HOLESHOT HEATHEN BY HARLEY RAIGE – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Harley Raige
- Language: English
- Genre: Contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.4 MB
- Price: Free
I pull up to the starting gate. I take a deep breath, inhaling and
exhaling deeper than ever before. This is it, my chance to make it. The
white flag goes up, and we start the engines. The smell hits me first: the
overpowering tang of fuel filling the air, followed by a hint of oil laced with
testosterone and a side of aggression. Add to that the sound that overpowers
it, the revving of the engines.
I can feel the rumbles through my chest,
spreading to my whole body, people screaming and cheering. It’s like
electricity flowing through my veins, pricking at my skin alive in my nerve
endings. The adrenaline starts to peak as the two-minute board is held up…
turning to the one-minute board… fifteen seconds… the gate drops.
I lunge away from the line, ripping the throttle back as far as
humanly possible, surging my way forward, trying to get ahead of the pack.
Everyone aiming to get holeshot. I need to get as far in front before we
reach the first corner. I hurtle into it in eighth place.
“Fuck!” I yell over all the noise.
Disappointed is a fucking understatement, but I don’t have time to
berate myself. I need to push that aside and focus. Screwing the throttle
back, the bike roars underneath me, and I power into the corner. Lifting my
leg high and forward but digging my heel into the floor as I bank hard, I
manage to hit the first rut and dig in. It’s clean, turning on a six-pence, tight,
precise, and I pull forward two places. The ruts are deep and unforgiving
already.
“Yes! Go, go, go!” I yell to myself, taking the next corner tighter still,
a few hitting the wide rut and having to ride it out through the berm. I
manage to claim another place. “Fuck yeah!” The fucking rush has me
pulsing forward. Running on the adrenaline that’s coursing through my
veins, relying on pure determination, I grit my teeth and power through.
The adrenaline takes over, hyper-focusing on every rut, every crevice
of the track in front of me, letting instinct kick in, and I can’t help but grin,
the feeling of my bike vibrating through my knees to my thighs,
shockwaves pulsing through my forearms. A grin spreads over my face as I
take the jump, holding the throttle steady so I don’t loop out or nosedive
into a crashing endo, weightless for what feels like an eternity, before
slamming back down to the ground absorbing the shock through my wrists,
my arms and eventually my shoulders.
I tear the accelerator back, but the dick at the side of me hits me and
pushes me offline. I land hard, skidding in the dirt and losing four places.
“Fucking bastard!” I yell as I push harder and set off after the cunt.
I’m sure I hear the twat laugh. Number sixty-nine, fucking Archibald
Bartholomew III, posh jumped-up prick. His reputation as an arsehole
precedes him. I’ve been fucking warned, and I won’t be making the same
mistake again.
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