Boost by Vi Summers

 

Chapter 9

-Raf-

 

 

While temporarily forgetting Colton’s contract for the rest of the afternoon, it plagued me into the night. I thought about it from every angle, and while I’d touched the nib of my pen to the dotted line multiple times over the last hour, I still couldn’t bring myself to sign the fucking thing.

I wanted to do this for Colt, but it meant punishing myself in the process. And I didn’t mean with Boss Lady.

The ghosts of my childhood needed to stay hidden and buried. I’d managed to shirk the subject during Greer’s grilling about my past. As far as I was concerned, my past was exactly where it needed to be—locked in the place called we don’t talk about that shit.

As a kid, I endured the destruction that the wrong kind of ‘love’ created. I had witnessed a man destroy all that he was meant to protect in his life, all because of blind rage and jealousy. My father.

He was the reason our family got torn apart. The reason my sister was fucked up. The entire reason why my mother hadn’t spoken properly in years. And also why I never let a woman get close. The fear of following in my father’s footsteps was enough to stop me wanting a lifelong partner and family of my own.

Wincing and letting my top lip curl with the haunting memory, I tipped back the last mouthful of lager from the bottle between my fingertips, then set it down on the coffee table.

I was happy with my life. Happy doing what I loved, both on and off the streets. I didn’t have an obligation to Colton to accept the foundation proposal, but I at least owed him a chance. He was a picky son-of-a-bitch, and he’d invited me onboard because I was hands-down the best man for the job.

With that in mind, I snatched up the pen and hissed, “Fuck,” as I hovered the ballpoint over the signature line again. “This better not come back to bite me on the ass,” I muttered, and savagely scrawled my signature.

A weight was lifted, yet another bore down. Conflicted feelings pulled me in both directions until the thought of one woman grounded me dead in the center. Mamacita.

I snorted and ran a hand down my face, still in disbelief over the coincidences that had brought us into each other’s orbit. Her into my world, and me into hers. It was almost as if fate…

Nah, fuck that. I quashed that thought as fast as it arose. She could only ever be a fun time, not a lifetime. Rafael Ortiz was no mamacita’s bitch boy.

My phone screen lit with Colton’s name, and I accepted his call. “Yo.”

“Hey. Is now a good time?”

“Yeah, I mean, I should be searching for a 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California SWB Spider, but shit, why the hell not talk to you.”

Colton scoffed. “Fuck, when you put it like that.”

I laughed. “Exactly.”

“Tough car to find, brother.”

“You’re telling me. Cars like those take months to find, at best.” I leaned back against the couch cushions and set my ankle on the opposite knee, jiggling my foot impatiently. “I signed the contract.”

“Didn’t doubt you would. Is it with your attorney yet?”

“Tomorrow.” I sighed. “I do have one concern.”

“Which is?” he asked, in a darkening tone. “If it’s Greer, then-”

“It’s not her,” I cursed, reminding myself to keep it together. “Well, not directly. It’s my history, Colt. Shit like that sticks, and if word gets out…”

Colton hummed in agreement. “I get it, I really fucking do. What exactly are you referring to?”

Bile climbed up my throat, surfacing with the memories I never talked about. While Colton knew me during our late teenage years, he didn’t know what came before that. Just like I didn’t know how deep his own demons ran. Where he never talked about his mother, I never talked about my father. It was too fucked up.

“Doesn’t matter.” Unable to withstand the physical and psychological effect my actions still had on me, I cleared my throat and popped the cap off another beer. “Enough about that,” I said gruffly, before taking a long pull from the bottle.

Colton cleared his throat and spoke with renewed optimism. “So, any talent out there?”

“Bro,” I deadpanned. “You’re fucking talking to it.”

His burst of laughter came through the phone. “You’re still a cocky son of a bitch, Raffie.”

“This coming from you?” I deadpanned.

Colt sniggered and rose to the bait. “I would still kick your ass.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he exclaimed.

Laughing around the neck of my beer bottle, I took a quick swig, then sat it on my thigh.

“There’s one that’s got potential, I suppose,” I reluctantly admitted.

“Yeah? Name?”

I scoffed. Of course he wanted a fucking name. “Not until I’ve put him through his paces. He’s an arrogant little fuck, but his driving skills are less piss-weak than all the others.”

“Reminds me of someone, eh?” Colton drawled.

I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, you—you smug motherfucker.”

Colton’s chuckle mixed with mine, then eased into a serious tone. “Keep an eye on him. I’d be keen to see him in action on the track.”

“We’ll see, brother. We’ll see.”

I heard what sounded like a click of his fingers. “Oh, while I remember. Let me know when the next street meet is.”

“Why?”

“Might send Greer along again.”

“Don’t you fucking dare-”

My heated threat was cut short when Colton disconnected our call, leaving me with his snide laughter ringing in my ears.

“Fuck,” I cussed, and tossed the phone aside.

A second later, I reached for it again and ground my teeth as I pulled up a search.

Landon-Michaels PR.

Greer’s image immediately popped up; the Landon half of the Landon-Michaels partnership.

Seemed that she was quite the accomplished over-achiever; nominated for L.A.’s Businesswoman of the Year for two years running and propelling their firm into reputable business circles.

The more I read, the more I realized just how far out of my league Boss Lady really was.

Born and raised within a white-collar family, she evidently wanted for nothing during her childhood and had the money to chase her dreams as an adult. In other words, we were polar opposites in every single way.

That didn’t stop me wanting her, though; it simply kicked me back to reality. One where there were people like her, then there were people like me. The broken ones. The ones scarred and harboring darkness deep inside. Darkness that twisted into the crooked and wretched shapes of our nightmares.

Peace never settled for people like me. We were constantly running on the wind to escape our sickening memories. The only way to forget them completely, if only for a short time, was to drive until the streets blurred, drink until the world spun, and fuck until I couldn’t any longer. And preferably in that order. 

I downed the rest of my beer and reached for another, justifying the action by telling myself it was to dull the actions of my past. In reality, it was to desensitize myself to the memory of Greer’s warm brown eyes calling me closer.

She couldn’t see shit, but it seemed as if all my insecurities and regrets became exposed and visible each time she looked at me. More disturbingly, I wanted to stand too close and revel in the desires she tried, yet failed, to hide. Feel each and every reaction wash over me. Own me. Perhaps even calm a little splinter of my soul.

As the alcohol illuminated my system, I let my guard down too much thinking about Greer. My internal demons seized their opportunity to rise, sinking their poisonous talons deep into my psyche and blanketing my thoughts with darkness.

I was glad he was dead. That I took his life before he could take hers, but that didn’t mean I lived without his ghost rising to haunt me when I least expected. Seemed that Boss Lady cracked my armor just enough to give my father’s evil spirit a breath.

I shoved the disturbing memories back down and reached for the Devil Springs Vodka I kept for times like this. ‘Emergencies’. Potent as fuck, it always did what I needed it to—sever the memories and wipe the invisible blood from my hands.

Justified anger surfaced, only beginning to recede after the three swigs that practically took the lining off my esophagus. Burnt like a bitch, though worth it to rid him.

All I needed now was open thighs. Stevie and Tequila almost never turned me down, and I checked the stock of alcohol in my fridge as I called each of them in turn.

Thirty minutes. That was how much time I had to endure before two sets of long legs arrived. One tanned like my own, the other paler and milky. Both giving me exactly what I needed. And thirty minutes couldn’t tick by fast enough.