Swish

Swish 

(Heart Racer College Biker Romance) 

Helios and MJ’s Story

By Marian Tee

Copyright 2014 by Streak Digital Publishing

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Helios Andreadis is the aloof president of Afxisi, an ordinary college org during the day and an underground bike racing club at night. Afxisi means ‘rise’ in Greek, symbolizing the cornerstone in which all the club’s rules were founded on. Every member of the club had his own story to tell, his own tragedy to overcome, and a self-made cage to break free from.

The younger son of a famous Greek politician from an adulterous affair, Helios had migrated to the United States in hopes of putting to rest his older brother's jealousy. Past betrayals had taught him to be hard and unfeeling, but his heartless ways would soon be put to the test when a shy, stubborn girl literally skidded into his life like some backup dancer auditioning for the King of Pop. 

Her name was MJ Cartwright. She wanted to apply as the club's official photographer, but any job would really do since as it turned out, all she wanted was to be close to one of Afxisi's daredevil drivers. That man was her secret crush and the more time Helios spent with MJ, the more he wanted to kill that man, whoever he may be. 

Helios was determined not to let MJ's secret crush take her away, but neither was he ready to put a name to his feelings. To do so would make him vulnerable, and that he would never allow to happen, not even if it meant having to hurt MJ instead.

Prologue

The trick to lying flat on the ground was to relax. Too tense could get you killed. If your back was too straight, that wasn't any good either. You'd be creating this tiniest amount of space between your spine and the floor. That space could be your COD if you had a drunk dad like mine. A former bike racer, my dad liked to perform stunts in our yard. One of his favorites was to run over me while I was lying on the ground. Shows off my perfect control, he liked to say in his usually slurred voice.

Another trick was to cut your hair short, like I did. Sometimes, that one strand of hair could get tangled in the wheels. It happened to me when I was thirteen. That was the first year James took it upon himself to use me as a prop for his DIY motorcycle stunts. It was an epic fail and got me ten stitches below my hairline. I chopped my own hair after that. Good thing I did since a week later we were doing it again.

Finally, you needed duct tape. 

“Where the fuck are you?” James roared from the garage.

“Coming,” I shouted back. My hands worked more quickly in wrapping the duct tape around my chest. My boobs barely existed, to be honest. But with stunts like this, even A-cups like mine were still suicidal. You had to be flat. Inhumanly flat. 

Pulling my shirt down over my handiwork, I ran out of the garage. My dad was already on his bike, the engine running. The sound of it was enough to make goose bumps pop all over my skin.

“I’m not going to wait forever,” my dad snarled. 

His voice caused me to stumble. The drawing on the ground, outlined in chalk, never failed to make me wince. That was where I was supposed to lie down.

Kneeling down, I said a quick prayer.
If I die today, God, please let it be quick.

James gunned towards me, the roar of his old Harley Davidson making me scramble. He did say he wasn’t going to wait forever. Terror licked its way all over my body as I forced myself to relax on the ground. The sound of his motorcycle was so close. James was running circles all around me now, taunting me to move. If I did, that was when he’d fly over me.

Vroom, vroom.

Little boys made that sound all the time, and every time they did I wanted to cry.

“Ready?” James asked with a sneer and a laugh.

I didn’t speak. I knew if I did, he’d love to have the chance to cut my tongue with his bike.

Vroom, vroom.

I badly wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t — I always had this powerful fear that having the lids folded over my eyes took me one extra fraction of an inch closer to death. 

So close now. Dear God, it was so close.

And then he was flying, so close that I could feel the air coming from the furious spin of his bike’s wheels as he soared over my body. 

SWISH. 

I wondered if that would really be the last sound I’d hear before I died.

****

It always took me forty-five minutes to stop throwing up.

No need for stitches today, but I did have a little discoloration on my cheek. James didn’t enjoy our father-daughter moments when there was no violence involved.

By the time I was done with my puke fest, the world had stopped spinning as well. The sound of a motorcycle whizzing past me had also stopped roaring in my ears. I pressed my hand to my chest, just to be sure I wasn’t suffering from PTSD. Shock, if left untreated, could get you killed. 

A sigh of relief escaped me as I felt my heartbeat slowing down. My brain had finally accepted I wasn’t going to die. Not today at least. 

Forcing myself on my feet, I grabbed my SLR from the table. It was my only prized possession. When I was looking through the lens of my camera, the world didn’t seem so bad or ugly. I liked the feeling of power it gave me. Adjust the brightness, sharpen the contrast, and find a unique angle –
click.
I had found a piece of world that was beautiful, and that moment would last forever.

Pressing my ear to the door, I listened for sounds of movement, any indication that James was still up. There was none. But I didn’t want to take my chances so I decided to use my other exit.

Jumping from a second-floor room window took guts when you had nothing to hold on to. But it wasn’t impossible. The first time got me a broken arm. The second time produced a twisted ankle. But nowadays, all I had were gashes, which were fine. I liked gashes. They kept me alive.

Thud.

I landed awkwardly on my side. I checked myself for wounds and saw I had grazed my elbow. The tiny rip of skin started to bleed. 

Money shot!

I lifted my camera and turned my elbow out even as I winced at the effort. 

Click. 

That should earn me another fifty. 

