Death Wish: Adrenaline

[ScifiFangirl]

Closed for TheAntiRebel

Name: Claire Davenport
Age: 21
Appearance: http://i1005.photobucket.com/albums/af180/Taliah32/evangeline-lilly-kate-on-lost13.jpg?t=1288470533

Tonight would be the night. Hazel eyes stared with determination into the mirror, her long damp locks clinging wetly to her shoulders and beyond. Or, at least she tried to look determined. Her old friends always laughed at her when she tried to look fierce. They stopped laughing when they started eating her exhaust. Claire ran the white towel through her hair, reveling naked in the humid warmth of the bathroom after her shower. Yes, tonight she would meet new friends. And she was confident she would give them the same drubbing she gave the folks back in small town USA.

But this was the big city. There were no open fields, no slow, lazy turns. This was where the big time racers went. Claire grinned to herself. It was put up or shut up. She had to prove she belonged with her finish time. She exited the bathroom, wrapping the towel around her slender frame and entering into a massive, luxurious bedroom. The windows opened to huge, glimmering skyscrapers, hover cars zooming through intersections in three dimensions. Notably obeying the traffic laws.

She glanced at her racing leathers, folded neatly on the overstuffed couch, and sat next to them. The sun began to set, casting the bustling metropolis in an orange hue. She was grateful to her father, for paying for her apartment. As the CEO of Davenport Industries, he had given her access to the latest in hoverbike advancements. And in truth, her bike was as good as it got. He did not, however, approve of her hobby, and had forbidden her from taking part in the races. But Claire could not stay away. She was already addicted; an adrenaline junkie. What he doesn't know, won't hurt him. She frowned. She didn't like lying to him, he was a sweet man, and a good father. But she had to race. She just had to.

Standing, she let the towel pool at her feet, pulling on a pair of panties and a camisole. The snug red leather of her pants outlined her figure like a glove as she pulled them over her toned thighs, buttoning them up. The black vest hugged her curves in a similar fashion. Claire liked to look good, she would never deny as much.

Her long dark hair, dry now, shimmered in the fading light as she twisted it into a long braid, letting it hang to her lower back. The dark strands of her bangs framed her face, as she returned to the bathroom, placing the silver hoops in her ears and applying her makeup. Taking a deep breath, she stared herself in the mirror one last time. It was time to race now. She felt her heart rate quicken as if she was already feeling the wind whip past her. As she entered the garage, she grabbed her boots, buckling them quickly, and pulling her helmet on, buckling the chin strap.

Swinging her leg over the side, she flicked the switches, feeling and hearing the red deathtrap come to life. The high pitched whine was like a lover whispering sweet nothings in her ear. The door creaked open, the sounds of traffic barely audible over the caged beast that was her bike. Without a second thought, she shot into the twilight, feeling her heart skip a beat the way it did every time she rode the thing. Street level was where the races took place. Nearly abandoned since the onset of the future that left the present behind all those years ago. The crumbling streets and sparse population was perfect for their illegal street races. A friend had told her where tonight's gathering would be. It was said that the king of the circuit would be present, and Claire was eager to challenge him.

The lights of the city above illuminated the streets below, and Claire could see a gathering. That was it. She swooped in, parking in line with the other racers and taking off her helmet. Her eyes swept the crowd, watching them laugh and mingle with each other, loud music playing in the background, racer groupies clinging to drivers. As usual, she was one of the few women among the racers. It was the way of things, she knew. But that didn't mean she would not look with disdain upon the other women. Her dad always said that women naturally disliked each other. Perhaps it was that axiom that was at work. Regardless, she would wait. She reached into her bag and pulled out her shield-belt and wrapped it about her waist. It could not guarantee safety, but it was what kept the death toll low. Well, relatively low. As she watched the multitude, she dismounted, tucking a stray strand of brunette hair behind her ear and leaning casually against her bike. Yes, this was her kind of place. And soon, she hoped, she would be its champion.

(Attachments: Claire's outfit)

 

[TheAntiRebel]

Malcolm Scaletta
Age: 33
Picture: http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4004/5129804644_47a69c0663_b.jpg

Malcolm laid on his back, as he held a weight above his neck. He was laying on a bench press, naked from the waist up. He liked to get in a few reps before a big race, despite the fact that it fatigued the muscles in his upper arms, like it would anybody. But, it was his tradition and he had been doing it since the beginning.

