Roxy's POV
"You really don't have to do this, Roxy," Mira says, her voice all soft and concerned. It's sweet, really. Annoying, but sweet. She is all worried, wringing her hands like I'm heading to my own execution instead of just putting some arrogant prick in his place.
I yank the strap of my helmet tight, the buckle clicking into place with a satisfying snap. "Yeah, I do," I grunt, pulling on my fire-resistant gloves. "I'm not the kind of person to back down from a direct challenge. Besides," I add, shooting her a look, "I didn't ask for this. Brock-the-fucking-rock over there did."
"You had the chance to refuse," she points out.
I finish with my gear and turn to face her, planting my hands on my hips. "And why the hell would I do that? It'd ruin my image. More importantly, it's insulting. You think I'm gonna let some meathead with a modified Aventador and a fragile ego think he can talk down to me?"
