tampax

-02

❝Street's not safe, but I never run away.❞

- Drake, One Dance

✦

His firm grip on the leather of the steering wheel eases, as he inches closer and closer to the small ensemble of irrelevant people. His eyes dart to his rear-view mirror, for reassurance that he was, and still is, well ahead of his competitor. Although not showing it, he surely was gratified at this new achievement.

He removes his foot from the accelerator, reaching across his torso to release himself from his belt's tight hold around his body. He retrieves his key from the ignition, and runs a glove-covered hand through the blonde mess of blades on his head.

Before he can touch his door, it clicks open, and he's suddenly being choked by Nebraska's heat. He huffs a frustrated huff, before moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, but as soon as both of his feet reach the sandy floor beneath him, and he's fully out of the vehicle, his lips become dry once again.

He turns to the figure waiting patiently behind the open door, eyes raking over the minimal clothing draped around her body. He forcefully grips the door, admires the lack of vehicles behind him, before slamming it shut, and turning to the people awaiting him.

"Wow, you did it again." He smirks proudly at this statement, looking to the owner of it. They shake their head at him, a cheeky grin smeared across their tanned face, before throwing him a tight bundle of green, bound firmly with cheap elastic.

"What can I say, Sam? Maybe I'm just too good for this kid," He smugly replies, before removing the elastic from what Sam had handed him, and counting the crisp sheets of green, his smile broadening every time he reached a hundred. 100... 200... 300... 400... 500... 600-

"Don't worry, Jack," Sam laughs, ceasing Jack's counting, "It's all there. I promised you one thousand, I'm giving you one thousand." Jack nods at his friend's foolish attempts of reassurance, before continuing his compute.

The small group of people that had lingered around to watch him win a race it was clear he'd win, approached him one by one, congratulating him on his win, before leaving. He paid them no mind, although he was content on leaving, also.

"He's taking forever, the track is not that long," Sam rises from where he'd perched; on the hood of his Mercedes Maybach. He places a hand above his brows, blocking the sun from his eyes, as he searches the track for the other racer.

"Look, we have places to be and people to beat, let's just go," Jack suggests, sliding the roll of money he'd won, into the pocket of his black jeans, then removing his phone to check the time. Sam hesitates at Jack's words before shaking his head.

"You can't leave the race without shaking hands with him, it's just common etiquette," Sam sighs, and before Jack can argue with the Sam's pointless regulation, a crimson red Ferrari skids around the last corner of the track.

"About damn time," Jack mumbles, leaning where Sam once had been. Their eyes follow the car as it comes to an abrupt halt before them. The door is thrown open with maximum force, and slammed shut with equal amount.

"You fucking cheater!" Jack's eyebrows raise, and Sam laughs, at the words leaving the man's mouth, as he stomps towards them, "both of you fuckers conned me! You cheated! I should've won, you fucking-"

"Cheater? Yeah, we heard you the first time. Come on, Chris, I did warn you about, Gilinsky. The only person who's every beat this little shit is his dad," Sam chuckles, throwing an arm around Jack's broad shoulders. Jack glares at the red faced man in front of him, disgusted at his childishness.

"I don't fucking care!" Chris snaps, rubbing his temples to calm himself down, as he paced the short space between his luxurious car and the two men before him, "just give me my money." At this, both Sam and Jack laugh.

"Excuse me?" Jack chortles, pushing himself up off of Sam's car, and folding his arms as he stood over the smaller man in front of him. Chris gulped, stepping back, but not stepping down. "We're not giving you shit 'cause you didn't win, now get the fuck out of here, dipshit."

"Give. Me. My-"

"I said," Jack spits, through gritted teeth, "get the fuck out."

"Watch your back, Gilinsky," Chris scoffs, storming back to his car and ripping the door open, "I will get my money, one way or another." Jack rolls his eyes, and Sam gags, at the corny words, as they watch him speed recklessly towards the facility's exit.

"He's such a spoiled brat," Sam grumbles, shaking his head, before checking the time on his Rolex. He huffs, before turning to Jack. "What do we have to do, now?" Jack begins ripping the Velcro straps of the gloves stuck to his hands, as his memory ticks away.

"We have to meet with the boys to sort some shit out with some little fuck who talked too much bullshit," Jack reminded Sam, and himself. Sam grins at this, Jack catching sight of it and chuckling, "you're a sick cunt, you know."

"But everyone enjoys beating the shit out of rich kids," Sam jokes, walking towards the driver's seat of his car, and resting against the door. "and you beat them the worst, so how exactly am I the sick one?"

"Just get in your car, Samuel," Jack taunts, throwing the gloves at him. Sam catches them, cringing at Jack's formal use of his full name, before flipping Jack the finger. Jack smirks, before sidling back, and into, his own car.

Jack, once again, places his key into the ignition and his foot onto the accelerator. He moves his vehicle forward, a meter or so, stopping so his driver's seat is in line with Sam's.

"Before we leave, I want to know," Sam questions, "who are we beating?"

"Cameron Dallas."

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