He lifted the weight up, and into the rack above his head before climbing up off the bench press. He grabbed a white towel near his feet and dried his face and muscular frame which had become covered with sweat during his workout. It was time to get ready. He stood up and strutted to a bathroom. His apartment was comfortable, but small. By day, he worked as a hover car mechanic. By night, he was the best hoverbike racer the city had ever seen.

After a quick shower, he pulled on some black briefs before putting on a black tight armless t-shirt. Once those were on, he moved over to his closet. He hadn't exactly had an easy life. He grew up in the the city's slums, just a ten stories off ground level. His father was a drunk and a window washer for one of the corporate high-rises. He liked to beat everybody at home, until one-day a 12-year-old Malcolm smashed a kitchen chair over his father's back as he took a drunken swing at his mother. His father left at didn't come home that night. The next day, they had gotten the unfortunate news – he had shown up for work drunk and slipped off the scaffolding. All of his safety gear hadn't worked, or he hadn't turned it on, and he was splattered somewhere on ground level.

Mal put on his all-black leather racing suit, a trademark of his. While most racers liked flashy leathers with impressive color schemes, Malcolm preferred going all-black. Once he was suited up, he grabbed his helmet and headed down to his garage. In his garage space, there were two hoverbikes. The first was a ten-year-old model off the shelf. He rode it to work. It was reliable, and slow. It was also what he showed cops on the off chance that they showed up asking questions. Under a tan tarp was his second bike. He pulled it off and threw it down next to the first bike. It was sleek, all-black. While it didn't have all the fancy electronic assists of the newer models, it had one of the most powerful gas turbines you could fit into a hoverbike. It was fast, dangerously fast. Deadly fast. Mal put on his all-black helmet with mirrored visor and mounted his race bike before heading down to the starting line.

Street level was mostly abandoned and quiet these days, save for the random drug addict. But, as Mal navigated through the rigid intersections, he saw and heard of hum of activity. A collection of hoverbike racers were waiting. He buzzed up and parked his bike near the center of activity. As the reigning champion, everybody turned to look at him. He would be lying if he said he didn't like it. He switched off his bike and climbed off as he unstrapped his helmet. Immediately, a few new kids approached him and tried to make idle conversation. Everybody wanted to be his friend. He shook them off and headed over to his real pals. They weren't friends, per se, but competitors who had stayed alive long enough and raced well enough to earn Malcolm's friendship. Generally, Malcolm Scaletta was a quiet mystery to all, even the occasional woman racer he took back to his apartment and slept with. Everybody knew he was the best, and that's all they needed to, in Mal's opinion.

He chatted with them briefly before he spotted a new figure standing next to a bike. She was a woman, which was rare enough. Hazel eyes, black hair, she was irresistible physically, which earned her some attention from Malcolm. He headed over towards her, before standing in front of her and putting his hands on his waist. He spoke in a deep, throaty voice. “Nice body you've got there,” he said, nodding towards her hoverbike – an obvious double entendre. “You know how to work that thing?” again, referring to the bike, but not really referring to the bike. He asked with a grin, holding out a hand to the woman. “I'm Malcolm Scaletta.” he said with a smile, locking his eyes with hers.

 

[ScifiFangirl]

Claire had been waiting for some time, keeping to herself. While she was at home in a gathering of racers, she remained unfamiliar with the people of the city. What few interactions she had had in the few days she had been here had been terse and short. These people were... different from the small-towners she was used to. Turning to her bike, she fiddled with the gas intake. It was set for open fields, and that just wouldn't do for these comparably narrow streets...

“Nice body you've got there,” She looked over her shoulder, to get a glimpse of the man who had spoken. That was one thing about the city. The men here were less of the 'aw shucks' variety. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but she was here to race. That and the fact that he was utterly gorgeous made her intrigued. He easily surpassed her hight, even with the heels on her boots, and he carried himself like a racer. "You know how to work that thing?" Arrogant, like every racer you would ever meet. It takes a special kind of crazy to race in places like this.

She smiled coquettishly at him, letting her eyes travel over his well-built frame before they were caught in his. He didn't dress to garner attention, like the other drivers. She liked that. “I'm Malcolm Scaletta.”

"Well, Malcolm..." She turned, leaning against her racer and letting bare fingertips trail over the red chassis. "If your wit is as quick as your track time, I fear you'll be seeing a lot of this body before the night is though. The back-end, I mean." She paused to look up through her lashes at him. "Claire Davenport."

