Driving My Obsession: A Dark Hitchhiker Romance, page 1
Driving My Obsession
Lauren Biel
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Biel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Driving My Obsession/Lauren Biel 1st ed.
Cover Design: Pretty in Ink Creations
Editing: Sugar Free Editing
Interior Design: Sugar Free Editing
For more information on this book and the author, visit: www.LaurenBiel.com
Please visit LaurenBiel.com for a full list of content warnings.
It’s not that we haven’t learned our lesson about jumping into a car with a morally-black stranger. It’s that we just really like them. To any reader who agrees, this one’s for you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Connect with Lauren
Acknowledgments
Also by Lauren Biel
About the Author
Chapter One
Ambrose
Club lights strobe above me, their pinkish-purple array casting a warm glow on what little skin I’ve left exposed. My leather jacket covers my arms, but the scars on my head and face are still on display. The place smells like sweat, like the walls have been painted with the stuff. They probably have been.
A woman with raven hair stumbles onto the stage. Black panties hug her hips, and a black-and-white sequined bra covers her tits. I can’t help but think of my mother as her hips begin to sway. As she gyrates along with the beat. She climbs the pole and hangs on by her thighs as she reaches back and unclips her bra, exposing one of the worst boob jobs I’ve ever seen. Puckered skin surrounds two huge bags of saline.
A topless blonde catches my eye, and she dons a soft, sweet look as she starts toward me. That expression fades when the lights flash and catch on my disfigurement. Disgust has a unique look to it. It’s so hard to hide.
I take out a stack of money and wave it in front of her as she tries to sashay past me.
Her throat constricts as she gulps, probably swallowing the bile that rose into her mouth at the thought of grinding against someone who looks like me. “I would, but I’m on my way to another private dance,” she says, looking toward the back rooms.
I lower my cash to my lap and allow her to think she’s fooled me. As she nears the back room, I look away, knowing she’ll glance back to see if I’m watching. Then the dirty little whore has the audacity to stroll to the bar and casually order a drink and sit down to talk to her coworkers. I hate liars. I’d rather you admit to my face that you don’t want to dance for me because of how I look. Don’t lie. Lying hurts worse.
She’d make a good target. That’s why I’m in this shithole, after all. To find the vessel to receive all the anger that pours from me like a never-ending fountain. I don’t get hard when I see these women with their goods on display. If anything, the opposite occurs and my dick tries to invert itself to get away from their filthy bodies.
The blonde walks by me again, as if I forgot about her lie. I pull her into me and she whimpers, but no one will hear it over the loud music.
I lean toward her ear. “I got these scars from surviving what should have killed me, you judgmental bitch.”
I release her and she scurries away, looking back at me with wide eyes as she runs toward the back room. She probably plans to tattle on me, so it’s time I make my exit.
I leave the club and get in my Jeep. I have somewhere I need to be, and I should have been there sooner, but my desire for revenge has been eating away at me recently. If I could resurrect the person who hurt me, I’d do what I should have done and pour my wrath into her. Since she’s no longer an option, another whore will have to do.
When I pull up to the warehouse, I struggle to find a parking spot amongst the tightly packed cars. Stifling warm air engulfs me as I leave my Jeep behind and head inside.
I walk into a roaring crowd. Fists fly toward the stage as a fight rages on in the center of the room. Blood splatters across the makeshift ring’s concrete floor, and bodies collide with the filthy ropes marking its perimeter.
I recognize one of the fighters. Boris is a Slavic beast. Despite his tiny stature comparatively, he’s a monster in the ring. Had I been here earlier, I’d have had time to play the crowd for this fight. The fresh faces almost always bet against him, not realizing the power contained in that smaller body. They also don’t realize he fights dirty. Darby, the club’s owner, doesn’t have any rules to break, probably because he thinks it makes for a more interesting experience when someone’s fucking ear gets ripped off and spat onto the concrete.
It kinda does.
The bell rings, signifying the end of the fight, and Boris charges off the stage. His wide smile peeks through the blood coating his face like a gory mask.
He spots me in the crowd and heads toward me. “Beautiful fight,” he says, a thick Slavic accent coating his words.
“Looked good.”
“Felt good, too.” He gives me a rough pat on the back before heading toward the locker rooms.
The sharp scents of blood and sweat fill my nose as I suck in a breath and weave through the crowd. They’re focused on the two men readying to fight the next match, and that’s fine with me. It gives me a chance to study their faces and find my mark. I don’t want to screw up and swindle the same fucker twice.
