Summer’s POV
“Is that really your only concern? His voice carried that velvet–soft ality that never failed to make my pulse race.
Heat flooded my cheeks as I finally admitted, “Okay, fine! I’m worried I’ll lose, alright? Happy now? We should switch places!”
His smile widened slightly. Come on then.” Without another word,
stepped out of the car, leaving me to scramble after him.
The group of modified car enthusiasts watched with barely concealed skepticism as Brandon approached. Their vehicles formed an impressive lineup – GTRS, Supras, and other heavily modified machines that made the Bentley look almost tame in comparison.
“Rules?” Brandon asked simply.
They exchanged uncertain glances, clearly thrown by the sight of a Bentley owner actually willing to race. The leader, a tall guy with facial piercings, recovered first. “Standard route – straight down the coast to the end. Though uh, with that ride…” He gestured at the luxury car. “We could handicap it if you want?”
A redhead with a heavily modified GTR stepped forward, grinning. “Or just beat one of us! That’ll count as a win, yeah? No need to smoke the whole field with that fancy ride.”
“Deal.” I couldn’t help chiming in. “Just one car, right?” Brandon’s sidelong glance made me step back automatically, fighting a guilty
smile.
As everyone moved to their cars, I caught fragments of whispered conversation between the racers:
“Boss, that plate number…”
“Shut up and get in your car!”
“Don’t mess this up if we let a Bentley pass us, we’ll never live it down…”
–
“Give me the clean channel on the radio…”
The leader’s voice cut through the chatter: “Everyone clear on the rules? And hey, careful on that last curve.”
Brandon buckled his seatbelt with practiced efficiency, then turned to me, “Ready for this speed?”
I thought about how the car had felt under my control earlier and nodded, trying to project more confidence than I felt. “I think so.”
“Hold on tight.”
The moment Brandon hit the accelerator, I knew I’d made the right choice letting him drive. The Bentley surged forward with impossible grace, the engine’s purr deepening to a satisfied growl. Within seconds, we’d passed two modified cars on the first curve, the movement so smooth I barely felt it. My fingers dug into the leather armrest as I stared at Brandon’s profile, mesmerized by his
absolute focus.
“Oh my god!” A voice crackled through someone’s radio. “Who is this guy? The way he took that curve…”
“Were you a professional racer?” I couldn’t help asking, watching in awe as he navigated another bend with perfect precision.
That dangerous half–smile played at his lips. “Scared?”
“No! I’ll be quiet
–
you focus on driving!” Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his hands on the wheel, the way he seemed to
1/2
anticipate each turn before if tame.
We flew past another car, the night air whipping through the open windows. The coastal road stretched before us like a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. “Just keeping ahead of one car is enough! feminded him, but Brandon just hummed noncommittally.
“Not a racer,” he finally said, smoothly dodging another challenger.st a college hobby,”
Of course. I fought back a smile. Brandon Stark, casually mentioning street racing was his college hobby” like it was intramural socres of
something.
A yellow GTR suddenly roared past us, its driver calling out, “Sorry man! through his open window. The car cut in front of us aggressively, clearly trying to force us to slow down.
Brandon said nothing, just smoothly accelerated. His movements were so precise, so controlled
within moments the GTR was
nothing but taillights behind us. As we approached the steepest coastal curve, the one the leader had warned about, he suddenly spoke. Talk to me.”
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