As she clasped his hand, she spoke once more. "We are talking about racing, right?" He would have to put much more effort into his charm than he did with the other girls here, who no doubt threw themselves at him with abandon. Still, his low-key demeanor piqued her interest. he seemed the kind that would have a cold kind of calm in the most dire of circumstances. Of course, that was a lot to read into after exchanging only a few words...

 

[TheAntiRebel]

Mal couldn't help but smile, she was fiesty and could stand up for herself, which he liked. "Of course, we're talking about racing, Claire." Malcolm said, grinning. "I don't think you've raced here before, I'd remember you if we had," he said, crossing his arms and looking over her bike. It was pretty advanced, and had all the latest gear, off the shelf. Malcolm wondered who paid for it. Father? Boyfriend? Sugar Daddy? His eyes danced her body over again. She had sort of an athletic prowless to her, hell, maybe she was some master thief. "Nice bike."

"So, where you from?" he asked. With a bike like this and her personality, she could be some champion from some other megacity. Tokyo, Shanghai, Singapore, who knew. Malcolm's knowledge of who was who only extended to this city, and he had no idea if he was about to be blindsided by a ringer from another city.

"Listen, Claire," he said, running his hand on her bike. "Just watch yourself on the turns, alright? This course can be deadly for newcomers. I'd hate to see this hot body smashed up," he said, giving her a wink, and then heading back to his bike without saying another word. At this point, any other one of the woman racers here would be throwing their panties at him. But Claire was mysterious, and tough. And sexy.

"Already lining up your post-race activities?" Roger Ling asked, walking beside Malcolm. Ling was a shorter guy who wore green and white leathers on a matching bike. He wasn't the greatest racer, but his friendly demeanor and skill at the curves had kept him alive long enough to make him generally a friend of all the regulars.

"Do you know anything about her?" Malcolm asked.

"Nah, she just showed up and started working on her bike. She looks legit though." Ling said.

"I'd say, that bike has all the latest shit. Why don't you run a search for her on the message boards? Name is Claire Davenport. Get us some stuff on her before the next race," Malcolm suggested. Ling nodded, the friendly Asian fellow was a software engineer by day.

"You're assuming she doesn't drive that nice bike into a wall tonight, Mal, but I'll see what I can find about her tomorrow. Good luck out there tonight, chief," Ling said, patting Mal on the shoulder.

The race organizers started to move about the crowd. It seemed like they were about to get started. Malcolm grabbed his black helmet off the back of his bike and put it on his head. He climbed on his hoverbike and flipped it on as the other bikes started to hum to life. He gave Claire Davenport one more glance before flipping his mirrored visor down. Then, he relaxed his nerves as he waited for the race to begin.

 

[ScifiFangirl]

The mysterious racer and his warning echoed in her thoughts as he walked away without another word. Even his concern was teasing. That was cute, but she could take care of herself. Claire watched him go, wondering what was really going on in his head. She had the strange feeling that no matter what he said to her, he would be hiding something. She wondered how they would have reacted if they knew her father was the owner of the largest producer of high performance vehicle parts in the country. I suppose we all have our secrets.

One of the other racers called out to her. "You seem to be making friends with the right people." There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He grinned. "I heard your conversation. You were talking to the champ, you know. I don't know if you have the know how to back up that mouth of yours. Good luck, sweetheart."

She glared at him, before pulling her helmet over her head, featuring the detailed likeness of a panther. She was embarrassed for a moment, now that she knew who he was. But she was determined. The organizers were hearding the racers to the starting line. Claire's heart began to pound a little faster. Her soft voice echoed against the one-way Translu-steel visor. "We'll just see."

The whines of the powerful turbines drowned out nearly all the noise. She looked over at a black-clad Malcolm, catching him looking her way before shutting his visor with finality. The idle flirtation was fun, but she knew he didn't expect to lose. It was time to play.

A girl in a megaphone held a pistol, standing off to the side of them. "Three! Two! One!" Crack!

15 bikes roared off the starting line as if shot out of a cannon, each unleashing their own brand of terrible velocity on the air flowing around their bodies. Claire felt her vision blur for a moment, Lieing almost prone on her belly, as the decrepit buildings whipped past. Her dark braid had been drawn taught in the wind, streaming behind her like a ribbon as the cluster of drivers whipped around the first turn. Her vision cleared as her body became accustomed to her velocity.