I spot a new face in the crowd, his dirty fist gripping a wad of bills as he counts out what he’s just won. The idiot might as well be waving a sign with my name on it. Judging by the smile on his face, he’s already won a few others tonight. Sure would be a shame if he lost while he was on a streak.
“You got a bet on this fight?” I shout over the roar around us.
He offers a glance my way, then returns his gaze to the men.
I pull out a wad of money to rival his, and that gets his attention. “I’m willing to put everything on the underdog,” I say. “If I lose, you’ll get twice what you put in. You game?”
His eyes go to his winnings. He’s weighing it up in his mind, and the bait is too tempting to pass by. The underdog in this fight hasn’t won since he joined our little club eight weeks ago, but he’s due for a win tonight. This guy doesn’t know that, though. Only I know.
I set it up, after all.
“Tell you what,” I shout. “I’ll give you till the end of the first round to decide.”
The man nibbles his lower lip and turns his attention to the ring. The fighters circle each other a few times before the bigger guy takes a swing and sends the underdog against the ropes. The one-sided beating continues for a few more minutes before the schmuck to my left eyes the fighters once more and shakes my hand.
“Pretty stupid bet to make. This guy is barely staying on his feet,” he says.
I shrug and fold my arms over my chest as I catch the underdog’s eye and wink. He turns back to his opponent and grips him in what looks like a hug. In fighting, this is known as a clinch. They use this move for a multitude of reasons, but this time it’s so he can let his opponent know the deal has been struck and it’s time to take a dive.
The underdog sends forth an uppercut when their bodies part, and the other guy takes it and goes down. The upset sends the crowd into a frenzy, and I take a moment to enjoy the look of shock on the man’s face.
Ah, yes. Victory.
His gaze runs over my muscles, as if he’s considering backing out on our deal and he wants to figure out if he can take me. He can’t. Realizing this, he shoves his money into my hand, tucks his tail, and pushes toward the exit.
As much as I’d love to hang around and add a few more twenties to my stack, I won’t be able to watch the main event. Especially since I am the main event.
I head to the back to prepare myself. I spend my time street fighting and ripping people off. Sometimes both at the same time. Well, it’s less “street” and more “dilapidated building,” but still. I bare-knuckle box, which is a fancy term for those of us that fight raw and dirty, without gloves between us. It’s the most brutal way to fight, and
Before I leave the locker room, I check the roster. I like to know who my opponent is before I see his face. My finger scrolls down the chicken scratched list, and I release a sigh of relief because I’m not against one of the “Kursed” brothers. Gentry and Karson recently got back into the game after years away. Those two fight like bona fide psychopaths, and I’m not in the mood to earn a few more scars tonight. I heard they were hitmen before they became fighters, and while I don’t usually put much stock in rumors, I believe this one. The bigger one is built for homicide, and the other looks crazed enough to do it for fun.
When I finish taping my wrists, I cut through the crowd and step into the ring to a wave of murmurs rippling through the room. Those disgruntled voices probably belong to the morons who just realized they were taken for a ride when I parted them from their money last night. If my boss paid me half a living wage, I wouldn’t need to swindle people. If he didn’t keep most of the money from those of us balls deep in the blood sport, I wouldn’t have to work the crowd and my fellow fighters wouldn’t be so willing to take a dive for a little extra cash.
The crowd transforms into a churning sea of screaming, chanting, roaring faces. Their fists pump the air as they demand more brutality. The audience is alive. I can feel the strength of it in my bones as I approach the ring. A woman in a bikini lifts a sign, panning it over the crowd. It’s tacky. Putting someone pretty beside the ugly doesn’t make these fights less ugly.
As we ready ourselves to begin the match, the roar of the crowd voices their disdain for the space between us. Makeshift stage lights and neon signs flicker above us and illuminate their red faces. Time to give them the show they came for.
I take the first swing, and blood slips from a split in my opponent’s lip. He opens his mouth, turns his head, and spits out a tooth, which causes a roar of laughter and catcalls from the crowd. With a dazed look in his glassy eyes, he falls back into the corner, trying to recover. In a normal fight, this is where a ref would step in and call for a medical team to give us the go ahead to continue, but this isn’t a normal fight. There is no medical team.
I charge toward him again, and he catches my jaw with a surprise right hook. My teeth click together on the side of my tongue. The pain fuels me to hit him harder. His blood splatters on my cheeks and forehead like war paint.
My scarred body crashes into his as we take turns searching for soft spots. We’re evenly matched in body size, but he doesn’t have the years of experience I’ve gained. Or the anger. I don’t have enough time to collect myself before he throws a punch to my face that sends me stumbling backward a step. Blood flows from my nose, and it hurts like hell, but it doesn’t hinder me; it fuels me.
