Ines Johnson

Test Drive

testdriveTest Drive: Watchers Crew #1

He’s the wrong turn her perfect life needed.

Ellie has never taken a wrong turn, until she gets lost dropping off a classmate on the wrong side of town. To make matters worse, she blows a tire and is surrounded by a group of gorgeous, hot street racers. They offer to help her out…for a price.

It’s not currency that Hawk, the leader of the Watchers Crew, wants. He wants to sink his claws into Ellie’s sweet, untouched flesh. Once he does, the kinky gentlemen aims to share Ellie with the rest of his crew.

After a wild ride beyond any erotic dream, Ellie must decide; will she go back to her old life which was planned out, safe, and orderly? Or will she take the wrong turn her perfect life needed with a man who sets her heart aflame, and the crew who has become her family?

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Chapter One

I hadn’t realized it was so late by the time I came out of the lab. The night was a thick cloak. The air humid and wet. But it pulsed with life. I heard crickets chirping. Beetles rustled leaves. Off in the distance, fireflies flashed their lights on and off like a beacon beckoning me to come deeper into the night. I put my head down and continued on towards the parking lot.
Night time and darkness weren’t familiar to me. I’d grown up with a curfew to be inside before the street lamps came on. My entire life seemed timed around those man-made suns. As a kid, I left for school in the morning when the lights shut off. I was safe inside each night before they blinked back on again. The street lamp in the parking lot outside of the Biology building beamed brightly now.

“Ellie, wait up.”

I turned at the sound of my name.

Shakira James made her way over to me. Her thick, gold-hooped earrings caught the streetlight and twinkled. She was a sophomore taking Biology 101. I’d been helping her prepare for finals. At first glance of her mini skirt and halter top, I’d assumed we’d be starting from the beginning with the birds and the bees; the classifications of those organisms, not their mating habits. But it turned out Shakira had an excellent grasp of the basics. Her questions ventured more into theories of evolution and natural selection.

“You think you could you give me a ride, sis?”

I hesitated. I’d only known Shakira a few days. I assumed she would live on the bad side of town. Not because she was black -or was it politically correct to say African-American? My assumption wasn’t based on her race, but more because her boobs spilled out of her top. Girls from good families didn’t expose their underwear as part of their ensemble.

But then I caught myself. I had a habit of that; judging people based on their appearances. It was a habit I’d picked up in my field of study. As an entomologist I observed insects and made inferences based on those observations. It worked well with insects, but not so much with humans. I often found my foot shoved uncomfortably into my mouth when I addressed homo sapiens. I’d already assumed Shakira wasn’t smart based on how she dressed. I was probably wrong again with her socioeconomic status. Maybe she was just a rebellious youth and her parents were pastors in an upper middle class neighborhood.

“Sure,” I said.

We made our way over to my car. My patent leather shoes tapped the ground quietly as though to not disturb the asphalt. Shakira’s stilettoed boots struck the pavement with an attitude that would’ve awakened the worms burrowed in the warm earth.

“Wow,” Shakira said as I unlocked the doors of my car with the fob. “This is your ride, sis?”

I nodded, my chest swelling with pride inside my cardigan. I’d never been one to be flashy with my clothing or make up. My car was my only statement piece.

“I guess it fits your personality.” Shakira wrinkled her nose as she ducked inside.

I frowned unsure if she’d given me a compliment or not?

“I mean, I get it, sis.” Shakira strapped on the seat belt. “You’re studying to be an entomologist and you have a lady bug car.”

My car was a red Volkswagen Beetle with black spots. Bugs had fascinated me since I’d seen an army of tiny ants lift a potato chip I’d dropped during a grade school picnic. Being petite myself, I wanted to understand how those small creatures managed such a hefty feat. My inquiry of ants lead me down a rabbit’s hole into an amazing, intricate, miniature world where the smallest creatures had the largest powers.

Shakira’s directions took us away from campus. We headed away from the trendy market district, where most of the college students did their shopping and entertainment. We drove past the docks where many of the underclassmen who didn’t work coalesced. We pulled up into a seedy part of town.

I doubted any pastor would set up a church on these outskirts. I clutched at the wheel as the street lights became more sparse, and some weren’t lit at all. People were out on the streets. Young boys and grown men leered at the tween girls and grown women who walked by in skirts shorter than Shakira’s.

“It’s just over here.” Shakira pointed to a one-way street with no houses. Lined up in the parking lot of an abandoned factory were rows upon rows of sleek cars.

“Where’s your house?”

“Girl, I don’t live in this jacked neighborhood. I’m just meeting this guy here.” Shakira moved her hips side to side in the seat causing a squeaky sound.