Three turns in succession, each one bringing the young racer closer to disaster. She felt the adrenaline coursing through her, her hazel orbs wide and alert behind the visor. Her breath echoed in her ears. Without looking at the panel, she made more adjustments within a short straightaway. Slowly, as the race progressed, she gained on the others. Becoming more adept at talking the tight turns. Soon it was just her and the black rider. Just Claire and Malcolm.

It was the final straightaway, that ended in a tight curve followed shortly by the finish line. If she could just go a little faster, she could win. She could brake in time for that curve, she just knew it. That would show him. Then they would all know there was a new girl in town. She gunned it, the black figure growing larger before her. He pressed his air-brakes, falling behind and starting his turn. Suddenly, Claire jerked the handlebars to the right, gritting her teeth as the G's pressed her to the seat. The brick wall zooming in at her. She could make it. She could make it, she had to...

A scream ripped from her throat as she felt the undercarriage of her machine grind against the old brick, jarring her rear repulser loose and sending her flying over the front. The bike itself careened up to the skies, crashing and exploding into the side of a building. Claire flew through the air and skidded into the concrete street, her body shield glowing as it absorbed most of the impact. Like a stone across a pond, she slid through the finish line, Malcolm waiting for her. She had slowed considerably by the time her shield failed, banging her head on a wall just behind where Malcom had stopped, cracking her visor in a spiderweb of destruction.

Her breath was haggard. Her headache felt like it was splitting her in half. Claire was silent for several moments, before groaning softly in pain, pulling her broken helmet from her face. She knelt on all fours, her heart feeling weak and erratic. Trying to stand, her knees wobbled precariously, before her vision narrowed, and she blacked out with a sigh, crumpling to the ground.

 

[TheAntiRebel]

Malcolm took slow deep breathes as he reached down and flipped on his body shield. Everybody here acted like they were a macho son of a bitch, but the truth was that everybody was scared. You had to be, or else you were dangerous. Mal felt the rumble of the gas turbine in his bike under him as he watched the starter girl take her position.

As the pistol fired, he gunned the throttle, his sleek black bike racing to the front of the field. His eyes darted around as he surveyed the road ahead. His hands made quick adjustments to the controls as he held on carefully, feeling the G's from acceleration press against his body. Then, he felt everything jerk forward as he hit the breaks and leaned into the first turn. He heard the 14 other competators bunch up behind him as they all breaked for the first turn.

Malcolm opened up the throttle on the next three tight curves. They were dangerous. Go too slow on them, and you get left behind. Too fast, and you'll nail the wall. Malcolm expertly navigated through them at nearly top speed and then brought his throttle back to wide open again on the straights, gaining speed, this is where the Black Rider usually put too much distanc between himself and the field and clinched the race before it was over.

Except, he could hear somebody behind him. When he breaked in the turns and his engine quieted, he could hear another still revving behind him. He didn't dare glance behind him, but somebody was keeping up with him tonight. He slipped his hips back and forth and he leaned with the bike on each turn, trying to cut seconds off each corner in order to put distance between him and the follower, but they were sticking to him like glue.

They raced down the final stretch to the last curve. That curve had taken many leaders in it's time, it was nearly impossible to take with any sort of speed. Malcolm slowed down to curving speed when suddenly, he looked up and saw a bike streak past him at high speed. Claire! His mind thought. It was a single thought of anger, concern and lust all in one as he watched her take the corner, her hair flying behind her.

As he accelerated out of the curve, he watched her bike miss the curve and tag the building. The bike pitched her off, sending her into the street while the advanced machine flew itself into a building, causing a minor explosion. The win assured, Malcolm zoomed across the finish line, one hand up to the small crowd in victory. He spun the bike around quickly and stopped, he climbed off and switched his bike off. He saw Claire's body glide into a wall, and hitting her head rather hard on it.

"Shit," he said softly in his low voice, pulling off his helmet. He started heading over to her, but was intercepted by the small crowd of race girls and fans who congradulated the Black Rider on another victory. "Boy, what a good finish!" "I thought that new girl almost had you!" "Did you see her bite it at the end?" "I knew Mal had it all along," they said crowding around him. Some female (he hoped) hand grabbed his leather-clad ass. He raised a hand to the crowd to assure them.

"Thank you, thank you," he said in his deep voice. "Did anybody check on the girl?" he said, pushing his way through the crowd and heading over to where Claire laid on ground. He rolled her over and flipped open her cracked visor. She was knocked out, and bleeding from the head. Just then, Malcolm's pal Roger Ling had dismounted his bike (a usual rear-of-the-pack finish for Ling) and was heading over.

"Shit, she okay?" Ling asked.

