CHAPTER 142: DADDY ISSUES

While listening to Whore of Babylon on repeat, Averie made his way onto the road surrounded by fashionably dressed ladies and gents.

He wasn’t a big celebrity in the UK, but the attention constantly sought him out.

He was being observed.

The scantily dressed young ladies watched him the way housewives watched sale adverts.

And men, in their thick gold chains, looked at him the way pitbulls looked at defenseless children.

The former wanted to bang him, and the latter wanted to bang him up.

The nuance did not escape Averie.

Instructed by the second AD, the crew hurried out of the frame.

After casually greeting a few of the car owners and bumping fists with a couple of drivers, Averie took his place at the edge of the sidewalk.

Once the preparations were complete, the AD gave the signal.

"Sound."

"Speed," replied the sound mixer.

"Scene 41, Aston, Take 1," the second AC read, holding the clapperboard in front of the camera.

"Rolling," replied the first AC.

The jaws of the slate clamped shut, and the good man removed the slate from the frame.

The Director called, "Action."

The good actor, with bloodshot eyes, entered the frame from the right.

He removed his headphones and slapped the taillight of the Supra.

"This" — He placed his rather red hand on the trunk of the old car — "is the finest boot in all of West Midlands."

He lit a cigarette, took a puff, and put it out on the Toyota logo.

"It’s smoking hot."

’That’s right,’ thought the director. ’Don’t crack a smile, my boy.’

"Luck determines our lot in life," the actor continued, "and mine was an easy one, having been born with practically everything. Money, looks, and smarts—I have it all."

He rested his arm on the shoulder of a mean-looking guy leaning against a black Corvette.

"But not everyone is so privileged." The good actor spared the Corvette driver a glance of pity. "Some are born without good looks."

He was moments away from being punched.

’His face will surely be blurred,’ the first AD thought. ’It is a shame our viewers won’t be able to see the ugly death glare he is giving our beautiful host.’

Averie retreated his arm and strolled towards the Supra.

"It is a great privilege to live on the cleaner side of society. But what about the rest? How do they live?"

He made his way to the front of the car as the camera panned into a wide shot.

"To find that out, we have travelled today to a car meet. The organisers of these often discourage the participants from street racing. But they don’t do it because it’s dangerous. They do it because they don’t want trouble with the pigs—I mean, police."

He faked a cough.

"Street racing is an illegal sport. But just like cocaine, all things illegal are good."

"And fatal," he whispered with a hand on his mouth.

"Tonight," — He spread his arms wide — "we will dive into the immature world of street racing."

He pulled up his pants and sat on his toes, his face awfully close to the heated bonnet of the car.

The camera captured him from a low angle.

"Tonight, your boy Quinn will make his churlish debut into the world of fast cars and swift crime."

He opened the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.

"To be a street racer, one must meet certain qualifications."

He counted on his fingers. "You must have a car. You must be good at driving dangerously. And above all else, you must have an abusive stepfather and a negligent mother."

Two cameramen followed him inside. One sat in the front passenger seat, while the other sat in the back alongside the sound guy.

"Unfortunately, I don’t meet the last requirement. But does that mean I can’t be a street racer? Some say ’yes,’ but I say ’no.’"

As the rest of the drivers got into their cars and began revving their engines, groups of girls flocked around them.

"These" — Averie turned to the camera, pointing at the trio of young girls gathered around his window — "are street hoes."

One of the girls looked offended.

"But that term is impolite," he added to placate the girl. "Do not mistake them for prostitutes. These ladies do not sell themselves for paltry sums. The respectful term for them is ’race thots,’ or simply ’thots.’ Please refer to them as such."

The girl’s expression mellowed. Somehow, that sounded fine to her.

"They are not interested in your money. The only thing that excites them is glory and the touch of a dangerous man. What is their role here? Well, they act as trophies to be taken home by the winner for an unholy wrestling session."

He raised a finger.

"Before you make appalled expressions and ask for me to be cancelled, I must add that they do it of their own volition. No one is forcing or paying them, and not one of them is underage. Street racers are ethical about partying after nearly and accidentally killing people."

He ran a hand through his luscious hair.

"’Quinn, how do we become race thots?’ I hear you ask," he said in a higher pitch. "Well, it is a rather simple process, and you only need to meet one condition."

He poked his head out of the window and locked lips with the closest girl who had leaned in for it.

After a long minute of decadent display, he retrieved his tongue from her mouth and turned to the camera.

"To become a race thot, daddy issues are a must." He licked his wet lower lip. "These beautiful ladies are locusts on the crop of self-preservation. They will look at an abusive relationship and think, ’Ah, nourishment.’"

He gave a thumbs-up.

"Just like me, they can’t be fixed. So, be nice to them."

Averie couldn’t see it, but Hyerin was glaring at him from afar.

In her eyes, the French kiss was an unplanned disaster. She was afraid of the tabloids, known for making false statements.

’Does he like it?’ she wondered. ’Does he like kissing girls on camera?’

On the other hand, Min-Ha was cursing her luck.

’It should have been me.’