I was sure Shakira’s movements were unconscious, but it was a movement I’d observed before. Many insects let off a vibration by moving their legs together to indicate they were ready to mate. Outside the car, I could hear crickets strumming into the night air.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Shakira didn’t get that dreamy look that girls got when they thought about a guy they liked. Her face crunched into an expression between a grimace and a snicker. “He’s not boyfriend material, sis. Just someone I’m hooking up with.”

Her cavalier attitude shouldn’t have shocked me. Most insects were not monogamous, not in the human sense of the word. Take the honey bee, for example. The queen had a ton of lovers at her beck and call to service her needs, and not one of the thousands of female worker bees in her kingdom would dare call her out of her name.

I’d had exactly one boyfriend during my twenty years and we had done little more than chaste kissing the year we’d been dating. We had gotten to second base over Spring Break, but I think it may have been an accident on his part.

“Thanks for the ride, sis.” Shakira did a quick application of lip gloss in the vanity mirror.
I looked out the car window at the festivities. Someone had lit a fire in a trash can. People were dancing around on the asphalt. Girls were shaking their barely covered behinds while guys leaned back on cars and watched.

“Is this someone’s birthday party?” I asked.

Shakira cast me a side glance. “It’s a street race.”

I looked out the window and saw no one in a track suit. Then I realized she must mean a street car race. I looked again at the line of cars in the lot.

“I’ll see you on Monday, sis.”

She didn’t even think to invite me. Who was stereotyping who now? But she was right. This wasn’t my scene. If I wasn’t out with my boyfriend at a fancy restaurant, I spent my evenings watching reruns on the National Geographic Channel.

I watched Shakira switch her hips up to a group of guys. She wasn’t the only woman sashaying around them. In the middle of all the bare skin was what I could only describe as a magnet. I tried to look away from him, but my eyes caught his muscles, which seemed to burst through his blue mechanic’s shirt that had the sleeves cut off. My eyes latched onto his close cut hair, which reminded me of Vin Diesel in that racing movie; my only reference to or experience with street racing. This magnet of a man was deeply tanned, not brown-skinned, but not white either. I wasn’t good with identifying other cultures having grown up lily white. But he looked exotic to me.

He was surrounded by three other guys; all three big with muscles. They were a United Nations of colors. They reminded me of the United Colors of Benetton ads from when I was a kid. The guy closest to the magnet was black. Or should I say African-American? I wished I’d asked Shakira, but she’d probably look at me with that side-eyed glance again. Unlike the diesel god standing next to him, the black guy had a bald head. He was laughing at something a blond-haired Adonis said. The Adonis would put Paul Walker to shame with his blue eyes and dimples. I watched as Shakira sauntered up to the Asian guy who rounded out the group. The Asian’s muscles were sleek and honed. His dark eyes watched her with silent intent.

My hand rested on the gear shift which was still in the P for park position. The street light blinked on over top of me casting me in a spot light. The Diesel-magnet looked up at the blinking light. Then tilted his head down and found me.

I expected his eyes to look away, but they didn’t. They caught and held. He tilted his head to the side, looking at me as though… interested.

My breath caught in my throat under his dark gaze. I gulped. My legs rubbed together, the friction heating me. A wetness bloomed in my panties, behind my knees, in my palms. The Diesel-magnet’s eyes narrowed as though he could tell what was happening with the increased fluid levels all over my body.

He tilted his head in the other direction, eyes still on me. I watched his lips move. Shakira leaned over to him. She looked back, at me. They both stared a second. Then she spoke to him. Her motions were dismissive. I was sure she was telling him I wasn’t worth his time, that I was an inconsequential girl, probably racist, definitely sheltered, who stayed in the back of a lab marveling over insects and creepy crawlies.

Having given him her estimation of me, Shakira looked away. But he didn’t. A slow smile spread across his face as he held me there in my car under the glaring light. His tongue snuck out of his mouth and he licked his slips, slow. First the pink tip traced the upper lip. It climbed the hill of the fleshy region, dipped into the deep crevice in the center, and then began the descent down to the bottom lip.

I sat there frozen under his gaze, watching his tongue, transfixed.
Until he turned away.
I hadn’t noticed he’d been leaning against a car; a black Charger. I only knew that because it was the same car that Vin Diesel drove in that string of movies. Diesel’s look-alike turned away from me and his attention focused on another girl. His hands, along with the black guy and the blonde guy’s hands felt up a girl. They didn’t take turns. They all mauled her at once, but she didn’t appear to mind. She looked like she reveled in the attention.
Without another look at me, he hopped into the driver’s seat of the muscle car. The other guys followed suite, hopping into other muscle cars of various makes and models. They all lined up for what I assumed was the race.

A girl in scanty shorts held a scarf up in the air in front of all the cars. I watched the scarf drop and the cars take off. They roared past me in a stampede going the wrong way down the one-way street. The street light above me blinked. The lot emptied out after them and I was left alone in the darkness.

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