"I don't know," Malcolm said. "Call Doc Mitchell. Tell him to come to my place." Malcolm said, grabbing Clarie's body and carrying her over to his bike. Doctor Stephen Mitchell was a doctor who had lost his medical license for selling steroids to hyperball players. Now, he provided adrenaline shots and medical services to the illegal hoverbike crowd.

Ling nodded, and headed off around the corner while Malcolm carried Claire back to the hoverbike. The crowd was silent, and stunned. The Black Rider had seen plenty of people bite the dust before, with little or no concern for thier lives. What made her so different? Did he have a thing for her? Was the usually quiet and mysterious Black Rider falling in love? Who was she, by the way? The crowd started murmuring with discussion as Malcolm propped up Claire in front of him on his bike as he slowly zoomed away towards his apartment.

----------------

"She'll be alright," Doc Mitchell said. "She has some cuts and bruises along with a mild concussion. She'll be a little woozy for the next few days. Tell her not to bang her head like that again for the next couple of weeks or it could get worse."

"Thanks, Doc." Malcolm said, slipping the former doctor a few hundred credits.

"Don't mention it yet," Mitchell said, before heading out of the apartment. Claire was laying on the sofa. The elderly doctor had insisted on checking her whole body for injury, so Malcolm (ever the gentleman) had stepped out while Claire was stripped down to her camisole and panties. Once he was done, Malcolm covered her in a warm red blanket for modesty (not that he didn't enjoy of the view of her athletically toned body). The cut on her head had been bandged up by the doctor, and now Malcolm (still wearing his leather pants, but having taken off the jacket, revealing his armless black t-shirt) headed into his kitchen and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He heard a moan from the couch and turned, seeing Claire open her eyes.

"Good evening." Malcolm said with an arrogant smirk, bringing the glasses and bottle back to the living room. "You bit it pretty hard," he said, sitting on the armchair next to her on the sofa. "I called an old doctor who helps us out. He said you've got a concussion and might be woozy for a while. Avoid hitting your head like that again and you'll be fine." Malcolm explained.

He poured the two glasses of scotch and handed her one. "How are you feeling, by the way?"

 

[ScifiFangirl]

Malcolm's Apartment

Claire spent the next hour and a half flitting in and out of consciousness, her body demanding sleep but her mind demanding information. She awoke with the steady vibration of a hover bike beneath her, a strong, reassuring arm encircling her waist and pressing her tightly to a solid frame. Her eyes opened to slits, tearing up, unsheltered from the wind, murmuring softly into the crook of his neck. It was Malcolm. Where was he taking her? How bad was she hurt? Claire slipped deftly back into oblivion without another sound.

Claire awoke to a pounding agony in her head, pressing slender fingers gently to the spot that the headache originated from. She felt gauze, and a spike of pain. A long moan forced itself from her lips, and she was powerless to stop it. She sat up, the blanket sliding down to her waist, realizing suddenly that she was wearing little but her tank top, a pair of panties, and the sapphires dangling from her navel. She felt her cheeks color as that now familiar voice reverberated about the small apartment. Her whole body ached, as if she had been strung up and beaten with reeds.

He grinned cheekily at her. "Good evening." He was carrying a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He certainly knew how to get on her good side. "You bit it pretty hard,"

"Yeah..." She said simply, still rubbing the brief sleep from her eyes.

"I called an old doctor who helps us out. He said you've got a concussion and might be woozy for a while. Avoid hitting your head like that again and you'll be fine." He took a seat near her in an armchair, and she took the time to take a closer look at him. He looked to be about thirty, quite a bit older than her, but it only managed to make him even more maddeningly sexy. It was probably the most annoying thing she could think of about men. She remembered vaguely being pressed against him on the hover bike, and how his chin-whiskers felt against her neck. Claire suddenly became aware that she had been making eyes at him, and stopped.

She took the proffered whiskey with a weak smile, as he asked how she was. "Better than ah could be, ah think." Her fuzzy brain had turned her light southern twang into a full on Georgia drawl. Claire hardly noticed, and drove on. She pressed the cool glass to her forehead, sighing softly as hazel eyes traveled over the apartment. A piece of hyperball memorabilia, some racing magazines. He wasn't overly messy, but it did look... single... whatever that entailed. "Thanks for taking care of me." She shot him a pretty smile, before downing a good portion of the whiskey in her glass. "Now, to set about forgetting that I almost died tonight." She shivered, reveling in the slow burn trailing down her throat.

