and flushed from the fury of having been played at his own game.
With any luck, he’ll let this go and forget it ever happened, but the chances of that are slim.
Wave the red flag and watch the bull charge.
THREE
JESSICA
I miss Mom’s cooking, waking up to the sweet smell of pancakes, her singing drifting through the thin walls as she fluttered around the small kitchen.
That was before she got ill. Now the mornings are heavy with silence, her warmth replaced by a gloom that clings to the walls like mold on damp wallpaper.
Dad doesn’t help matters. He stumbled in drunk before dawn and collapsed on the couch. He lies there now, face down, one arm dangling to the floor. A sorry sight.
Chris ignores the man and his rumbling snores as he passes the couch on his way to the kitchen.
Rain battered the roof all night, and the metal bucket on the floor is now a quarter full. He empties it in the sink before placing it back in its spot, where it has lived forthe last year.
“What’s for breakfast?” He pulls out a chair and flops down, shirtless and yawning.
I’m the suffering middle child in our family. Chris is two years older, a fact he always likes to rub in my face. Meanwhile, Summer is the baby of the family, having recently turned eighteen.
Two months ago, we had a party for her right here in our small backyard. The weather was perfect for a barbecue that day, and lots of our friends showed up with food.
It wasn’t the same without Mom here, but we did our best to make it memorable for Summer. Life moves on whether we want it to or not, and it’s crucial we stay united as a family, no matter what. At least, that’s what Mom would say if she were here.
Thinking about Mom and what has become of our family brings a lump to my throat, and I try to swallow past it.
It’s hard to feel like we’re failing her. She was the glue that held us together.
Chris scratches his bare chest, stifling another yawn, his eyes lighting up when I put a plate of pancakes in front of him.
Mom is no longer here, but the least we can do is honor her memory.
Why am I thinking like this? She isn’t gone yet. There’s still hope. There’s always hope.
Summer enters the kitchen and ruffles Chris’s blondbed hair. He isn’t fazed in the slightest as he stuffs his mouth full of food.
She sits down, smoothing her floral skirt, then pours a glass of orange juice. Dad’s snoring rumbles like a chainsaw in the living room, but we are used to it. Sad as it is, this is our new normal. We have no choice but to accept it.
“I’m racing tonight,” Chris speaks around a mouthful. “You should see the prize pot, it’s?—”
“What’s the buy-in?” I interrupt, easing back in my seat.
These things always cost money we don’t have. Chris is a good racer, but his cheap car can’t compete with the likes of Ravencourt and the other rich kids and their souped-up sports cars.
That’s right. They race, too. Every weekend, people from all parts of town and nearby areas gather at Dark Lanes to race for money and pride. It’s a quick way to earn some extra cash to pay the bills if you’re good at it, and an even faster way to lose money we don’t have.
