Surviving In This Filthy World As A Novel Villain

At first, Alex didn't think much of it. But as the notifications piled up, flooding his system like a broken dam, even he—cruising along in his sports car—had to pause.

What was up with Eric Vaughn this time? Was it that scrawny, bespectacled creep from the detention cell again, stirring the pot?

Yeah, that guy. Waters had planted him in there on purpose—a twig of a man with thick glasses, meant to keep Eric company so he wouldn't feel too lonely in lockup. Worked like a charm, too. Now, every time Eric spotted a guy with specs, he'd instinctively clutch his backside like it was under siege.

Rounding a corner, Alex flicked his eyes to the side mirror—and nearly choked.

"Holy—!"

There, in the reflection, was a lunatic on a green shared bike, pedaling like his life depended on it. Eric Vaughn, chasing a sports car on two wheels.

What kind of madness was this?

"What's wrong?" Sera asked, tugging at her stockings as she caught the shock on his face.

Alex jerked his chin toward the mirror. "Take a look."

Sera leaned over, peering into the glass. She sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, hell!"

She'd seen movies with sports cars chasing planes, old shows with rickety bikes racing trains—but a shared bike tailing a sports car? This was a first. Was this guy even human? Or had he busted out of some psych ward?

After a beat, she shook off the stun. "Wait… is he chasing us?"

"Not us," Alex said with a sly grin, yanking the wheel to loop halfway around the roundabout and double back. "You. Check who's riding."

Sera squinted harder at the mirror, then frowned, her pretty face scrunching up. "That fraud."

She'd watched him "cure" that old Man right into a grave. To her, Eric Vaughn was a con artist, plain and simple—a river rat peddling miracles.

Alex's smile turned sharp, loaded with meaning.

Sera might be naive, but she wasn't dumb. Those leering looks Eric shot her, the nonsense he'd spouted—it didn't take a genius to figure out the creep had ideas about her he shouldn't.

"Alex, sweetie," she said, flashing an innocent smile, "it's getting windy. Close the top?"

Alex got it instantly. He hit a button, the convertible's roof sliding shut, then punched the gas. Behind them, Eric's face darkened to a bruised purple. The guy stood up on the pedals, stomping so hard sparks flew from the bike's frame.

And so, city's streets bore witness to a jaw-dropping sight: a fire-red sports car tearing through traffic, trailed by a sweaty, flat-topped maniac hammering a shared bike like it owed him money.

….

Alex had never seen anything like this before, but he wasn't sweating it. He floored it around the outer ring road, where traffic lights were scarce and the path stretched wide open.

For over an hour, he toyed with Eric, weaving through the lanes. If the sports car's tank weren't so small, he'd have dragged the fool onto the highway for an extra lap.

Say what you will, though—that shared bike was a tank. Eric thrashed it for over an hour, sparks spitting from the pedals, and it didn't even flinch.

Finally, the red sports car rolled to a stop across from University's gate. Students milled around, dressed loud and bold, eyeing the car like it was a celebrity. Five minutes later, Eric limped in, his bike still spitting sparks.

He'd pedaled flat-out for over an hour—no breaks, no mercy. Every time he eased up, Alex—that smug bastard—would gun the engine, forcing Eric to dig deeper. Even a guy like him was wiped, panting like a dog. Sweat soaked him head to toe, his hair plastered like he'd dunked it in a bucket. His shoes? Toast—just shredded shells, soles worn to nothing.

Huffing, Eric slung the green bike over his shoulder. No way he was ditching it—his only ride, and Alex might peel out again. Spotting the sports car parked amid the crowd, he started stomping toward it, fury blazing—then froze two steps in.

"No, wait. Sera's probably brainwashed by that jerk. If I charge in now, she'll get mad. Better wait 'til he's gone, then talk to her alone and set things straight."

He hoisted the bike higher and ducked into a nearby shrubbery patch, squatting low. A prickly rose bush right in front gave him cover.

There he crouched, bike on his back, sneaking glances at the sports car like some shady lurker.

Passing students gawked at the weirdo with the buzz cut, some whipping out phones to snap videos for their social feeds—"Day in the Life: Met a Freak."

Then a chubby kid in a baseball cap sidled up, hunched low, and slapped Eric's shoulder. "Dude, nice look you've got going!"

Eric jolted, his hand slipping on the rose bush. A thorn stabbed straight into his palm. He hissed, biting back a "You freaking moron!" and growled low, "What do you want?"

The kid shook his head, grinning.

Eric yanked the thorn out, temper flaring. "Then get lost."

"Nah," the kid whispered, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "You nuts or something?"

Go to hell, you little— Eric swallowed the urge to strangle him and turned away, ignoring the pest.

"Spying, then?" the kid pressed.

Ten minutes had crawled by, and the sports car still sat there—no movement, no one climbing out. Eric's nerves started fraying. The longer he waited, the wilder his thoughts ran. A guy and a girl, alone in a car—what else could they be doing? What else was there?

Damn it!

Jealousy was eating him alive—jealousy, bright and ugly, blooming fast.

Sera was his. From the moment Eric Vaughn laid eyes on her in the park, she'd been marked off-limits in his mind.

No one else could touch her. But now, Alex—that filthy dog—hadn't just touched her; he'd gone way further, defiling her right under Eric's nose.

Eric burned to charge over with his shared bike slung over his shoulder, smash that fancy car to scrap, and drag Alex out for a beating he'd never forget.

But here he was, stuck crouching behind the bushes, watching his goddess get pawed at in that car.

Worse, a yapping little fat kid wouldn't shut up beside him. If the timing weren't so rotten, Eric swore he'd make sure that chubby pest didn't see tomorrow's sun.