“Okay,” I say, nodding. “We’ll play it by ear. But if things get…out of hand, I’ll have to call him.”
Owen lets out a long breath. “Fair enough. I’ll ask Darnell for his tips on being a Boy Scout.”
The rumble of motorcycle engines being kicked into life drifts up the hill again. “You have time to watch some of the women’s practice with me?”
He grabs my hand, squeezes it, and releases it again. “I’ll make time.”
I can’t stop the silly smile that spreads across my face. I’m just ridiculously content right now.
“Who’s number twenty-three?” Owen asks after we’ve watched the field pass four or five times.
I already know, because I’ve been noticing her, too. “Joy Chen. She’s a wildcatter who’s been on the circuit since the start of the season.” And I’d written her off before because, despite her solid riding skills, her machinery was obviously substandard. Not today. Today, she’s kicking ass and taking names.
“Hmph,” he grunts, frowning. “Never heard of her. She should be near the top of the standings.”
“If her bike was normally this good, she probably would be, but she’s DNF’d mechanical in at least half of the races so far.”
Owen quirks a grin. “Guess she finally found a good mechanic like I did.”
“Maybe. We’ll see how she does on Sunday and next week, I guess.”
“So you’re coming back next week?”
I laugh. “Unless we blow it before then.”
“Damn it, don’t say ‘blow’ unless you mean it.”
We are so going to blow it. If we haven’t already.
Eighteen
Lucy
To avoid temptation, Owen and I only meet in public nowadays. (Okay, we’re still tempted, but having a lot of people around prevents us from acting on it.) I still have to interview Owen after each race—although it’s hard to think of our conversations as “interviews” anymore—for my weekly feature articles. That’s why I’m currently sitting at a table in the press booth at Spring Creek, waiting for the ESPN reporter (the very blonde, very perky, very pretty Georgia Pryce, grrr) to wrap up her live SportsCenter feature with him…and watching my Twitter feed go nuts.
It kicked off with a tweet from a well-known author of a hockey-themed romance series that’s smoking hot.
@p(l)ucky_author: OMG, where has this guy been all my life? His name’s Owen Lenart, he’s a motocross racer, and he’s being interviewed on #SportsCenter on @ESPN right now and how is @GeorgiaPryce not drooling all over him? #hotcrossbuns
She’s attached several photos of Owen in various states of (un)dress. There’s one in which he’s stripped to the waist, putting his eight-pack on glorious display. In another, he’s wearing his full racing suit and has his back mostly turned to the camera as he starts to put on his helmet, and let’s just say that his backside in his gear is damn near as impressive as it is naked. @p(l)ucky_author’s followers begin retweeting and responding to her post within seconds.
@IReadRomance: Woot, there it is! #hotcrossbuns (RT)
@E_booksgalore: Holy wow! Check out @ESPN’s livestream. He’s not just hawt, he seems super nice. (RT)
@readandredwine: That *ass*, though! [flame emoji] #hotcrossbuns (RT)
@givemelength: @p(l)ucky_author Talk about inspiration! I don’t want your Manhattan Mammoths series to ever end, but if you did a motocross series, too, I wouldn’t stop you ;).
@TrulyMadelinelyDeeply: @E_booksgalore He looks like he’d be filthy in bed, though. #hotcrossbuns
@HEAsForever: @TrulyMadelinelyDeeply @ebooksgalore Dirty on the track, dirty in the sack! #hotcrossbuns
Within five minutes, there are over a hundred retweets, three times as many likes, and dozens of responses and sub-threads. Within a half hour, I’ll bet the hashtag will be trending.
My boyfriend—okay, my almost boyfriend, or more accurately, my almost boyfriend’s butt—has gone viral. And I don’t know how I feel about that. At all.
Part of me is weirdly proud. Yeah, ladies, he’s fine and he’s mine. Except he’s not really mine, not yet, so there’s another part of me that’s wildly jealous. Eyes off, harpies! You can’t have him. And still another part of me is embarrassed because strangers are out there imagining Owen’s sex life, and by extension mine, and that’s just creepy and disturbing.
