SPEED RACER HAREM SYSTEM

Chapter 2: Ten Years Later

Ten years later

Coyote wiped the sweat off his brow, his grey tank top clinging to his skin as he finished an oil change for a client’s car. He pulled out the dipstick, checking the oil level carefully, ensuring it was within the right range. Satisfied, he sealed everything up and grabbed a rag, rubbing off the grease stains on his hands.

As he worked, his mind drifted—he shouldn't be here.

Back to square one.

Struggling just to get by.

Coyote knew how he had ended up here, but not why.

A year ago, he was on top of the world.

He had just won the NASCAR Xfinity Series championship. Louie was still alive—sick, but alive. Sponsors were falling over themselves to sign him. He had a team, a future, a shot at making history.

Then Louie Watkins died.

And everything unraveled.

His wife, Evelyn, didn’t even wait for his body to reach the morgue before kicking Coyote out of the mansion. She made sure he didn’t even attend the funeral. Her hatred for him was absolute.

When the will was read, Coyote’s name was nowhere in it. Louie left his fortune to Evelyn, and his properties went to their two children, Timothy and Gweneth.

Coyote swallowed the betrayal, choosing to move forward, even though he had his suspicions.

Maybe he had always suspected something like this would happen. After all, he wasn’t Louie’s biological son. He had no claim to the man’s wealth.

But he had his career, and it was going to be big.

Or so he thought.

The moment the funeral was over, sponsors started dropping him. His team followed soon after. At first, Coyote couldn’t understand what was happening—until he got wind of the rumors floating around.

People whispered that he was responsible for his siblings’ deaths in the meth lab explosion all those years ago, that it wasn’t his imprisoned father’s fault.

It was absurd.

He was nine years old when it happened, and he wasn’t even in the house.

But public perception had already turned against him. The case was even reopened, fueling the scandal.

Coyote spent every last cent he had in the span of a year just trying to keep racing, but nothing worked. NASCAR had turned its back on him.

Still, he refused to give up.

His goal of beating Louie Watkins’ record of ten NASCAR championships now seemed very impossible.

Racing was all he knew.

All he loved, and it is slipping through his fingers.

Coyote was so deep in thought—staring blankly at the Mercedes-AMG he’d just finished working on—that he didn’t notice someone approaching until a firm tap on his shoulder snapped him out of it.

He turned to see a tall guy with sharp blue eyes, his black leather jacket collar failing to hide the Phoenix tattoo on his neck.

A small smile crept onto Coyote’s face.

“Jax, how long have you been here?”

Jax chuckled. “Long enough to grab an engine, sell it and come back here like nothing happened.”

Then his expression shifted, the amusement fading.

“Dude, you need to stop overthinking. You’re gonna give yourself high blood pressure, and then you won’t be able to race ever again.”

Coyote exhaled slowly.

Deep down, he knew Jax was right.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Everything that had happened still felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

Shaking off the weight pressing on his chest, he changed the subject. “I’ll try. Did you get the number?”

Jax smirked, already pulling a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “Of course I did. What do you take me for?” He slipped it into Coyote’s hand. “This is the number he gives to his top clients. He’ll definitely pick up.”

Coyote took the paper, a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t even want to know how you got your hands on this.”

Jax gave him a mock-serious look. “It’s better that way. I don’t think you can handle how this sausage got made.”

Coyote met Jax’s gaze, shaking his head. He knew Jax’s hands weren’t always clean, but that had never mattered to him. Jax had always been like a brother.

Unlike Coyote, Jax never got adopted. He grew up on the streets of Daytona, surviving by his own rules. That made him the guy to go to when you needed anything street-related. If there was a drug deal going down, Jax knew about it. If an underground race or illegal gambling ring was happening, Jax was already two steps ahead.

He was resourceful. And he always came through.

“Thanks, bro. You just did me a solid.” Coyote pulled out his phone, dialing the number.

“You’re good for it, bro.” Jax leaned against the car, watching.

The phone rang twice before a smooth, measured voice answered.

“Hello, this is Asher Goldberg. Who is calling, and how may I be of service this afternoon?”

Coyote’s jaw tightened. “It’s me. Coyote Watkins. The client you’ve been avoiding for weeks.”

There was a slight pause before Asher’s voice dropped to a hushed tone. “Coyote Watkins! How the hell did you get this number?”

Coyote shot Jax a glance. “That’s not important right now. I want to know what’s going on. It’s been two weeks since we last spoke. What are the sponsors saying?”

A heavy sigh came through the line. “Kid, I think you should consider giving up on NASCAR. No one there wants anything to do with you.”

Coyote felt the blood drain from his face.

“Are you telling me that all the money and effort I put into clearing my name and reviving my career was a waste?”

“Kid, I’m sorry, but that’s the case.” Asher’s voice was calm, but there was a hint of something else beneath it—resignation. “Someone doesn’t want you racing at all. It makes no sense, especially since you’re a champion.”

Coyote raked a hand through his medium-length blonde hair, frustration gripping him like a vice.

If Asher Goldberg, a high-powered fixer with connections everywhere, couldn’t fix this—then no one could.

“So, what do I do now, Mr. Goldberg? Racing is all I know. It’s all I love.”

There was a beat of silence before Asher spoke again, his tone shifting to something almost persuasive.

“I think you should consider acting. You’ve got a pretty face—TV, cinema, they’d eat you up. If you’re interested, I can fly you out to Los Angeles for auditions right now.”

Coyote considered it. Just for a moment.

It wasn’t a bad idea. He’d done a few commercials for sponsors before. But those had been a hassle—memorizing scripts, pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

He couldn’t see himself doing that for a living.

“Mr. Goldberg, I’m not an actor. And quite frankly, I don’t want to be one.” His voice was firm, unwavering.

Asher let out a slow exhale. “Well, I don’t know how else to help you.”

Then, in a completely casual tone, he added—

“Would you be interested in acting in p**n? It requires little to no acting at all. Just a lot of fucking.”

Coyote’s stomach twisted.

“What the fuck, Mr. Goldberg?! I would never sink that low.” His voice rose, anger flaring hot in his chest.

Asher scoffed. “I’m just trying to help you, kid. I’m almost certain you don’t have enough money to pay your rent this month, and here you are mouthing off to me about not sinking low.”

His voice turned cold.

“Come off it. You’re not serious. When you are, you know how to reach me.”

Then—the line went dead.