Drift Heat

by Adrian R. Hale

  He sighs deeply and looks troubled. When his sky blue eyes finally meet mine, there’s so much shame and pain that I feel compelled to pull him into my arms and crush him in a hug. He tentatively puts his arms around me and dips his head to my shoulder.

  “I fucked up, sweet thing. I’m in trouble. I’m out twenty grand on some bets that went south.” His voice cracks painfully as the truth comes out.

  I pull away from Wyatt and just barely refrain from shaking him by the shoulders. Trouble to Wyatt means twenty thousand dollars? I’d say that sounds like student loan debt, but the collection can’t be deferred and the sharks who come to get it want blood.

  “What were you thinking?” I ask.

  I get off my knees and sit beside Wyatt, who is now holding his head in his hands. I look up and plead with Henry silently, but he shrugs his shoulders and turns to sit in the desk chair.

  “I thought after last week that Griff would get another overall win today. And maybe I had some bad luck for the last few races, too. It wasn’t supposed to get out of hand like this. A few grand here and there after winning some and then bam! I get my ass handed to me when the top four keep changing. I studied the drivers, the cars, the courses. I thought I knew what to expect.”

  “You can’t predict winners based on past experiences, man. Every race is different. Each car can have gains and losses, the tracks provide different results. The drivers themselves can have off days, break a part or miss a shift, or come up against someone or some scenario that doesn’t work in their favor. That was so stupid!” I grab my head and squeeze, my heart racing with anxiety for him. “What are you going to do now? Do you have twenty grand lying around to pay off these bets?”

  “Easy, Shell,” Henry says as I start to get worked up and Wyatt begins to close off from me.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have the money. I was trying to win some of my losses back after the first couple of competitions. It just kept snowballing, and now I’m getting hunted down by Big Mike and his fists fucking hurt.” Wyatt pulls his hand across his face, lifting his glasses to rub his eyes.

  “We have to tell Paul. He’ll know what to do. Maybe he can give you a loan or something,” I offer, reaching for my phone.

  “You can’t tell Paul,” he says, instantly grabbing my wrist and pleading with wide eyes. “He’s already so over my shit and will see me as a liability now that we finally have sponsors on board. He doesn’t have the kind of money to help me out with this, anyway. He’s aware of...my gambling, and has told me that he won’t stand for recklessness in any manner from the team. You saw how close he was to letting Griffin go just because he couldn’t get along with you. He’s not above tough love, and would see keeping me on the team as enabling me.”

  Every instance Wyatt has cavalierly bet about something rolls through my brain like a movie reel. The first night we met he was betting that I would out drift Griffin, without even knowing me. So many times he has bet five, ten, twenty bucks on something. I always thought he was using it as a figure of speech, not that anyone was taking his glib words seriously and taking the bet. It’s like his mouth would make a bet before his brain could figure out if it was a good idea. Obviously, someone took advantage of Wyatt’s habitual gambling, and now the ramifications are catching up with him.

  I drop my head into my hands and think fast. I don’t know how to help him, but I know someone who might. I suck down my pride once Wyatt has gone back to his room and head into the bathroom with my cell. I pull up my texts and open a new one to Griffin. I tap my phone against my chin for a few moments, debating what to say. I doubt he wants to read anything from me.

  Me: I know you hate me but please read this. Wyatt needs your help. He just got beat up at the hotel by some dude looking for money he’s lost on bad bets. I don’t know what to do. I need you...

  I press send after staring at the text for a few moments in indecision. Once the text is sent, I have a mild heart attack of “OMFG, what did I just do” that has a sheen of sweat coating my skin as anxiety rides me. I wait two hours and still haven’t heard back from him. I guess he’s not reading texts from me, no matter what they say. I’ll have to figure out another way to get him to help. Maybe tomorrow I can humble myself even more and beg him in person. Maybe I can find another option before then.

  I send Henry home and crawl into bed around eleven, even though I am not in the least bit ready to sleep. My brain is running a hundred miles an hour and I can’t figure out a way to help Wyatt pay for his losses. If Griffin doesn’t respond tomorrow, I have no choice but to tell Paul. We can’t have Wyatt getting beat up whenever he gets in over his head. As much as it hurts to know I would have a hand in possibly getting Wyatt kicked off the team, at least I know Paul would do everything in his power to get him help.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I must have managed to drift off, because a knock on my door pulls me from a twilight land of fitful sleep. I glance at the clock as I sit up and see it’s after two. I turn on the bedside lamp and crawl out of bed to open the door with the lock still on and peek through the gap.