My stomach is churning with these mixed emotions when Owen finally shakes Ms. Pryce’s hand and saunters over to me.
Damn, but he is so gorgeous. He’s had time to shower and change clothes after the race and he dressed up a bit for his TV interview by throwing a casual black jacket over his white T and dark blue jeans. As usual, his dark blond hair is perfectly tousled and his jaw’s covered in just enough stubble to give him that rough-and-ready masculine appeal women can’t resist. But it’s the sparkle in his bright blue eyes as they meet mine that makes me catch my breath and squirm a little in my seat.
That look is for me. From him. I still can’t quite believe it. And I don’t see how it can last. Especially now.
Owen pulls the white plastic chair across from me away from the table, spins it around, and straddles it, folding his arms and resting them on the back.
“Hey.” His voice is low-pitched and sensual, and I lean toward him in spite of myself.
“Hey back.” I wave in the direction of the ESPN reporter and her crew, who are packing their gear into their van. “I guess that went well.”
“It did,” he agrees and gestures at my open laptop. “Did you watch it?”
I shake my head and turn the computer around so he can see the screen. “Twitter. Check it out.”
His eyes flick across the screen, his kissable—stop that!—lips twitching into a smile one second, a frown the next. He hits refresh and scrolls down, then looks up at me and shakes his head in bemusement. “Hotcrossbuns? Should I be flattered or grossed out?”
“Probably a little of both. But you should definitely call your agent and warn him. You’ve been discovered by women aged eighteen to forty-nine, and believe me, the endorsement offers are going to be pouring in.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Motocross is kind of an under-the-radar sport, especially with women, but I think you’re about to become the next Beckham. I grant you, romance is a pretty small corner of Twitter and an even smaller corner of the Internet, but I’d be really surprised if Ms. Pryce and ESPN don’t start retweeting the posts that link to them, so it’s not going to stay confined there very long. And that means companies with products that have nothing to do with motocross are going to want to get you as a spokes-hottie.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Spokes-hottie. That’s a new one.”
“Yeah, cuz I just made it up.” I grab the top of the laptop screen and rotate it back in my direction. The #hotcrossbuns hashtag has garnered another 394 new tweets in the few minutes we’ve been sitting here. Closing the lid, I take a deep breath and say, cautiously, “Maybe we should reconsider this whole waiting-’til-the-end-of-the season thing.”
His blue eyes flicker with heat and happiness before narrowing suspiciously. “I can tell from your tone of voice that you don’t mean we should stop waiting and get busy. Are you trying to let me down easy or something?”
“No.” I sigh and shake my head. “I’m trying to let you let me down easy.” At his frown of uncomprehension, I continue, “You’re on the verge of being the next Beckham or Tom Brady, but come on, I’m no Posh Spice or Giselle Bündchen. Why would you want me when you could have…well, a pop star or supermodel?”
I’ve never seen Owen angry. Not until this moment. But there’s no mistaking the flare of his nostrils, the set of his jaw, or the thin line of his lips. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?” he snarls. Then, just as suddenly as the anger blazed to life, it’s gone. His mouth relaxes, one corner of his lips deepening into a self-critical half-smile. “All right, I can’t blame you if you do. But if that’s what you really believe�
�” He trails off, grimacing.
“I don’t think you’re shallow,” I protest, but even as I say the words, I know they’re not completely true. It’s not that I think he’s only interested in appearances. It’s just that I can’t believe, deep down in my heart, that it’s me that he wants. He’s leading man handsome while I’m character-actress material at best. He can have his pick of beautiful women—and has had his pick—so why would he settle for me?
