The Silver Swan (The Elite King's Club 1)

“I don’t know why the fuck you’re doing this. Why couldn’t you and Nate just ride around your little circuit? I’d still be here when you got back.”

“First of all, it’s not a little circuit. It’s a forty-minute race across town. Second of all, you’re drunk, and there’s no way Nate would leave you unattended.”

Nate? It’s more like he has a lot to say about where or who I’m with tonight, but admitting I noticed would be about as useful as telling him I think he’s hot. It would embarrass me, because he would know I noticed, and then the ball would be in his court, which I’m not cool with.

“A forty-minute circuit?” He pulls my belt on and I ignore the way his strong arm brushes against my own.

Firing up his car, he hits his headlights and puts it into first gear. “Yes.” He pushes buttons on the GPS that sits on his dashboard until a map comes up with a trail of green.

“Why?” I ask, looking back to his chiseled profile. He really is that fine. I need to stop looking or sober up, or both.

“Why what?” he asks, revving the car until the rumble of the whatever-cylinder engine shakes under our weight.

“Why do you do it?”

“Ahh.” He grins at me from the side and taps his temple. “That’s the million-dollar question though, isn’t it?” Then he slams it into first gear, the tires kicking up the gravel before we’re skidding down the driveway.

“Holy shit!” I spin in my chair to see the headlights behind us disappear as Bishop drops it into third gear and then back to second just as he reaches the end of the driveway, ripping up the emergency brake. The car’s ass end slides out sideways, and we drift around back, onto the quiet road that leads to the highway. A very girly scream leaps out of my mouth, and I quickly slam my hand over my lips, unable to contain my laughter.

The passing streetlights flash across Bishop’s face, showcasing shadows over his finely cut features. “Take a right turn at the next intersection,” the GPS’s electronic voice instructs from the dash. Bishop swerves into the right lane and pounds it until we’re clocking in at around 100 mph. I thought I’d be scared. I mean, I have no experience when it comes to Bishop and his driving, but I not, and this may be the sole reason as to why so many young people are killed during illegal races—pure stupidity. I don’t feel anything but the sheer adrenaline pulsing through me.

“You and Carter?” he asks, his eyes staying on the road ahead of us.

“Are about as friendly as you and Ally.” My answer is clipped, but regardless of whether I’m enjoying this ride or not, I didn’t ask for it. Bishop is an asshole and stuck-up. Everything I dislike in a male, or in a person in general.

He laughs, but it’s more like a snark. “Ally means less than shit to me.”

“Charming,” I reply, deadpan.

He looks at me, a dark smirk coming onto his mouth. “Never.” Then he slams it into third gear, and we shoot forward onto the highway. He rips up the brake as we drift onto a right turn effortlessly.

For the most part, the trip is quiet and uneventful. Bishop, being Bishop—all broody and silent. It’s unsettling, and I don’t really know what to fill the awkward silence with, so I just keep quiet. Bishop eventually hooks into an underground industrial parking lot, the deep pulsing vibrations of the car echoing through the vast empty space.

“Stay in the car.”

We pull around a corner, where a long stretched limo waits. A man dressed in a finely pressed suit, gray hair slicked back, and a cigar hanging out his mouth is leaning against it. To the left of him stand his two bodyguards, both in matching black suits, and both their eyes covered by dark sunglasses. Bishop pulls to a stop and gets out of the car. I contemplate getting out just to spite him, but then I look back at the man with the cigar and think better of it. He grins at Bishop in a way that has my skin prickling. Handing him a cigar, Bishop takes it then pushes it into his pocket.

What the hell?

Looking over my shoulder, I see how there’s no one behind us. Surely, the guys wouldn’t be that far behind. Bishop turns on his feet and walks back to the car, his eyes catching mine. I squirm, sliding down lower in my seat. Just as his hand falls on the door handle, I look back up to the man who is dressed in a suit to find him looking right at me. I need to look away from his gaze, but I can’t. His eyes skillfully laser into mine with an unreadable expression. He tilts his head then looks up at Bishop, who has paused with his hand on the door handle. I look away from the suit man and look back to Bishop, before the door swings open, and he slides in beside me. Firing up the car, Bishop snarls at the man and then floors it backward, snaking out of the compact underground parking lot.