Why had he decided to take her in? He could have just as easily bolted and left an anonymous ambulance call. This of course, saved her some explanations to people in her fathers circle, and she was grateful for that. Almost without thinking she made the rest of the pungent golden fire disappear. "Ugh, Jesus." She set the glass on the table, forgetting herself and standing, letting the blanket fall away and walking over to her ruined pants. Malcolm got an eyeful of long, shapely leg, her left thigh nonetheless sporting a nasty bruise. Stepping into the heavily scuffed leather, she hissed as her fingers brushed the bruise, before buckling the fasteners and turning to him, the pants leaving her ankles and lower calves bare. "Congratulations, champ. You did get me out of my pants tonight. I was close, wasn't I?" She turned to him, her bare feet padding silently over to him, watching him sit in his chair, grinning like a fool. The alcohol aggravated her already woozy condition, but she nonetheless poured herself another without asking, just to be a bitch.

Smiling coyly at him, she leaned over, almost falling with a groan before bracing herself on his shoulder. She let her lips brush his cheek, pulling back and flopping back on the couch, tucking her heels beneath her. Claire was truly impressed with the man, and she hoped he really was single. She suspected he had the same hopes for her, otherwise he would have left her. Sweet wasn't a word she would use to describe him, but thats what what he had just done was. She clutched the glass with both hands, trying not to think about what might have happened on the course tonight. Her eyes burned sadly into the liquid.

 

[TheAntiRebel]

Malcolm couldn't help but smile at her as she took the drink. She was incredibly sexy, and now something about her earlier tough girl act made her so much more desirable now that she seemed vulnerable. "Better than ah could be, ah think," she replied, a thick Southern accent coming out. She definately wasn't from the City then, Malcolm thought.

She seemed to take in his apartment as he leaned back in the chair and sipped his glass. "Thanks for taking care of me," she said, giving him a cute smirk, before downing some of the whiskey. "Now, to set about forgetting that I almost died tonight," she said, looking uncomfortable at the thought.

"Don't let it worry you, you wouldn't be the first," Mal said with a grin, finishing his drink with her. He watched the woman stand up and head over to the pile of clothes, himself getting full view of her shapely body. He swore that every angle on her body was perfect, he moaned softly to himself and poured himself another glass. He was glad she hadn't covered herself, for obvious reasons and couldn't help but smirk. She quietly put her leather pants back on before noticing him watching her and quipping "Congratulations, champ. You did get me out of my pants tonight. I was close, wasn't I?"

"Oh, don't worry. You were the closest anybody came in a long time." He said as she headed over towards him. She helpped herself to another round before leaning over and lightly kissing his cheek. While she did so, Malcolm reached up and touched the side of her toned stomach with his hand, briefly making more contact with her. She sat back down on the couch and stared intently into the glass.

"Don't take it so hard," he said, finishing his drink. He stood up and grabbed the whiskey bottle off of the table, even though it was within reach of his seat. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't taken a few crashes like that," he refilled his glass, then manuvered over to the couch where he sat next to her, his thigh rubbing against hers. "It's crashes like that remind us we're human," he said, intently looking her in the eyes while he sipped the golden liquid.

He lowered the glass and started tracing the outline of the scuff marks on her leather pants with one of his fingers. "I'm afraid your bike is a total loss, though," he said, smiling at her. His finger slowly traced up her pants, and onto the side of her body, where he softly touched her with his full hand. "I think I did warn you about that hot little bike you had," he said, his hand staying on her body as he leaned into towards her, briefly kissing her on the lips before pulling away to see her reaction.

 

[ScifiFangirl]

"Don't take it so hard," He rose, and she watched him beneath her lashes as he moved to sit next to her. He sat quite close, as a matter of fact. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't taken a few crashes like that," She ventured a glance at him, over her glass, feeling his thigh press to hers. "It's crashes like that remind us we're human,"

Claire could feel his eyes burning into hers, and she met them, her heart rate picking up slightly as she felt his hand on her thigh. "I'm afraid your bike is a total loss, though," Her breath caught in her throat as his hand trailed higher, his strong, calloused fingers caressing the bare skin just above her hip. "I think I did warn you about that hot little bike you had,"

His eyes were locked on hers, and his brief kiss was not enough for her. Slipping her arms around his neck, fingers holding the glass loosely, she pulled him closer, pressing her soft lips insistently to his. It was a teasing kiss, a sensuous kiss. Pulling away gently, she smiled at him and shot him a smoky gaze. "You make your move fast, loverboy." She nipped his lower lip playfully, not quite expecting it when he pulled her into another tantalizing kiss. She broke it for the second time, a little short of breath, her cheeks flushed. "God. Malcom... I think... You should give me a ride home."