Thin scarlet ribbons drip from my chin, leaving little red stains all over the cracked floor. I lick the blood beads rolling down my lips so they fill my mouth with their iron tang. Nothing tastes better than blood drawn from pain—and there’s something about tasting that pain.
The lights warm my sweat-slicked muscles, and I send my cut fist into his face. His scream echoes in my ears, and I revel in the power and violence. It’s my love language. The crowd roars in approval, growing louder with each blow.
When he finally falls to his knees and clutches what must be a broken jaw, I let out a sadistic laugh. An audible crunch rings out over the cries from the bloodthirsty crowd as I prey upon that weakness and knock his head back once more. Blood sprays from his mouth and stains the concrete, and he doesn’t rise to his feet again.
I win.
Nothing in my life feels right, but this? This feels right. When I’m surrounded by cheering crowds while covered in someone else’s blood, knowing it will never be my life essence leaking onto the ground, I feel normal. And that’s saying something. Not even the skin I wear feels normal. It’s a tattered costume I can’t take off.
I run a hand through my dark blonde hair. A few strands fall into my eyes, and it looks almost brown from the amount of sweat woven through it. Red lights catch on my scars—tough strips of tissue lacing my body. I can hide the worst of them with clothing, especially the deep gouges I received on my abdomen, but I’m forced to show them to the world when I fight. It doesn’t matter here, though. It adds to my persona and makes me seem like I’ve been through some shit.
They have no fucking idea what I’ve been through.
While I can hide the scars on my body outside of this place, I can’t do shit for those on my face and neck. I keep the sides of my head shaved because it’s patchy as shit if I let it grow. These marks keep me from blending into society, so I’ve given up on trying.
Who needs a fucking society that set free the monster who did this to me?
I look down at my beaten opponent and smile. Yeah, I win. It’s what I do. Every time I step into that ring, I win. But I never feel like I’ve won as I leave—my body battered and bruised, my heart beating hollowly against my chest. On the outside, I’m un-fucking-defeated, but inside, I’m fighting to feel something more than numb. It’s a place to push my constant anger.
But winning doesn’t feel as good with no one in your corner.
The crowd quiets and begins filing out of the building. Everyone loves the scary, scarred-up fighter in the ring, but I’m dogshit on the soles of their shoes once it’s over. Their eyes are no longer glued to me. Now they just want to look away. They cower from me or shield the eyes of their curious kids. Some of them know about my past. Some people even think I’m immortal. No little boy should have survived the damage flashed all over the paper and the six o’clock news. I’m the living embodiment of their worst nightmares.
I throw my shirt over my shoulder and head toward the makeshift locker room. The stench of men and unwashed towels fill the space, and I fling my shirt onto a metal bench against the wall. I stroll past a line of warped lockers and a dirty, cracked mirror, then groan as I run my hands beneath the sink’s cold tap. Before I can even dry my hands, my “boss” storms in, his face contorted with anger. He raises his hand and sends his palm against the back of my head. The red rage spilling from his veins has now infected mine. I exhale, trying to keep from killing him.
“Why the fuck are you working the crowd like that, scar?” he shouts.
“It’s none of your business,” I say. I hate when he calls me that. I am not just my scars.
Darby’s eyes narrow. “It is my business when you’re doing it under my name. This whole thing is my business.”
Darby lords over the fighters like a king, but I’m no one’s property. He masquerades this business as legitimate when it’s anything but. These fights are not only illegal but the last resort for those of us too desperate and broken to do anything else. We’re the forgotten, abandoned by society and by the law. It’s a shame that our only hope lies in this depraved, violent world he created.
He shoves his hand into my face. “Give me what you swindled off people or lose your spot next week, Mr. Sinclair.”
My muscles tense as I fight the overwhelming urge to snap this man in half and leave him in a shallow, unmarked grave. But I know if I do, I’ll have no future. Without this gig, there’s nothing for me. With an animalistic growl, I reach into my pocket and fling the money near his feet. The cash flies into the putrid mix of pooling water, sweat, and urine.
“Oops, sorry,” I say, though I’m not the least bit sorry. If I could whip down my jeans and add to the piss leaching into those bills, I would.
Darby reaches up to put a hand on my shoulder. “You know, scar, you’re one of my best fighters. Piss-poor attitude, though.” His voice lowers as he squeezes, and I’m about three seconds away from sending him across the locker room.
