Backstreet Boy

|Chapter 09: Police Chase|

Isabella

The first time Jason raced, it sent currents of thrill rippling throughout my body.

It was as if my body was reacting the way Jason's should be. But he was probably accustomed to the feeling already. That was his kick – as well as the drug-taking with his income from it. But his Jaguar XF whizzed past his opponent's Mustang and Jason won. When he pulled back up to me, he parked his car and went to get his income with the card he'd just received.

"The winners get a card and they show this to the betting stand," he clarified as we ambled nonchalantly to join the always-existent queue. "They write on it with the odds and the amount to be paid. We show it to the stand and they give us the money. Sometimes they can be a bit too preoccupied to observe the race."

"How long do we stay for?" I asked, wrapping my jacket around my arms tighter. "It's getting late and I believe we both have school tomorrow."

"How did you know I was in high school?" I retorted, glowering at her.

"Because despite the evident stubble which is your attempt to appear older, I've still managed to read you and fathom out your age. I'd say you're eighteen."

Jason, partitioning all candour and authenticity behind the wall he's mantled over the years of being ensnared in Downtown District, cowered behind it. His lips remained as a purse as we shunted further to the stall. The whole while we waited, his lips never opened and he kept his gaze firmly on the races ahead, letting the cars' engines act as a symphony inside his head, soothing and straightening out his horrifying thoughts.

"Card," ordered the tattoo-plastered guy with the obscene piercings. The sight along would have made Mother shudder with harmonized fright and repugnance. He grunted the moment Jason handed it to him. "Here's your money." There was no indication of discretion when he depicted how irritated he was to hand money over.

I presumed the whole nice guy with the tattoos and piercings would be too much to negate the whole stereotype, right? Everyone just had to be downright rude, objectifying and perilous here in Downtown District. That right there was another cliché. This whole racing panorama was death-defying.

"That's fifty dollars," said Jason, verifying that there really was the amount we earned. "Now for more races," he breathed before glancing dubiously at me. "Who should hold the money while I'm racing? Should I trust you to?"

"You can trust me to hold money," I said indignantly.

Jason, exasperated with my attitude modification, rolled his eyes and thrust the money straight at me. His hands were inches from my stomach as I seized the money off him. I stuffed the notes into my jean's pockets when Jason went back to his car. "We don't have to register anymore," he muttered, "just pull up in the line. Wait by the side again."

The money felt like it was scorching and ignoring my jeans on fire and imprinting on my thighs. The feeling was something I abhorred as Jason marched off to his own car, unaware of the girl's lingering stares as they hoped he would check out their exposed bodies. It got me deciphering if he'd picked up any girls from this place and what they'd be like. Crawling for money or doing it for love?

After several more races, not only were we doubling our money but we were tripling it and still accumulating more money. We had made a total of three hundred and twenty five dollars. But then all Hell broke loose. It was the rapidity of everything that provoked such confusion and pandemonium.

Jason revved his car engine, grabbing my attention and I ran to him. He rolled down his windows. "The police are coming! Get in your car and follow me! Don't you dare lose me!" he bellowed.