Mr. Pink Sneak Peek
No amount of highway driving can erase the taste of Macey McCaslin’s p***y from my mind. Not the 101, and not the two days of winding roads that carry me closer and closer to the middle of bumfuck nowhere Kansas and the next ninety days that will be my Purgatory. My indentured servitude to release my trust fund from lockdown.
My Pagani eats roads like this for breakfast, or a shark gobbling up harbor seals. Something I relish as I fly by the speed limit signs, erect in their warning, demanding I slow as I approach Prairie, population 5,672. I accelerate instead, pushing my speed around a particularly sharp curve. I love this car. She may have a fickle Italian engine, but she’s a thing of beauty. Curves and lines as luscious and alive as if she’s been carved out of Car
