With increasingly quick steps, I luck out at the command center. All heads turn toward me when I breeze in. Not acknowledging anyone, I head straight for the guy who will not hesitate to give me what I need.
I grab Bedlam’s bandaged hand and lead him out of the tent the way Star did with me earlier. He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t even speak. My gaze flicks from one corner of the encampment to the next, discarding inconvenient places where we can get things done, until I spot my truck. Mac and Screw are nowhere in sight. Good.
Taking the lead, I don’t hesitate to escort Bedlam into the trailer where my GT is parked. I hit a button at the side wall and the ramp retracts. Not waiting for the doors to shut fully, I toe off my boots, yank down my leggings, and let my jacket fall to the floor. Bedlam immediately understands what I want and brings his hands to the front of his pants. I stop their progress by yanking him to me by his waistband. He comes willingly. I pop the button and unzip him. My knuckles graze along his already rigid length. I lick my lower lip. It seems stabbing him had no effect on his desires.
“I like how ready you are for me,” I say. “You good? I don’t want you popping any stitches.”
He grunts. “What’s one more scar?”
My fingers ease aside the final barrier made of gauze. He hisses as if in pain as he hands me a square packet. I free the latex and roll it over his erection. Then, placing my hands on his shoulders, I jump up and hook my legs around his waist. “I want it hard.”
He nods once, then slams into me. I throw my head back and cry out from the pleasure of his hardness in me. Cupping my ass with one hand, he uses the other to steady us against the wall so I’m not hitting the metal every time he enters me. I match him grunt for grunt. Sweat dots my skin, erasing the earlier shower. Actually, I begin to feel cleaner with each of his powerful thrusts. When I’m close, I sink my teeth into his shoulder, which drives him over the edge.
We stay still afterward with him still inside me. I push away until my back is leaning against the wall his hand is splayed on, but I keep my legs wrapped around his waist. I’m not ready to break the contact entirely just yet. So we pant, our breaths mingling with the smell of exhaust, motor oil, and brake fluid. I glance at my car for a second, guilt for coming in front of it fisting my gut. I send it a silent apology, then grin at Bedlam.
“Thanks,” I say, stretching my arms above my head. All my limbs are loose and languid.
“My pleasure.” He hooks a finger on the bandages covering his lips and jerk them down. As he leans in for a kiss, I turn my face away. This is not that kind of fuck.
I break the connection between us and say, “Let’s go and catch this son of a bitch.”
DESPITE MY bold declaration, the combined intelligence and powers of observation in the command tent come up with a whole lot of nothing. Even with the help of Screw and Mac and all the information they’ve collected via interviews from everyone at the paddock after the death of another driver, we come up drier than a gas tank during a long road trip. No one is in charge, exactly. Although Ace does take on a leadership role by virtue of the fact that he outranks everyone in the tent. Still, he’s about as helpful as a paperweight. By the time I realize I’ve done nothing for the past ten minutes other than stare at the gruesome photos spread across the table, I’m half-frustrated, half-despondent.
The killer is somewhere in the encampment. This much we know. Short of interrogating everyone, which will take time we don’t have, it’s useless knowledge to have. Who he is or when he’ll strike again is beyond what’s in front of us. Hell, we aren’t even sure we’re talking about a male psychopath. But the CCTV footage we have of the dumping of Hubcap’s body on Punishment Square leads us to assume we’re dealing with a guy. Based on height, build, and strength. Of course, with proper training, stamina, and upper-body strength, anyone can haul deadweight. At this point I’m so pissed my fist smashes a hole into the table. I’m too angry to feel any pain.
“I call that reason to quit for the night, don’t you agree?” Ace asks the rest of the assemblage that I’ve stunned into silence with my actions. Or I should say, my reaction to how powerless I feel. At the center of all this, and yet I can’t be further from the truth.
“I drive, dammit!” I say. “I’m no detective. This shit means nothing to me.” I gesture at all the evidence for what good it’s doing for this case.
Bedlam laughs a solemn series of barks. “We should be in the middle of the third stage. Instead we’re here trying to find a wheel bolt in a sea of tires.”
“Maybe we’re just looking at things too hard,” Mac suggests, giving the tabletop a scan before stopping at the impressive hole I’ve made. “We’re too on edge. Let’s break for the night and start over again tomorrow. It’s not like we’re doing anything else until this thing is settled.” He narrows his gaze at one of the organizers—a balding fat man with a handlebar mustache. They’ve all been useless, the organizers, I mean. To be honest, we’re all out of our element here since all the muscle—including Brody—are at the city keeping things cool. Last thing we need is one of the power-hungry families using the killings of the top ten drivers as an excuse to start an all-out
