The Elite Kings Club
brushing me off while his eyes search Bishop’s with venom. “You can take her for a ride. But make no mistake, she will be with me after, and...” He pauses, pretending to think over his next words. “...after that too.”Oh, Jesus Christ.
He pushes away from Bishop, all of them still watching as Carter gets back into his car. Tatum clears her throat. “Um, well that was awkward.”
Bishop spins around to face me, both he and Nate obviously pissed at me. “What the fuck are you doing getting in the car with him? You were supposed to stay the fuck home!”
“Last I checked,” I said, looking directly at Bishop, “you don’t tell me what the fuck to do!” I really hope I didn’t slur in that sentence.
Bishop points toward his beautiful—fucking beautiful—Maserati. “Get in the fucking car, kitty, and don’t fucking move unless I tell you otherwise.” My mouth damn near drops open as I look to Nate, waiting for him to help me out here.
But my stepbrother is trying to hold in his laugh, his face turning purple. “Nate!” I hiss.
“Okay, okay, sorry, sis, but he’s right. I was going to lose my shit at you, but he did it for the both us. Get in the car.” He looks behind me, directly at Tatum. “You get in the fucking car too.” Then he looks to Tillie, who is now pushing Carter’s friend away. “And you, too.”
“Fuck.” Bishop shakes his head. “I can’t be carrying too much weight. I’ll take Madison.”
“Like fuck!” I blurt out. Bishop’s eyes narrow on me. I point. “Take Nate!”
“No!” Bishop orders, stepping closer. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you.” He snatches the bottle of tequila out of my hands and tosses it to the ground. “And since pussy doesn’t ride shotgun in my car...” He looks to Tatum and Tillie with a curled lip. Rude! “You will have to fucking do. Get. In.”
“You just said pussy doesn’t ride shotgun in your car!” I’m well aware people are still watching us, but because of tequila, I no longer care. I think I’ll give lots of fucks come Monday, though. “Last I checked, I have a pussy.”
Bishop grins, walking up to me. He tilts his head. “Hmm, want me to check? ’Cause I’m not so sure.”
I flip him off. “Fuck you.” Then I storm off toward his car, yanking the door open... and then failing, because they’re fucking scissor doors, before sliding inside. Bishop is still scowling at me from the same spot before he finally turns to talk with Nate, who has tucked both Tillie and Tatum under each arm with a sly smirk on his face. Both girls look up at him like he’s God’s gift to women. Oh, ew.
Why the hell are they racing, anyway? It’s not like they need money or cars, so why? Bishop turns and walks back toward me, sliding up his door and getting in.
“I don’t know why the fuck you’re doing this. Why couldn’t you and Nate just ride around your little circuit? I’d still be here when you got back.”
“First of all, it’s not a little circuit. It’s a forty-minute race across town. Second of all, you’re drunk, and there’s no way Nate would leave you unattended.”
Nate? It’s more like he has a lot to say about where or who I’m with tonight, but admitting I noticed would be about as useful as telling him I think he’s hot. It would embarrass me, because he would know I noticed, and then the ball would be in his court, which I’m not cool with.
“A forty-minute circuit?” He pulls my belt on and I ignore the way his strong arm brushes against my own.
Firing up his car, he hits his headlights and puts it into first gear. “Yes.” He pushes buttons on the GPS that sits on his dashboard until a map comes up with a trail of green.
“Why?” I ask, looking back to his chiseled profile. He really is that fine. I need to stop looking or sober up, or both.
“Why what?” he asks, revving the car until the rumble of the whatever-cylinder engine shakes under our weight.
“Why do you do it?”
“Ahh.” He grins at me from the side and taps his temple. “That’s the million-dollar question though, isn’t it?” Then he slams it into first gear, the tires kicking up the gravel before we’re skidding down the driveway.
“Holy shit!” I spin in my chair to see the headlights behind us disappear as Bishop drops it into third gear and then back to second just as he reaches the end of the driveway, ripping up the emergency brake. The car’s ass end slides out sideways, and we drift around back, onto the quiet road that leads to the highway. A very girly scream leaps out of my mouth, and I quickly slam my hand over my lips, unable to contain my laughter.
The passing streetlights flash across Bishop’s face, showcasing shadows over his finely cut features. “Take a right turn at the next intersection,” the GPS’s electronic voice instructs from the dash. Bishop swerves into the right lane and pounds it until we’re clocking in at around 100 mph. I thought I’d be scared. I mean, I have no experience when it comes to Bishop and his driving, but I not, and this may be the sole reason as to why so many young people are killed during illegal races—pure stupidity. I don’t feel anything but the sheer adrenaline pulsing through me.
“You and Carter?” he asks, his eyes staying on the road ahead of us.
“Are about as friendly as you and Ally.” My answer is clipped, but regardless of whether I’m enjoying this ride or not, I didn’t ask for it. Bishop is an asshole and stuck-up. Everything I dislike in a male, or in a person in general.
He laughs, but it’s more like a snark. “Ally means less than shit to me.”
“Charming,” I reply, deadpan.
He looks at me, a dark smirk coming onto his mouth. “Never.” Then