Entice:The Evolve Series, Book Three(6)

By: S.E. Hall

"You want a hit of this before I kill it?" CJ tries to hand the creepy-looking wizard bong to me, the end of his staff the bowl.

"No, man. I'm good," I mumble, rolling my eyes. I don’t need to take an actual hit, the contact buzz is more than enough. If I had to guess, I’d say the air in his rat-hole apartment is currently two parts oxygen, ninety-eight parts bong smoke. CJ’s definitely not the most upstanding citizen, nor is he my friend.

The only reason I keep him around is because he’s the go-to guy for ammy motorcross. Ammies, or amateurs, are the lower level events allowed at the track on “off” times. No one’s sponsored, things are unofficial, and money changes hands under the table since betting’s technically not allowed.

At one time, I'd been an up-and-comer in the motocross scene, getting better and better with every race, but it had been left behind when Dane and I made a pact to quit all the bullshit partying and head to Georgia to be near his brother.

But now?

Dane has his holy grail of happiness, his refuge from the storm, Laney. Same with Tate—he and Bennett are happy as hell. Hell, even Evan, who definitely looked to be the last dog in the race, is now all wrapped up with Whitley.

So Imma get mine where I can.

"You got any races booked soon?" I ask him.

"Your bike even ready?" He coughs, blowing out a cloud of smoke as big around as my head.

I'd recently dipped in to my savings to tweak up the racing bike I’d just bought. Dane pays me well for working at The K, or doing whatever else he needs done, and what the fuck else do I have to spend it on?

"Yep, got it ready to ride, slicker and quicker. I rented storage for it at the track, even taken it out couple times. So, when’s your next race?" I ask again, annoyed. I’m here for one reason and one reason alone; tell me race time, sign me up, exit stage left. Enough with the stoner-speed conversation; if he doesn’t get to the fucking point soon, I’m walking out of here, straight to a skin peel. His place, this couch…it’s all suspect.

CJ digs through the wrappers and God knows what else on the table until he finds his phone. He’s on it about ten minutes before finally looking back at me. "Friday night, 10 o'clock. You're in."

I nod curtly and stand, way past ready to get the hell out of here.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" His lip curls up, baring yellow, crooked teeth. “I don’t do this shit for my health. Fifty bucks," he sticks out his hand.

I digging around in my wallet and slap sixty in his palm. "Keep the change."


It’s been a long ass week with nothing much to look forward to, and I’ve been just going through the motions. I’m glad it’s race night for no other reason than the guaranteed five minutes of pure adrenaline rush, an escape from the mundane. Tonight’s crowd is decent, the screamo music blaring as loud as the engines keeping them amped up, ready for the real show. I watched the first heat and it looks like there’s some stiff enough competition to keep things interesting.

I’m leaned against the fence, already in way-too-hot-for-Georgia gear and waiting for heat two of four to start, when I feel a small, warm hand on my arm.

“You racing tonight?”

I turn my head to the sultry voice, lined with invitation. “I am.”

Sticking merely the tip of her index finger in her mouth and giving me the classic doe in heat eyes, she asks, “Are you all warmed up?”

I know this is the part where I’m supposed to walk away, especially after my talk with Laney about being a better guy, but if they put it in your face…it’s rude not to take it. “No, ma’am. You got any suggestions?”

“I can warm you up.” She moves closer up against me, her hard nipples poking my chest.

“How’s that?” I don’t even attempt to hide my perusal down her top.


They’re nice, and most guys live by the motto “if I can reach out and touch ‘em, they’re real enough for me,” but I’m not a cardholder to that club. I like real tits and I cannot lie. The more they bounce when she rides me, the better. Doggy style, the natural ones sway back and forth like pendulums, damn near hypnotizing me. And when I titty fuck her, I want the “give” of natural flesh to mold around my cock like a glove.

“However you want,” she says in her best 900 number voice. “I’m Mariah, by the way.” She trails her finger along my forearm. “And you’re Sawyer Beckett.”

I should probably be concerned with how she knows that and the way it’s screaming STALKER at me, but much like any other guy (you know, those brainless things with dicks), I’m not.

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