Backstreet Boy

|Chapter 08: Racing and Bets|

Jason

After the rendezvous at North Valley High, Dad ordered my presence back at McCann Motors.

That was subsequent to the petty police chase in which they didn't even get close to us. Their standard cars were no competition for our sports cars, at any rate. There was a car back at the garage that needed finishing before tomorrow; that was when the owner was coming to collect it and you didn't want to ever get on the wrong side of him.

It was just me. I was wiping my hands with a cloth after slamming the hood shut. That's when the phone rang from the office. I had to jog to pick it up in time. When I did, I held it to my ear and in a weary voice I said, "McCann Motors, how can I help you?"

"Jason," a female breathed, "It's Isabella." Of bloody course it is. "I got another note. We're in trouble."

My fist mechanically clenched the phone at the words. "What did it say?"

"'I think you're going to need to help your lover boy to get the money, rich girl'. Are you struggling to get the money? How much do you need?"

I sighed, my clutch automatically loosening but only by a fraction. "Seven hundred dollars," I breathed quietly.

Isabella gasped. "How much do you have now?"

"Two hundred."

"Oh... gosh," she said. "There's still five hundred to go and there's two days to go – not including today or Thursday and we just need to get that money but how can we get five hundred dollars in two days? I can transfer some money!" she proposed, rambling and mounting my annoyance level. "I don't know how soon it'll be though."

"Shut up!" I hollered.

Silence on the other line.

"Right, listen here, posh girl, you're not transferring money to me. I'm not going to be some pathetic charity for you," I spat, "but you are going to meet me at the following address at eight tonight, alright? Can you do that? And stop babbling on?"

Hesitantly, "Yes."

I told her the address, she noted it down and we hung up. After that, I was on edge. I kept glancing over my shoulders when I was locking up the garage and strutting round to go to my own car. Driving home was a detour and mercifully, Alex wasn't home. He had probably been influenced by our dad and the other two brothers to find a hooker for the night. I abhorred that word.

Why label someone something so degrading when they're subjecting themselves – probably devoid of peer pressure – to selling their body just to make ends meet and pay for food to feed themselves and perhaps their families, too. For me, I'd pay them and just sit there. It was quiet (if you were able to block out the moans and after some time, you were able to acquire such expertise) and it enabled time for you to contemplate and reflect on your life. It was quite saddening and demoralising, actually in the case of the female.

When seven forty-five rolled around, I got back in my car and drove. I'd changed my attire to something casual: jeans, a graphic tee and a leather jacket. My Ray Bans were slung on the front of my graphic tee as I drove. My foot was on the accelerator ninety percent of the cruise. Nearly there, I turned down a junction and followed the road ahead until I came to the spot. People were already lining cars up as I pulled in.

I parked up by the entrance so Isabella would see me as soon as she'd enter; granted she'd have to locate this place first. It was somewhere off the beaten track – off-piste so no one would wander inadvertently into this realm which was deemed a racing track where illegal races would go down and woman in provocative clothing, too to congratulate their studs. There was a little shack round the back where several couples went.