I belatedly remembered the slap James gave me and, twisting my face to the side, I lifted my SLR in the air for several selfies. I hoped one of those got a good shot of the discoloration on my cheek. You wouldn’t believe how much money gore shots made me on the Internet. You just needed to find out where to sell them. 

I checked my camera after. The shots were great. Like I said, I liked gashes. These little wounds got me my camera. One day, hopefully before my dad killed me, they could earn me my freedom.

****

It was very easy to think the world was a piece of shit when you had a life like mine. My mom did her best to protect me from James. He hated me for not
being the son he had always wanted. When she gave birth to me, Madeline told James he had a baby boy. Since he was drunk that time and the blanket I was bundled up in hid the fact that I didn’t have a weenie, James swallowed it.

By the time he realized he had been fooled, I was already home and Madeline threatened to kill herself if something happened to me. Since that meant there would be no one to look after him, James held off from killing me. But he made sure I paid for being a girl the moment I was old enough to understand his orders. By age seven, I was an expert pickpocket and by age ten, I could pretty much copy anyone’s signature. No surprise there since he told me he’d pull my nails out if he ever got caught for forgery.

But then Madeline died three years ago and everything changed.

I was scared he’d make me his personal punching bag, but that was apparently too easy. You could anticipate a punch, and you’d know which punches would kill you. 

James wanted me terrified. He wanted me not knowing whether I’d live or die the next second. That was when the stunts started. We’d practice a few times a week and then make a presentation for his biker pals. He always earned a couple of hundreds from those stunts. Good for him. Even at the risk of having myself punched, I’d always remind James of how much money he’d make from the stunts, just so he’d be sober while doing it. I never asked for a share. I just wanted to live another day.

So yeah, life was pretty shitty. But I liked to pretend it wasn’t. Every time we finished with a stunt, I’d slip out of the house the first chance I got. Then I’d go around our equally shitty small town. I’d look for something pretty, something happy, or something
good
to take pictures of. Something to remind me that life wasn’t so shitty after all.

****

An hour had passed before I heard it, a sound that I almost wanted to pretend I didn’t hear. Someone crying like he was about to die. I knew that sound. I used to cry like that, too. 

I hurried towards the sound. Darkness surrounded me, but I had no problems finding my way. I knew every inch of my town and the empty land that surrounded it. 

My heart beat faster even as I struggled not to make a noise. The crying sound came from the ghost town near our place, a 19
^th
century sugar plantation that once belonged to a slave master. The slave quarters were gone now, but the dead spirits? 

I crossed myself as I got nearer.
Dear God. If this is the day I’m destined to see a ghost – please make it quick, too. So quick I wouldn’t even know I had seen one. That quick. I know you can do it. You’re GOD. And yes, God, I’m flattering you. It’s working, isn’t it?

I liked babbling to God in my mind. It kept me sane, especially in those seconds when I didn’t really know if I would live. When I talked to God, everything would be silent, so silent even the sound of a big badass bike flying an inch over my sadly high-bridged nose would be muted.

The man was crying more loudly now, more desperately. It was the only sound that penetrated the night’s stillness. I wondered absently if James had already woken from his drunken stupor. If he did, was he looking for me? If he realized I was gone, would he be so pissed we’d have to do another round of practice when I got back home?

The crying was even worse now. I quickened my steps, one hand on my camera, another on my pepper spray. If he died before I got to him, I could take a photo of his killer. If he was still alive, then I’d…try to save him. It was a funny thought that didn’t really make me laugh. But it was a joke. I couldn’t even save myself and yet here I was, contemplating saving another person’s life. What a joke.

The half-crumbling walls surrounding the plantation were about five feet tall. Easy enough to scale and in seconds I was over it, landing quietly in a crouch. Leaves from an overhead branch were in the way, and I carefully pushed it away as I positioned myself. I lifted my camera, peered through the lens, and zoomed in.

My breath caught at the sight of a man on his knees. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties, his white shirt stained with dirt, like he had been rolling all over the ground in it. His jeans also had a stain. I bit my lip when I realized what that stain on his crotch was.

He was surrounded by boys – just boys my age. They were well-dressed and had ‘rich spoiled brats’ written all over them.
Dangerously spoiled.
They didn’t seem to be American – their skins were too dark. Maybe Mediterranean. They also looked like they were out of it, maybe a combination of booze and drugs. 

I inched closer to hear what they were saying, crawling nearly flat on the ground to avoid being detected. When I was close enough to hear them, I hid behind a rainwater well and listened. They seemed to be taunting the man about playing nanny to a bastard, and one of the boys actually spit on the man as he said the word.

“Consider this as a gift from the true heir of Andreadis,” another boy said as he slowly pulled out a gun.

My heart slammed against my chest in fear. What should I do now? Fat luck if my pepper spray could do anything against that. 

The boy took aim.

I prepared to scream. A distraction was all I could give him. I’d scream, tell them the police was coming, then hope they’d be fooled while I ran for my life. 

When he cocked his gun, I opened my mouth and screamed.

The sound died unheard. 

An enormous black bike had come out of nowhere, the rumble of its engine deafening to my confused mind. For a moment, it was like I was thirteen again, and James was telling me for the first time to lie on the ground.
I’m going to drive over you, and you’re going to hope I don’t stop while I’m on top of your little body.