“Poor thing.”
“Didn’t have a chance.”
“Smart as a whip.”
“Great potential.”
“Didn’t have a chance.”
Did they think I couldn’t hear them?
“Could’ve done great things.”
That’s the one that made me feel the worst. ‘Could’ve’. I’m only 18 for crying out loud. Besides it isn’t my fault my idea of great things was different than everyone else’s.
I’ve bounced around from foster home to foster home since I was five years old. My parents visited religiously the first couple of months but the visits became more and more sporadic. They both finally fell off the grid on my tenth birthday.
I ran away when I was seventeen. No one came after me; I knew they wouldn’t. There was no one that cared enough to spend their time trying to find me.
I settled here. I don’t know if it was the smell of oil and burning rubber, incessant eye candy, or the ecstasy of the race that kept me here. Whatever it was, had kept me here, probably for life. This was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a home, and my group was the closest thing I had to a family. Believe me it wasn’t easy to get a foot in the door in this place, either. They were a tight knit clan and extremely guarded.
My looks didn’t help my case. I was skinny; not the high metabolism skinny it was more of a malnourished skinny. I put all the money I had into my machine. She gained me the respect I deserved and now you could say I’m the king pin of the racing circuit in this city.
YOU ARE READING
Driving For Blood
Teen FictionI don’t know if it was the smell of oil and burning rubber, incessant eye candy, or the ecstasy of the race that kept me here. Whatever it was, had kept me here, probably for life.
