Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (52 page)

God, he looks scared. I’ve never
seen him look like this. His jaw is held rigidly, but I see it flinch and
twitch.

He’s angry as well as scared. I
remember how he launched at Helman’s men, so filled with fury he actually tried
to fight men armed with guns. He levels a look of pure, cold rage at Helman.
Who looks at Sawyer’s glowering hatred and gives his hideous, high-pitched
laugh.

I’m scared Sawyer is going to do
something rash. I want to distract him, so I point surreptitiously at the two
men who are pacing around each other in the cleared circle. "Are they
going to kill each other?"

"Smack talk," Sawyer says
quietly. "Guys want to force other guys to race by getting them angry.
Guys will throw down to race when they’re emotional and not thinking straight.
You want to race a dude when he’s off his game. Sometimes the insults get too
close to home. Shots get fired. That’s why I didn’t want you near a place like
this—" He breaks off. We both know I’m in a lot more danger than just
being in the way of stray shots.

Sawyer leans to me and kisses me.
His lips move from mine and brush my ear. It’s like fireworks explode in my
heart. "I’m going to win this," he murmurs.

"Just be careful." That’s
all I want. For him to get through this alive. Though I’d like to come out of
it alive too, I have to admit.

I
don’t want to admit the dark truth that’s eating at my heart: I’m scared we
won’t.

* * *

Helman leaves me under the
watchful eye of his henchman with the tight black T-shirt while he converses
with other men. Wads of bills are flashed. I guess they are making bets. Then
Helman waves his hand and I’m pushed back to his limousine by the tall,
shaved-head guy.

I sit in there and put my hand on
the handle of the car door. Could I push it open and run? My legs tighten in
pain as I imagine trying to escape and taking a bullet in my back. Or twenty
bullets in my back. I look up and the driver is watching me anyway in the rear
view mirror. Fuck.

Helman slides onto the leather seat
beside me and leers. "Now you are going to find out if Sawyer can win you,
sweetheart. If he loses, you and I are going to have some fun."

I want to vomit. I shake my head. I
hate being so damn scared I can’t do anything. I hated being bullied but this
fear is a thousand times worse.

Helman keeps grinning, as if he’s
very proud of himself. Every time he looks at me, he smirks. Is he really going
to just let me go?

We drive down a stretch of highway
and pull off again. Trucks are there. I see Sawyer, unloading his bike by the
light of another truck’s headlights. I want to go to him, but Helman says, "Now
don’t you go running off, sweetheart." He breathes his smoke and alcohol
laced foul breath in my face. His hand cups my butt. I jump away.

I don’t think my heart can beat any
faster. But I’m scared it’s going to try to speed up and stop completely.

Sawyer’s race is the first one. He
coasts his gorgeous crimson bike to the start line. In his black and scarlet
leather, he looks dangerous. His long legs stretch out to balance the bike. His
visor is down so I can’t see his expression. All I see of him, to know that it
is Sawyer, is a bit of his sun-streaked blond hair peeking out of the back of
the helmet.

Another bike moves into position;
this one is purple and black.

I hear a man beside me mutter, "Fuck,
that’s Squid."

Squid? It doesn’t take me long,
from overhearing the sudden swell of talk, to realize Squid is a legend in the
east coast bike racing circuit. He is a guy who ‘made good’, and races in big,
organized, televised races. The guys around me are convinced Squid will win.
The odds against Sawyer are high.

Which means Helman will make a lot
of money if Sawyer wins.

This is drag racing, I realize. The
bike race is a straight distance of about one quarter mile. The goal is maximum
acceleration, obviously. From what I overhear, it appears guys invest tens of
thousands of dollars to improve their bikes.

Helman drags me along while his
henchmen inspect Squid’s bike. In an ice-cold tone, he says to Squid, "If
you spray in the race, your body will turn up in the woods about a week from
now. All your skin melted off with acid. Or the cops might discover your head,
feet, and hands have been removed. Just to make their job a little more
interesting."

Squid postures, hands on his back
waistband as though he is just itching to draw a weapon. "I don’t spray."
He’s only five-nine at the most and he has a wiry build. His hair has been dyed
a bright red.

"Spray what?" I mutter,
after we move back to our vantage point to watch the race.

"It means using nitrous oxide,"
Helman explains.

"Oh." My brain computes
that. "To do what? Burn the fuel faster? How much faster?"

Helman looks startled by my
questions. "It increases power by as much as a third. Sawyer always runs a
clean race. If I want my boy to win, I have to ensure the other guy isn’t
cheating."

His boy. The way he says that makes
me want to barf. Does he expect me to be grateful? He’s looking at me as if he
expects some kind of reaction.

"Well, you checked his bike
and you removed the tank," I say.

"Some riders have a tank in an
obvious place, so they’ll say, ‘You got me. It’s off.’ But they’ll have another
one hidden. Say in the fuel tank. If Squid uses it, I’ll know. Then he’ll pay
to make up for…my losses."

I pray to God Squid doesn’t cheat.
I want Sawyer to have a clean race—and win.

Muttering, Squid pulls on a helmet
of dark purple and gold. He sits astride his bike and takes it to the start.
The two bikes creep the last few inches to the line. Sawyer gets into position,
laying his body tight to the tank, his head low and eyes dipped behind the
windshield that’s part of the streamlined fairing. The engines rev and the
power of them vibrates through my body.

My heart starts to accelerate like
it’s been primed with nitrous oxide.

Helman’s hand cups my ass. I push
it away.

"In about eight seconds,"
he leers, "you’re going to find out if you live or die."

Green lights flash and the engines
scream like they want to explode. The bikes sear off the start line, shooting
out into the dark like rockets. The roar is deafening. Everything moves so
slowly. I can see Sawyer behind Squid, and my heart slaps my chest.
Win.
Win. Win.