Claire wasn't sure how much longer she could control herself around him. She was in no shape for this. Besides, she had to be at a business meeting tomorrow morning, and it was very late. "Don't worry, this won't be the last you see of me. I'll make sure of it."

 

[TheAntiRebel]

Malcolm let a low senusous moan out as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as they locked lips again - this time her giving him a slow, teasing kiss. He grinned, his hand slowly moving around her body, slowly rubbing against her soft skin. She pulled away, "You make your move fast, loverboy."

"I do everything fast," he said with a smirk, before she leaned in and playfully nipped his lower lip. Gazing into her beautiful eyes, Malcolm thought he could eat her alive at the moment, his hand slowly sliding up her small of her back, slipping under the soft fabric of her camisole as he held her close. They shared another teasing, lust-filled kiss together. When Claire pulled away this time, her face was flush. He grinned at her and could practically feeling the lust pumping through his veins. He wanted her badly. More than anything he'd wanted in a long time. "God. Malcom... I think... You should give me a ride home."

Malcolm smiled at her. "Are you sure?" he leaned into her neck, softly giving her gentle kisses on the curve of her neck, while his hand groped her back - his broad muscular chest pressing against her breasts. "Maybe you should spend the night," he suggested, raising his eyebrows suggestively to her. "Don't worry, this won't be the last you see of me. I'll make sure of it."

Mal grinned. Alright, this will be an endurance race, not a sprint, he thought. He gave her one more playful kiss on the lips before slowly leaning away from her, his hands lingering briefly on her skin before he pulled them away. "Alright. Alright," he said standing up. He finished his glass before grabbing her leather jack and tossing it to her. "We'll take my Ijnek 1000. It's not as fast as my race bike, but it's more comfortable for two people." he said, slipping his leather jacket on over his muscle shirt and grabbing the holokey from the conter top.

Once she was ready to go, he wrapped one strong arm around her shoulders, partly to help her stand in case she was still woozy - and partly as an excuse for more phsyical contact between them. They headed down to his garage space where his rather blue and white stock street hoverbike sat next to the jet-black race bike. He climbed on, and feeling her do the same, he flipped on the engine, the repuslors coming to life under them. "So, where to?" he said with a smirk, leaning back to her.

 

[ScifiFangirl]

"So, where to?" She straddled the seat behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding on tight. She wasn't used to sitting in the backseat, and normally it would have made her nervous. But there was not a more qualified man than the one she clung to at that moment. "Downtown. The Davenport building, 3267." She felt the bike begin to move, and at a much slower rate they zoomed into the night. It had gotten a bit chill, and she shivered, pulling herself tighter against him.

They traveled the city, following the lines of traffic, and slowly climbing from the lower levels. Claire closed her eyes, resting her head against his neck and letting the wind rush past. She wondered how it was that his hands had been so thrilling, tracing the ridge of her spine. And his lips on the sensitive flesh of her neck...

As they pulled into her garage, she swung her legs over the side, giggling as he looked incredulously at her home. "Don't be intimidated, Mal..." Her fingers brushed his cheek and she kissed him one more time. "Mm..." As she parted from him, she looked a little more solemn. "I'll be by tomorrow, I'm in the market for a new bike."

 

[TheAntiRebel]

Mal grinned to himself as he felt Claire cling to his strong frame as they carefully navigated the hover traffic as he rode his 'regular' hover bike in the heavy dense lanes of traffic. He carefully navigated the corners and pulled up to the impressive Davenport Building. It was at that moment that Claire's last name rung a bell in his head. Wait a second, he thought, his mind trying to figure out what was going on.

He pulled into her garage space and saw that it was well equipped, not mention that her apartment was near the top of the building and probably an expensive one. Well, I guess it is her name on the building. That explains the expensive bike, Malcolm thought, he thought with a smirk to himself. "Don't be intimidated, Mal..." she s
aid, has if reading his thoughts.

She stood up off the bike, saying "I'll be by tomorrow, I'm in the market for a new bike."

Mal grinned and grabbed her hand with his and gently kissed her fingers, softly caressing them with his lips before letting go. "Don't worry, I won't forget you," he said giving her a wink, before ignighting the engine of his hoverbike and racing away into the crowded horizon of the city.

