CHANCE | ✔

11| Drake

I'm the secret Victoria's keeping from you. 

Ughten 
(n.) the part of the night immediately before daybreak; early morning 

Monday — September 4, 2023

That girl is something. 

And if I had the slightest bit of respect or morality, I would not have been staring at her arse with a shameless semi as she strolled past the front gates of her house. 

Stars save me. 

"You're dick is trying to skewer me." Hazel mumbles ten minutes later as I stop by the party once again to pick her up and ceremoniously deposit her in the passenger seat.

"That's what happens when you deny it action by getting wasted as shit." I say, slamming the door shut.

Should've forced Callista to stay back and give me a rewarding fuck as a thank-you for saving her arse out there.

That pussy was one I simply had to claim. No further questions.

If things went pretty much the same for the rest of the week, she'd be worshipping me so loud by the end of it that the allure of that siren-like voice would take on a wild, hoarse edge from all the screaming. 

Hehe. 

New vag in a town like Blackwood Creek was like the universe handing out freebies to make life a little less torturous. And I'd been through almost it all.

It was getting old. And boring. 

"Quit pouting like a kid." Hazel says from beside me. I settle into the driver's seat to find her stretching out on the black leather like a feline cat.

My dick salutes the way her body curves in all the right places until my semi turns into a full-blown hard-on.

Now this girl was someone who would never get old.

"I'm not pouting." I defend. "Not like a kid anyway." I add in a mumble.

"Right, a kicked puppy then."

"Kicked coyote." I correct her and then the landscape is whipping behind us as my Maserati barrels down the street.

Booze and bitches aside, this baby was my life and soul.

I'd seen a matte black Maserati as an eleven-year-old plastered across one of those weekly magazines Mother left lying around and it had been L-O-V-E at first sight. 

Religiously stealing a 100-dollar bill from my Mother's purse was how I spent most of my childhood.

My back and her new Gucci belt had become damn good friends a week after I'd first turned robber when she caught my hands buried deep in her Louis Vuitton handbag.

I'd stopped for a fortnight.

Then started doing it again.

The belt and I had, like, monthly interactions since then. Though she'd upgraded to Prada recently.

"Motherfucker!" I scream as a Mercedes damn near runs me off the road at an intersection. I press my foot flat on the brakes and curse whoever the fuck was behind the wheel.

The car skids to a stop and the bloke shoves his head out the window and shouts something at me.

I don't hear whatever he's blathering.

Ah, the pleasures of soundproof vehicles. Took me three damned months to work out how to shut out the sounds completely.

I back my Maserati up and swerve around the other dude's car, rolling down the glass to give him a view of my favorite finger before racing past him.