I don’t know how fast he’s going,
but I know there’s almost no time for him to catch Squid.

Then Sawyer’s bike starts to
accelerate. I realize he’s been increasing his speed exponentially. Squid
hammered right off the line, but Sawyer’s technique is smoother. I don’t know
the science behind it, but he’s catching Squid.

Then he’s neck and neck with Squid,
the scream of the two engines piercing the night in one violent roar, like a
blade slicing through black silk. Screams and cheers explode, but I can’t see
the finish from where I am—it’s too far and too dark. I see a giant portable
scoreboard at the end of the track.

Please God. Please.

It lights up. It doesn’t show the
times, but flashes one name as the winner.

Sawyer Tremaine.

My legs almost collapse underneath
me. Helman smirks at me. "One down. Made a nice profit on that race. The
next one is going to be my best take ever. I expect to pull down almost
half-a-mil."

I swallow hard. Sawyer won the
first race. And he didn’t crash.

I think of Jaxon, losing control
and hitting the ground with that much speed. Oh God.
And the smirking, greedy pig beside me deliberately made Jaxon crash. I am sure
of it now—as sure as Sawyer is. This guy is pure evil.

Helman looks so happy I wish I had
a gun so I could wipe the sick smirk off his face. I’ve never felt such a
yearning to hurt someone in my life. It scares me.

And if I feel like this, how does
Sawyer feel?

In the first race, I saw no sign
that Sawyer’s emotions hurt his ability to drive. Please, let that be true for
the next race—

Suddenly I realize something.

At this point, Sawyer’s odds will
go down. It will be more likely he could win the second race. Helman won’t make
much on this second race. So why does he look so smug? Why does he think he’s
going to win so much?

I don’t think Helman is stupid.
Cautiously I try to think this through.

People will bet
on
Sawyer
this time. When Sawyer wins, the odds will mean the payout won’t be huge. Right
now, the big money is to be made betting against the guy who beat the famous
Squid.

I remember what he said.
My
associates believe you will do anything to win your lovely whore-in-distress.
His associates believed Sawyer would win. And they were right. So why would
they now bet
against
Sawyer?

He knows Sawyer is highly motivated
to win. Again, he may be evil, but I’m sure he’s not stupid. He’s so damned
confident he’s going to make a fortune…

If Sawyer had a crash, like Jaxon,
he would obviously lose the race. That’s why Helman is grinning. He
knows
Sawyer is going to crash. And he must be independently betting against Sawyer.

He has no intention of letting me
go or letting Sawyer get out of racing. It would be easier—and safer for him—if
both Sawyer and I are dead. He’s planning to do the same thing to Sawyer that
he did to Jaxon. He must have fixed the bike somehow between races.

I’ve got to warn Sawyer. He could
get the hell out of here—

Something hard jabs into my side. "You
ain’t going anywhere, whore," Helman mutters. In my panic, I started
moving away from his side and he saw me.

I don’t have to look down to know
he’s drawn his gun and he is pressing the muzzle against me. And he’s going to
watch me so I can’t sneak away.

I should warn Sawyer, even if I get
shot.

Another race runs, and the
screaming of the engines makes me flinch, makes my ears buzz and all my nerve
endings hurt.

Then I see Sawyer, sitting astride
his bike, bringing it up to the line again.

Desperately, I look at him. His
visor is up and he’s watching me. His mouth is a hard, grim line. His eyes look
filled with pain. But he nods. Mouths something. I can’t make out what he’s
trying to tell me.

What I really need is for the cops
to show up right now. Why can’t someone realize there’s an illegal race going
on and break it up? Like
now
! How can nobody have heard all this noise?

Sawyer’s opponent is at the line,
and both men are in position, their bodies folded tight to their bikes.

No! I try to run toward Sawyer, not
caring what happens to me. He sees me and starts to straighten up on his bike,
just as the green lights flash. There’s a burst of engine sound, a fog of
exhaust fumes and the crowd blocks my view.

No!

People move enough that I get a
glimpse of the road. One bike is hurtling down it, toward the finish.

My heart thuds and I whip around to
look at the start.

Sawyer’s bike is there, lying on
its side. He didn’t leave the starting line. And he’s not there!

"Bastard," snarls Helman.
"What he gets to do first is watch you die."

This can’t be happening. Through high
school I got mocked for being too smart. Doesn’t seem to be a problem right
now. I can’t think of a way out of this. I’m not big enough to overpower Helman
and break free. I can’t see anything I can use as a weapon against him. Unless
I were to lift a gun from one of the guys around me, but I don’t know who is
armed, and I don’t even know how to fire a gun.

Helman grabs me and drags me away
from the crowd. "We need to go somewhere private to do this, sweetheart."

"Let her go, Helman."
It’s Sawyer. He keeps shouting at Helman to release me. He’s fighting through
the crowd. Then Helman lifts his gun and fires into the air. Pandemonium
ensues. People run away from him, crashing into each other. Sawyer struggles to
get through the sea of panicked people.

Helman’s attention is on Sawyer,
and I lift my leg and drive my knee into Helman’s crotch.

He squeals, sputters, grabs his
privates through his expensive pants. Then he points the gun at me—

"Don’t move! Put your weapon
down!"

Blankly I look around. Cops are everywhere—wearing
flak jackets, with guns trained on Helman. It really is like I’ve walked onto a
TV show. But this is real.

"Fuck," Helman spits.

The cops are coming closer. I
realize Helman is not going to do the usual stunt you see on TV. He’s not going
to grab me. I can—I can walk away.

I can’t quite believe it. I take a
step toward one of the officers. My legs are shaking. I try another step. Then
I run, blindly, toward the cops, and I lose my balance because my legs are so
weak.