-

Claire Davenport consumed Malcolm's thoughts for the next 12 hours as he slept, showered, and rode to work. He arrived at Red Rocket Hovervehicles - a small independent dealership and repair shop that sold most of the major brands of the hover cars and bikes and fixed them, as well, which is where Malcolm came in.

Needless to say, this was the worst part of Malcolm's day. Although the manager was friendly enough, here, Malcolm was just an easily replacable hover mechanic - not the mysterious and unbeatable Black Rider of the city's illegal hoverbike racing circuit. The winnings from the races were considerable, but nowhere near enough to live off of - at least in this city. So, here he was.

"Yo, Mal," the manager yelled. "That customer is back with that Toyota Air Cruiser 550. He says the rear repuslor is still making that rattling noise. He's threatening to take it elsewhere if we don't fix it this time." Malcolm nodded. "I'll get on it," he said, waving the manager off.

Once inside his little shop, Malcolm was able to relax a little. He cracked the hood on the faulty hover car and grabbed his tool box. As he worked away, disassembling the faulty bits, he couldn't help but keep thinking about Claire.

 

[ScifiFangirl]

The carress of his lips on her fingers made Claires heart flutter a little. For a moment she pondered grabbing him and yanking him off to her bedroom. But no, she had to be more subtle. She didn't want him just galloping off the moment he had bedded her. But god, she wanted him. "Don't worry, I won't forget you." She smiled, and watched him speed off. Walking back into the familiar dwelling, she collapsed in her bed, slowly slipping into dreamland, her mind thinking of his hands, and his lips, her imagination running wild. Yes, Claire thought, she was truly smitten with the man. She had planned to wait a few days to visit his workplace, but she didn't know if she could wait...

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It had been a long day at work, dealing with the duties that befell the heiress of a business empire. The small cut on her forehead was easy to explain away. It certainly did not look like a racer-bike caliber injury. For that much, Claire was eternally grateful to the powers that be. She was dressed conservatively, sitting quietly with her legs crossed at her desk, her eyes misty as she gazed out the window at the city. Her cheek rested heavily in her palm. She had to see him, tonight. She had been thinking of him all day. Claire had felt an inexplicable electricity at the feel of his hands on her body. It excited her to no end. She couldn't play hard to get, not with this one.

She was in the middle of another increasingly wild sexual fantasy when her secretary burst in the door. Claire started, blushing even though no one could have known what she had been thinking about. "What is it?"

"Sorry, Miss Davenport. The workday is over, so I'm going home."

She nodded in a stately manner. "Very well, goodnight." Finally! She could get the hell out of here.

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She had been looking for just the right outfit for far too long, she knew. It was very silly, really, but she wanted to have his eyes on her. She wanted him to forget every other women in the room. Standing before the full length mirror, her toes curled in the wicked brown suede boots. The four inch heels made her feel like a goddess, and the denim top was just the right amount of sexy. She looked over her shoulder at herself, the long thick braid swinging lazily just above her bottom, before unzipping the front of the top just a bit, showing off a generous amount of ample cleavage. Smiling, she left the mirror, trying to quell the nervousness in her tummy. The shop would be about to close, she supposed. But she would catch him. And the shopkeeper would make allowances for a Davenport.

Hopping in her expensive hover car, she headed towards the place, Pulling into its garage and entering the office, she spotted the front desk and walked over, her high heels tapping rhythmically on the floor. "Is this the workplace of Malcom Scaletta?"

"It is, maam, but were about to close."

She ignored him, and continued. "I'm looking for a new bike. I would like him to be the salesperson in charge of the sale." The many workers were beginning to check out, speeding out of the building.

"Maam, as I said we are closing, and Malcolm is not a salesmen."

"I am Claire Davenport, my father supplies this store. I promise, I will not cause you any other inconvenience."

His eyes widened, and he nodded. He pressed a button on the intercom. "Mal! Were all leaving for the day. A customer has requested you show her the merchandise personally. Take care of everything she asks for, is that understood? Close up when your done."

Claire frowned at his curtness. He certainly was not very respectful. It irked her. "Have a good evening, Miss Davenport."

"Yes, of course."

She walked to the showroom, full of shiny new hover bikes. There was a neon green racer that stood out to her, and she smiled, straddling the seat and almost purring at the feel of it. Her eyes closed, and she couldn't decide whether to think of whooshing down the back alleys of the city, or Malcolm's lips pressed to the nape of her neck...