Life was indeed good.
Dropping back through the gears of her KTM 350, Sami rode the last throbbing wave of her latest motocross-induced climax before drawing to a halt next to her mechanic.
“How many?” Jay Rutledge asked as she handed him her custom-designed helmet, a knowing smirk on his face.
“Three,” she answered, scruffing at her hair with her gloved fingers. She didn’t need a mirror to know the cropped peroxide-white strands were now sticking out from her scalp in a crazy mess. When one wore a helmet for extended periods of time, one gave up the notion of having the kind of tresses found in shampoo commercials.
Besides, white-white hair looked awesome against her olive skin, especially with the damn-near iridescent purple streak that hung down to her cheekbone she’d added yesterday.
“Only three?” Jay tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You tired today or something?”
Sami fixed him with a direct gaze. “You try having multiple orgasms while executing a nic nac on a bike your mechanic still hasn’t fixed the mono-shock rear suspension on, in front of the country’s leading motocross journalists andyour main sponsors.”
Jay laughed. “Ouch.
“Yeah, that’s what my clit said.”
Sami threw her leg over her bike and scruffed at her hair again. In about ten minutes she would be speaking to said journalists and sponsors. That’s why they were at the Sydney Stadium, after all. To see her perform the routine that scored her the International Women’s Motocross Championship title last week in Dallas. To celebrate her win with interview questions and cheesy photos, and maybe—in the case of her sponsors—throw some more money her way.
“Your clit needs to—”
At the excited shout behind them, Sami and Jay turned.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Jay muttered, handing Sami back her helmet. “I’m outta here.”
Sami scowled at her mechanic. If the sod weren’t so fucking good at his job, she’d hit him. Or sack him. Or crash-tackle him to the ground before he could get away. No way was she facing Dianne Slough alone.
“Ms. Charlton.” The woman waved, tottering toward her on six-inch heels.
Sami rolled her eyes. What kind of idiot wore six-inch heels to a motocross event?
The same kind who works for Mr. Oh Look at Me I’m So Fucking Awesome.
Before Sami could pretend she hadn’t seen the woman hurrying toward her across the pit track, Eli Swanson’s personal assistant was squirming like an excited puppy directly in front of her.
“Hello, Ms. Charlton,” the woman chirped. “Mr. Swanson was very impressed with your performance today.”
Sami pulled a very unladylike face. “Mr. Swanson can blow me.”
Dianne Slough gasped. Sami had no idea why. “Mr. Swanson can blow me” was her standard response every time the woman relayed a condescending compliment from the international motocross superstar.
“He’s asked if you’ll join him in his private box for a drink,” Dianne plowed on.
Dianne’s wide smile didn’t falter. Sami had to give her points. No matter how many times Sami was rude to her boss—via Dianne—the woman continued. Swanson must pay her a shitload of money.
“Didn’t realize Biggest Dickus was in Australia at the moment.”
At Jay’s chuckle, Sami turned to find her mechanic standing on her right. Jay and Dianne had history. She didn’t know what it was, but it had something to do with when Jay was Eli’s head mechanic. She raised her eyebrows at him and he shrugged with a grin. “What? I’ve got your back. See how bloody awesome I am?”
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