And it hits me that he’s not the shallow one; I am. I’m the one who’s making judgments based on appearances. Granted, he has a history of playing the field, but is that by itself enough to justify my distrust? Especially when the way he looks at me, every time, is so full of heat and longing and affection that it’s like a caress. Not only that, but as far as I know, for all his sex-capades, he’s never cheated on anyone; I’m the only woman he’s ever made any promises to, and he’s given me no reason to suspect he doesn’t mean them. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sure, it’s only been three weeks and we’re not even really dating, but isn’t that more reason to give him the benefit of the doubt? And if I don’t, what does that say about the depth of my feelings for him? Nothing good, I’m sure.
My stomach churns with shame and regret. I reach across the table and place my hand over the top of his. “God, I’m sorry. I’m just…” I take a shaky breath and swallow hard. “I’m just really afraid I’m going to get my heart broken.”
Owen glances around at the other tables, making sure we can’t be overheard. Then he turns hands over so that our palms meet and squeezes gently. “Me, too. Lucy, you are way out of my league.”
I choke back a sound that might be a laugh, but also might be a sob. “Are you kidding? Even before you were on your way to being the NMA champion and a famous spokes-hottie, you were way too good for me. Too successful. You're the living, breathing American dream—you’re going to be rich and famous—and I’m, well, I’m not. And it's not like I have a face for radio or anything, but the Georgia Pryces of the world have nothing to fear from me. Really, I have no idea why you’d pick me when you have so many choices.”
He lets out a snort of pure derision. “Lucy, you graduated in the top of your high school class and then went to UCLA. U-C-fucking-L-A. I know how hard it is to get in there, okay? But I barely scraped out of high school. You know where Krakatoa is and use words in your articles that I have to look up because I don't know what they mean. Not only that, but you love motocross and understand it; do you know how few people, even fans, really do?" Pausing, he looks me up and down with those hot, hungry eyes that take my breath away. "You're hotter to me than any pop star or supermodel or TV reporter on the planet. Damn, what don’t I see in you? I'm the one who should be worried because you're slumming with me." He drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping a little as he shakes his head regretfully. "One day, you're going to realize you can do better than a dumb pretty boy who can barely sit still long enough to read a magazine article and doesn't get why a Picasso is better than a velvet Elvis. And it's going to fucking slay me."
My heart slams against my rib cage with a combination of joy and pain so strong, I'm not sure my chest wall will contain it. Damn, but we're a pair. Both of us projecting our own insecurities on each other. Except I guess I never considered that Owen might be even the slightest bit insecure about anything. Because to me, he's so goddamn perfect, he couldn't possibly want someone as flawed as me. The fact that it's the same for him is a revelation. And god, it hurts to know he judges himself so badly.
"Owen," I say, tugging at the hand that still holds mine to get him to look back up at me, "you are not dumb."
His forehead furrows with skepticism. "You haven’t seen my report cards. I have. I was lucky to get Cs."
"Without ever doing the homework!” I shoot back. “That means you got passing grades on most of the tests without studying. Do you know how smart you have to be to do that?"
He shrugs. "The tests weren't that hard. I took the easiest classes I could get away with."
"And still, most people have to study at least a little and turn in the homework to pass even easy classes. You didn't. I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit."
"Or you're giving me too much. Sometimes, I think the teachers just gave me passing grades just to get me out of their classrooms. I wasn't exactly the best-behaved kid, either. The last thing any of them wanted was to deal with me two years in a row."
I feel a flash of irritation, not at Owen, but at all the people who had let him believe the worst of himself. "You were bored," I say, certain it's true. My brother, Diego, was pretty much the same way, except my parents were able to send him to private schools that were better at handling bright, active boys than the public school system is ever going to be. "Of course, you acted out. That doesn't make you a bad person. Or dumb. Just…not the kind of person public schools are designed for. And it looks to me like you were exactly smart enough to figure out how to make the most of your talents and surround yourself with people who could help you do that. People like your best friend."
The implication hangs in the air for a few seconds before Owen lets out a breath and a low laugh. "All right, all right. Maybe I'm not dumb. But are you sure you want to be with a guy who only learned to read because of Captain Underpants?"
