I can't help but be completely and utterly aware of his eyes on me. They're a stunning shade of blue – I know because I made eye contact with him once, and that was all it took to engrave the memory of them into my mind. It's not the same kind of blue as my eyes; it's more intense, more commanding than my own. It's hard to explain, but anyone who saw my eyes and then his would agree wholeheartedly. There's something about that gaze on my back that makes my skin prickle beneath the tight leather of my outfit. It makes me want to claw at the goosebumps that are rising along my arms, my back, my thighs. I don't really like the feeling of him looking at me, but... At the same time, it's sort of exhilarating and I want to keep his gaze on me, even if I am turned away from him. I don't want him to look away – but I know he will, eventually. I'll be disappointed, I can tell already. But for now, his eyes are trained on my back, my ass, my legs, and it excites me so much.
Why is he looking at me? Is it because I just won the race? Is he envious, or perhaps filled with admiration? If its the latter, why doesn't he just come up to me? I guess I'm not the most approachable person on the outside. At nearly six foot, one inch tall, with broad shoulders and a strong jawline that brings attention to my angular facial features, it's no surprise that people aren't keen on walking up to me out of the blue.
There's also the fact that I'm the three year champion in this particular racing scene. I haven't been racing for that long... But I know my stuff. Every time I pull myself out of Welter – my gorgeous, dark navy blue race car – I can feel myself fill with the excitement of my first race; it sort of gets to my head sometimes, I think. It feels good though, so I let it happen. I let myself drown in the breathtaking experience of winning race after race, climbing high on that totem pole of respect until I'm at the top, a year and a half after I started my career in this little circuit.
I suppose his stare isn't atypical by any means. I just won another race – nothing special to me – and my stride is long and slow away from Welter, my eyes flickering to the small crowd on the sidewalk. There are some teenage girls near the center of the front row, their hands flying to their cheeks as my gaze falls near them. I give a killer smile, flashing my pearly whites, and one of the girls starts screaming, bouncing up and down while wringing her friend's arm.
I love my fans. Most of them are females who find me attractive – how could they not? – but there are some men that admire my ability to handle Welter at even the most stressful situations on the track. That's one issue of racing: You have to know what you're doing and you have to have enough intelligence to take things in stride and never hesitate. Hesitating leaves you open to interpretation, as well as creating a weakness that you definitely don't want. Welter and I have a mutual understanding of each other, and he admires me just as much as I admire him for his speed, aggression, and fluidity. I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for him – I know that much very well.
The other problem with this is... well, it's illegal. It's like... gambling, I guess. It's an underground street racing group. We welcome newbies, although most kids don't stick around for too long. The police try their hardest to anticipate where we're going to be racing next – we can't stay in the same area for too long, obviously – but they haven't caught on to any patterns yet. Sometimes I wonder how they haven't been able to figure out something that is, literally, underneath their noses. It's not my job to wonder though – I can leave that up to the burly men we consider the security guards for the club. It's what they're getting paid for, after all. My job is a little better, in my opinion...
I race. I race hard, I race fast. I feel at ease with the roar of Welter's engines screaming in my ears. I'm not comfortable unless my right foot is pressed against my car's gas pedal and my hands are poised over the thick steering wheel that threatens to jerk out of my grip at any moment. That's sort of the reason I have the championship. I would never sit back and let someone take this reign away from me without a struggle. As of today, though, there's been no one that even comes close to threatening me and my status. I'm invincible.
At least... That's what I thought for a long time.