CHAPTER 143: MEAN MUG

The street was enthusiastic, the symphony of revving engines drowning the raving of spectators.

The race hadn’t yet begun, but the excitement was palpable.

"As you may have noticed," Averie addressed the camera while buckling his seatbelt, "we are on the outskirts of the city, which means we haven’t completely abandoned safety yet."

He twirled a finger in the air.

"If someone were to die, it would either be a murderer burying his victim or some jobless drunk. In either case, we are doing a great service to society."

He adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see his face and not what was happening in the back.

"I mean, hey, if the victim is still alive, they sure ain’t gonna stay that way after getting hit by a fuckton of horsepower. Life comes at you fast, but I am coming at you faster."

As the revving engines quieted down and the hooting of barn owls pierced the silence, the charming ladies cleared the road.

Averie placed his hands firmly on the steering wheel.

"We have a massive advantage over the others." He lowered his voice to match the gravity of the silence. "We are located at the front of the grid, which is called the pole position."

The cars were arranged in parallel, with space between them, in a zig-zag pattern.

Averie’s Supra was at the front.

"This is a sort of handicap for the faster cars. Usually, drivers fight for a fair assessment, but they just let me have this position without a second thought."

He bit his lower lip and shook his head.

"Are they dismissing me? The car? Sure, it’s not tuned, but what’s the big deal? Do these wannabes think they are professional racers or something?"

He cursed under his breath before returning to his crafted persona.

"Now, you must be wondering how these races start, right? Well, there is our flagger." He pointed to the girl in high heels and denim shorts moving towards the front of the caravan. "Usually, it’s some sweaty guy, but today, it’s a hottie. It seems they are trying to impress us."

The girl planted herself in the gap between the two rows of vehicles.

"Originally, as the name would suggest, flaggers used flags. You can still see that around the globe. Flashing lights, dropping handkerchiefs, and lowering your arms are the most common ways of starting the race."

Averie leaned forward and squinted, noticing something metallic in the girl’s hands.

"That’s a flashlight, isn’t it?" He looked at it with disappointment. "Well, what else was I expecting?"

The flagger waved her hand at him with a seductive wink.

"The most accurate of these," Averie continued while gesturing for the girl to come closer, "is something called a Christmas tree, which is basically a glorified traffic light. Of course, we are in Birmingham, and nothing good can exist in Birmingham."

The girl approached his window and peered in.

"Other than you, of course, sweetheart," he added smilingly, chewing on a bubble gum like a typical racer douchebag. "What’s your name?"

"Sheila," the girl said in a wispy voice.

"Ooh, I like the name. What are you? A bit of white? A bit of black?"

"Yeah." The girl flashed her immaculately white teeth. "A bit of Latina. A bit of everything."

"Ooh, a hybrid. Like my mum’s car. I like that. She’ll like you."

The girl was dumbfounded, stuck between being offended and being flattered.

Averie took a pen from his dashboard, jotted down a number in his pocket diary, and handed her the torn page.

"Call at night, alright?"

She shoved the page in her back pocket and left after placing a peck on the good actor’s cheek.

"Should you be giving away your number?" asked the cameraman.

He didn’t say it, but Averie could glean the abundance of jealousy from his expression.

"My number?" He looked at the cameraman with unblinking eyes. "Who said that’s my number?"

"Sorry?"

The good actor’s gaze turned to the girl watching him with annoyance seeping from her eyes.

He licked his lips seductively, a mischievous grin playing on his tired face.

"I said my mum will like her, didn’t I?"

His expression pissed off Hyerin even more. She was infinitely convinced that he was causing trouble for her.

Averie looked back at the camera.

"See, kids, what I did right there?"

He pointed at the happily retreating figure of the flagger.

"I gave her hope, albeit a false one. Saying ’my mom will like you’ is no different from saying ’I would put a ring on you if I were him.’ In her mind, it created an illusion that there could be something definite, something solid, between us."

"That’s kind of..." The cameraman stopped himself.

"Messed up?" Averie snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Now, she is more likely to accept my advances, thinking it’s a steady deal. Will we enjoy a romantic night tonight? Definitely. Will she ever see me again? Not in a million years."

He connected his phone to the car speakers.

"It’s not a nice thing to do, boys. But it’s better to get your heart broken by yours truly than anyone else. At least, she can recount to her granddaughters the time she slept with a famous actor. I’m sure I make for a better subject of a story than some ugly racer."

The camera zoomed in on the driver of the Corvette, who noticed Averie’s stare and scowled.

"What a mean mug. It’s so ugly, we will have to blur it."

Fiddling with his phone, he turned on a playlist of modern dance music. It boomed through the Supra’s speakers at a pleasant volume.

"No hardcore rock for us tonight. We are going down with the smooth."

He had no idea if that was how the young generation talked; regardless, he said what he said shamelessly.

Noticing the Corvette driver still glaring at them, the cameraman gestured at Averie to look behind.

"Wot?" the good actor uttered in a very shrill English accent. "Bloke’s still staring at me?"

He poked his head out and screamed at the driver, "You mad, bruv?"