Now it's my turn to laugh. "You, too?"
"No!"
"Yes. I loved those books. George and Harold forever!"
We bump fists, both grinning.
Owen sobers, his gaze going molten and making my nipples get hard and my panties wet. "I've never been good at waiting, Lucy, but I'm not going to reconsider it unless you just don't want me. So please don't suggest it again unless you mean it." Then he gets up, spins the chair back around, and walks toward the exit of the press booth.
Well, all righty then. Watch out, supermodels. Because he's mine, and I will scratch your eyes out.
Nineteen
Owen
It’s been three weeks, and I’m going to die. If not from sex withdrawal, then from a lack of blood to my brain. I’ve got a constant hard-on.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. As long I jack off in the shower first thing in the morning, I’m okay, at least until I see Lucy. But as soon as I catch sight of her, my dick salutes and I have to find a private place to rub one out, especially if I’m due on the track any time soon. The last thing I need is a repeat of what happened at High Point.
And so far, there hasn’t been one. With three weekends to go, the only riders who have any shot at beating me now are Biggs and Herrera, but I’d have to DNF all three. To beat me in that scenario, Biggs would have to win two and finish second in the third, while Herrera would have to win all three. Biggs could probably pull it off, but Herrera is a really long shot. As long as I keep my shit together, I’m going to be this year’s Piston Prime 450 NMA Champion.
Except it's getting harder and harder to concentrate on doing that, and not just because I'm dying of celibacy, but because I've become suddenly, stupidly famous. Lucy was right; that interview on ESPN went viral. My agent is getting five calls a day from brands wanting me to be their new "face"—although the number of underwear brands makes me think they're more interested in my body—it wouldn't be such a big deal, because it's his job to fend them off. I told Jake (no, not from State Farm) to tell every one of them I won't look at offers until the season's over, which he told me is a big mistake because if I don't win the championship after all, they might back out, but I don't give a shit. I don't care about endorsement deals. Sure, they're a lot of money, but getting rich isn't the reason I race. I was happy enough just making a decent living at it, and I will be again if that's where things end up. I want the championship for me and for Darnell, not for anyone else. Still, I can't get out of the interviews—print and radio and TV—or the sudden increase in the number of fans swarming me whenever the opportunity arises, and it's distracting as hell.
Also, speaking of Darnell, he’s been acting a little stra
nge the past few weeks. Since Southwick. Normally, he flies back to San Antonio on Sunday after the race and then I pick him up at an airport near the next track on Thursday so we can make it to registration. But before Red Bud, he called and told me he’d meet me at the track. This is the third week in a row he’s done that.
I pull the Cheetoh-mobile into the paddock at Muddy Creek Raceway and park next to the team trailer. A few of the guys, including Cody and his mechanic, Brian, are working on setting up the trailer’s awnings to provide shade. Jumping out of the cab, I walk over to lend them a hand. We all exchange greetings, and they rib me a little for slumming with them now that I’m such a celebrity while I keep an eye peeled for Darnell. He’s not late or anything, but so far, he’s beat me to the track every time so I’m a little surprised he isn’t here.
“Where’s Darnell?” Cody asks when we’ve finished.
Good question. I shrug. “He’ll be here.”
Cody clears his throat. “Everything okay between you guys?”
“Fine. Why do you ask?” My tone’s a little sharp.
He shrugs. “It’s just…you guys usually come to the track together. But the past few weeks, he keeps showing up without you. I just wondered if something was up.”
I shake my head. Adamantly. Even though I’ve been wondering the same goddamn thing.
I don’t get it. After our talk on the way to The Wick, I figured he’d be happy to hear that me and Lucy worked things out, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s just trying to give me space to spend time with her or something. But that doesn’t explain why he’s suddenly finding his own way to the race track on Thursdays, because Lucy never arrives until Friday mornings. And it doesn’t explain why he’s been spending so much time away from the team trailer on race weekends.
Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance Page 10