Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 119650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
And Logan fucking hates it.
A laugh rumbles up my chest as I catch the slightest glimpse of his expression through the rearview mirror, and all too soon, the dust cloud from my tires completely claims him. I shouldn’t gloat, but I can’t help it. Logan is such a sore loser when it comes to racing. He’s going to spend the rest of his night sulking. Not even Chanel will be able to pull him out of this one. Hell, tonight was game night and we dominated. Logan was on fire, more so than usual. It’s as though he were one with the ball. Langford Boys Academy didn’t stand a chance with Logan on the field, and it’s the cockiness from tonight’s win that prompted this race. He simply doesn’t know when to stop.
My gaze falls from the rearview mirror as I reach the top of the track, and I immediately find Brielle in the crowd. She stands with her friends and the boys, her sharp glare already locked on mine. She hasn’t even begun to forgive me a little bit, but just the fact that she’s willing to try is enough for me.
She holds my stare, her arms crossed over her chest as though she’d rather be anywhere but here. Her only problem is that she can fool everyone around her but me. Her thighs press together, and the longer she feels my returning stare, the more hooded her eyes become. She fucking loves this little game of cat and mouse we play. She can’t resist it, just as I can’t resist her.
The momentum of my Mustang speeding past her nearly knocks her off her feet. It sends a wave of exhilaration across her face, and she lives for it, which only makes me want her more.
She’s a fucking spitfire. A goddess. Even when her stare is so fucking lethal it kills.
I fly around the top half of the track, easing up on the gas for just a moment to let Logan think he has a chance. He barrels in beside me, and just when he thinks he’ll pass, I hit it hard, shooting the Mustang out in front, and crossing the finish line first, each of us beating our personal best times.
I hit the brakes and stop just in time before running headfirst into the flood of Bradford’s most delinquent seniors. Before I even get my door open, they’re already surrounding me, their cheers loud enough to vibrate through the car. I’m yanked out of the Mustang as bodies crowd me, but I’m only interested in one person.
Weaving through the crowd, I make my way to Logan, who’s getting just as much attention as I am. After all, he was the king of tonight’s game, and that win puts us one step closer to claiming the championship, a feat no one’s going to dismiss simply because I kicked his ass on the track. “You good, bro?” I ask, stepping into his side and clapping my hand on his shoulder, trying to hold back my smirk at the venomous glare he shoots my way.
Logan shrugs off my hand. “Just once,” he says, “it’d be nice to see you in my rearview mirror.”
“You and I both know that’ll never happen,” I laugh as we make our way through the crowd, heading back toward our usual spot where we know we’ll find everyone waiting for us.
“It’ll happen,” he assures me. “You can’t be the reigning champion forever.”
“Watch me.”
Logan rolls his eyes as I watch up ahead and see the four girls cutting across the track. I nod toward them, catching Logan’s attention. “You saw Chanel during that race, right?” I question, a smirk cutting across my face. “She was about ready to put her ass in the air, waiting for you to come ram her from behind, car and all.”
Logan shoves me hard. “Fuck off, man,” he mutters, his gaze shifting to the ground, but not quick enough to hide the cheesy-as-fuck grin stretching across his face. This asshole has got it bad. “Better than having my girl look like she wanted to stab me through the eye.”
I shake my head. “Don’t go worrying yourself about me and Brielle. We’ll be fine. Besides, the best part about a fight is the angry make-up sex afterward.”
Logan scoffs. “Assuming she’s the type to go for angry make-up sex. Some chicks aren’t into it. Who knows. Maybe she’ll prefer to talk it out instead.”
A shiver of fear trails down my spine at the thought, but I quickly shake it off. Logan’s wrong. I know Killjoy better than I know myself, despite only being in her life for a few weeks. She’s the type to want angry sex, followed by make-up sex, and then a splash of we’re all good sex to finish it off. And just to make a point, she’ll probably demand a bit of just because I said so sex in the middle of the night, and I am more than okay with that.