Rock's favourite part was the adrenaline.

It spread through his body in a red-hot wildfire, caught his veins all the way down to the tips of his fingers as they shook around the steering wheel. It felt akin to the high he got on something else illegal— but if he had to choose which one was better, it'd be this.

He'd probably pick racing over anything.

He never paid the flag-girls much mind, his best friend, Jax, being the one to choose them each time they'd race. They'd wave their checkered flags, taking the risk of standing between two cars ready to go a million miles a minute.

He was always too focused on the race. The only glance he'd take at them would be to ensure the race had begun.

But when you had come along today, his body ran hot.

You held those checkered flags like you owned the whole street, clad in tight red shorts that matched his car just a little too well.

He had never seen fishnets look so good on someone's legs before, but your legs were perfectly thick with muscle. And all that was before he even considered the cropped black jacket, or the tiny little shirt that slipped the bottom of your bra beneath it.

Rock had never been so tense in the driver's seat. And he'd never made full eye contact with a flag girl before, never caught the gleam of mirth in anyone's gaze through his freshly cleaned windshield.

He'd never had them return his looks or cast him a playful wink with the over-exaggerated mouthing of "good luck" through pretty red lips, almost perfectly matching those shorts, and more importantly; his car.

Jax had to have done this on purpose, to distract him. Right? The prick, he couldn't get distracted and let him win tonight. A lot of money was put on him.

But Christ, the way your legs parted to steady yourself, to accompany the space between the two cars. The way you flicked your head to the side, allowing your gorgeous strands to move into a side-part.

Fuck.