Badass in Disguise Chapter 89

I watched as Blake strutted away with his European crew. He glanced back at me with a smirk that screamed arrogance.

"We will see how the American girl handles real off-road," he called over his shoulder, his accent thick. "This is not your video game or little street race."

His friends laughed on cue, like trained seals. Blake continued in rapid German to his team.

"*After I win, I'll make that American bitch pay. She'll regret humiliating me in front of everyone.*"

I kept my face neutral, but mentally noted his words.

Chase fidgeted beside me, watching the Europeans climb into their Land Rover. "That's a custom Defender," he whispered. "Cost at least half a million with those modifications."

"How good is this Jeep for the course?" I asked, tapping the hood of the vehicle we'd arrived in.

"This Rubicon is the best American off-road vehicle money can buy. Borrowed it specifically for tonight - it's got reinforced suspension and a custom engine tune."

We pulled up to the starting line, where Blake's Land Rover was already positioned. Getting out of our Jeep, I couldn't help but notice how practical our vehicle looked compared to Blake's flashy Defender with its matte green finish and carbon fiber accents.

Chase's friends gathered around us, their faces showing clear concern. Chase himself seemed to be having second thoughts as he glanced between me and Blake's impressive machine.

"Look," he said quietly, "losing money or face is one thing, but you absolutely cannot go with those guys if we lose. They're known for being rough with women. If things go south, I'm getting you out of here immediately."

I raised an eyebrow. "Worried about me?"

"I'm an Astor." He puffed up his chest slightly. "Can't let a woman take the fall for this kind of thing."

"Your chivalry is noted," I replied dryly, but I appreciated his concern. For all his privilege and swagger, Chase seemed to have a decent moral compass.

A man with a starter pistol took position between the vehicles. Blake revved his engine, the custom exhaust rumbling deeply. I calmly adjusted my seat and mirrors, familiarizing myself with the Jeep's controls.

"Drivers ready!" the starter called.

Blake's engine roared again. Mine remained at a steady idle.

The starter raised his arm, but before he could fire, Blake's Defender lurched forward, racing down the course several meters before the gun even fired.

"That cheating son of a bitch!" Chase shouted as his friends erupted in angry protests.

I said nothing, just pressed the accelerator and shifted gears smoothly. The Jeep responded instantly, and I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline as we shot forward.

The course started with a straight section of gravel before veering into a series of steep hills and mud pits. Blake had a head start, but I caught up quickly, the Jeep's suspension absorbing the rough terrain better than I expected.

As we approached the first major obstacle—a steep, muddy hill—Blake slowed slightly, choosing his line carefully. I didn't hesitate, powering through a line most drivers would avoid, using the Jeep's four-wheel drive to its full advantage.

"Holy shit!" Chase exclaimed as we pulled alongside Blake's Defender. "You're actually catching him!"

I glanced over to see Blake's shocked expression before I punched the accelerator again, leaving him behind as we crested the hill. Chase whooped and flipped Blake the middle finger as we passed.

The next section featured a series of deep mud pits. I navigated them with precision, maintaining momentum without losing control. In my rearview mirror, I could see Blake struggling, his expensive vehicle bogging down where mine had glided through.

"How are you doing this?" Chase asked, gripping the roll cage as we bounced over rough terrain. "It's like you've been driving this course for years!"

I didn't answer, focused on the next challenge—a sharp drop followed by a narrow passage between rock formations. I deliberately slowed down, allowing Blake to catch up, then accelerated again just as he was about to attempt an overtake.

"Are you... are you toying with him?" Chase asked incredulously.

I allowed myself a small smile. "Just making a point."

I repeated this pattern several times—letting Blake close the gap, then effortlessly pulling away. From his increasingly aggressive driving and the German curses audible even over the engine noise, I could tell his frustration was mounting.

Near the spectator area, I could hear Chase's friends cheering wildly while Blake's European crew shouted insults. The two groups seemed on the verge of their own confrontation.

"You're making him look like an amateur!" Chase yelled, clearly enjoying the show. "He's being led around like a dog on a leash!"

As we approached the final section—a steep climb to the finish line—Blake made his move. He gunned his engine and swerved toward us, clearly intending to force us off the narrow track.

I anticipated the move, downshifting and turning the wheel sharply while feathering the clutch. The Jeep responded perfectly, sliding just enough to avoid Blake's vehicle while maintaining traction.

Blake, committed to his aggressive maneuver and not expecting my evasion, lost control. His Defender veered off course, hitting a rock that sent it rolling into a mud pit. The expensive vehicle came to rest on its side, thoroughly wrecked.

I calmly drove across the finish line as cheers erupted from Chase's friends. We got out of the Jeep to see Blake's crew rushing to their driver's aid while Chase's friends taunted them mercilessly.

"That was incredible!" Chase exclaimed, slapping me on the back. "I've never seen driving like that!"

The celebration was short-lived. Blake emerged from his vehicle, mud-covered and furious. He stormed toward the nearest of Chase's friends, shoving him hard.

"You set this up!" he shouted. "No woman drives like that without cheating!"

Within seconds, both groups were shoving and throwing punches. Chase jumped into the fray but quickly found himself overwhelmed. One of Blake's friends reached inside his jacket, and I saw the glint of metal.

"They've got weapons!" Chase shouted, scrambling backward with blood trickling from his nose.

I moved then, no longer just a spectator. The first European made the mistake of lunging at me with a folding knife. I caught his wrist, twisted until the knife fell, then delivered a precise strike to the nerve cluster at the base of his neck that left him crumpling to the ground.

The second came from behind, but I sensed his movement, ducking under his grab and sweeping his legs. The third and fourth attacked together—a mistake. I used their momentum against them, ensuring they collided with each other before taking them down with efficient strikes.

Within minutes, over a dozen of Blake's crew were on the ground, groaning or unconscious. Chase stood nearby, mouth agape.

"What... how did you...?" he stammered.

I ignored him, walking toward Blake who had backed away during the fight. I spoke to him in perfect German.

"*The money. Now. Then strip and crawl away like you promised.*"

Blake spat on the ground. "I'm not doing anything. You'll regret this," he snarled, turning to leave.

I sighed. "Always the hard way," I muttered, rolling my shoulders.

What happened next was a blur to most observers—a flurry of movement, shouts in various European languages, and the sounds of struggle. Three minutes later, the spectators were treated to the sight of over a dozen European men running naked from the quarry, their clothes and dignity left behind.

Chase collected Blake's expensive racing gear, holding it up like a trophy while his friends took photos.

"Nice ass, but needs more squats!" he shouted after them, laughing.

By morning, #EuropeanButts was trending on several social media platforms, featuring blurred photos of the humiliated racers fleeing the scene.