The Silver Fighter | ✓

Finally Getting To The Good Stuff

After we had exited the car, I let out a deep sigh as I got a huge whiff of the familiar smell of motor oil and booze.

Lovely.

"Holy shit." Gray blurted out, aghast, with his jaw was dropped in shock as he gazed at the track which is essentially a two-mile around loop that has about seventy percent of it unviewable from the Sandbox which is where everyone that races parks

I let out a small chuckle at Grayson's reaction, but before I could say anything, he cut me off with, "This place is a dump. What the fuck?"

My jaw dropped and I blinked repeated, not really processing what I just heard.

"Excuse me?" I question with a quirked brow, not believing my ears.

Gray shrugged simply, obviously forgetting who he was talking to.

'This little-'

"It's a dump. What can I say?" was his only explanation and with that, I was pissed.

And rightfully so! The Devil's Dick was kind of like another home for me and it means quite a lot to me.

Despite its unsavory name.

Ben sucked in a breath while John shook his head and looked at the ground, knowing his cousin was screwed.

"Bad move, cous." John remarked as I felt my anger rise within my chest. Before anyone could say anything else, I had already marched right up to Gray and gave him a hard punch in the arm. He let out a hiss of surprise and a whimper from the pain, making me feel a little bit better, but not by much.

"Why the fu-?" Gray began angrily, but my rage severely outweighed his and he was sorely fucked.

I cut him off before he could continue, "You finish that, I cut out your tongue. Got it?" I growled while giving him a glare that could spook off even the most courageous gang member.

For good measure, I hit him upside the head, very hard I might add, and his shrill screech attracted the attention of fellow racers that were parked around us.

"You're a dick." I grumbled, still glaring at him as I went to my trunk and pulled out a spare bag filled with black superhero-esque masks.

Like this was a fucking DC comic or some shit.

I grabbed three of them and closed the trunk so I could walk back over to the guys. "Here." I told them as I held them out for them to grab. "Wear these." My order combined with the mask in my hands caused John to give me an arched brow.

"A mask. Who are we? Oliver Queen and Barry Allen?" He remarked sarcastically, making me roll my eyes at his unamusing attempt at humor.

'That's all you guys want to watch so...'

"Well," I started with a small shrug, "these races of ours are, on the record, 'illegal'." I stated nonchalantly, putting air quotes around 'illegal', and Ben gave me a questioning look.

"Why did you put quotes on illegal?" He inquired, curious, and I shrugged simply as the three of them reluctantly put them on.

"Well, to the public, races like these are illegal and shouldn't be condoned. But in actuality, the police department doesn't really care as long as no one dies." I explained as I glanced at the wooden bleachers, (kind of like in Harry Potter), where spectators observe the race, and to the right of that is a covered tent where people are able to get basically any type of alcohol, drug, or fast food item.

You name it, those fuckers got it.

Think of it like a really fucked up baseball game.

And across the track, on the other side, there is a small two-story building where the bottom floor is reserved for all the gamblers and lowlifes that love to place bets on essentially who lives and who dies because there are little to no rules on the track.