  “Let me in.”

  Griffin. Only his deep rumbling voice can send a simultaneous thrill of desire and fear through me. I shiver and close my eyes as I shut the door softly and take off the lock. I rest my head against the door and breathe out a deep breath. Why is he here? Did he come because of my text? I shouldn’t let him in, but I open the door a crack and step back anyway. My pulse races as I look around for my suitcase and something suitable to wear in his overwhelming presence. He always catches me in my underwear, and it’s the last thing I want to be wearing around him right now.

  He lets himself in as I pull on shorts so at least my ass is covered. My tank top is thin and does nothing to disguise the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. I have to get new sleep clothes, because even though I run hot at night, I need to be able to answer my door in decency if needed. I’m reaching for a hoodie when I feel him behind me, his arms following mine and pulling my hands down to my sides.

  “Don’t get dressed on my account. I still like looking.”

  His cocky voice vibrates through his chest, which is suddenly so close to me I can feel the heat radiating off of him. I feel his words like a violent caress across my skin, every hair follicle standing on end and buzzing with his proximity.

  I shiver slightly and stand immobilized as his hands loosely grip my wrists and his warm breath blows the scent of booze and that uniquely Griffin sweetness along the side of my face. His powerful presence sends lightning bolts across my skin as he presses up behind me, his hard ridges molding to my soft curves. I could so easily melt into him, into his skilled hands and his demands and the desires he drags from me, kicking and screaming. I manage to hold myself together and swallow down the lump in my throat.

  “Why are you here?” I shut my eyes tightly and breathe shakily into the void my question has opened, wondering what he will say. I know the answers I want to hear, but Griffin rarely says what I want.

  “You said you need me.”

  God. That sure voice repeating my earlier text sends warmth blooming in my core and breaks down every defense I have put up against him. I drop my head forward, letting my hair create a curtain around me. As much as I hate to admit it, it feels good to have him here. For him to come because I asked. It feels too good to have him touching me and have my body come alive at his closeness. I have no power against him.

  “Y-yes,” I breathe, my voice hitching as his fingers slowly ghost along the bared flesh of my stomach, tracing along the low rise of my shorts.

  “You want me.”

  I bite my lip and dip my head further down.

  “Say it,” he demands, pushing his hips into mine and pulling my arms out from my sides so I’m trapped between him and the wall.

  A moan that sounds a lot like an affirmation slips out of my mouth as I cling to the wall for dear life and push my ass back against him. His rumbling groan reverberates through
me, my legs shaking with the need he’s stirring in me.

  This can’t be happening. This is a dream. Griffin would not be here right now if it weren’t. Not after the past week of ignoring me and hating my guts for not being able to accept more from him.

  “Is this real?”

  “That’s the fucking million dollar question, isn’t it, baby?”

  Griffin rocks his hips into my ass as his fingers dip into my shorts and find my tiny barbell, and all rational thought flees my brain. Dream or real life. Right or wrong. Good for the team or terrible. All I know is I want him more than I ever have. Fuck the consequences. And just like that, I know I’m giving in. To him. To us. Whatever it takes.

  “You’re so wet for me. You want me to fuck you against this wall, don’t you?” Oh, how I’ve craved his foul mouth and the dirty words that come out of it.

  “Mmmm yeah,” I manage before he’s pulling my shorts down my legs in a rough tug. His hips leave mine, his clothes getting lost in a shuffle and a wrapper is ripped before he’s pressed against me again, his cock sliding between my cheeks. My pulse is racing and my breath comes in ragged pants from the electric desire that is zinging between us.

  “Wrong height,” he mumbles, turning me to the desk and bending me over the edge as he sweeps the phone and notepad aside. His head nudges against my opening and I press back against him, longing for that rough connection we are so good at achieving. Instead of the hard thrust I was expecting, he slowly pushes into me in a rocking motion that allows me to take him in fully without the usual pain.

  He begins to pull out and drive back inside, picking up speed and force as my body lubricates his path and accepts everything he offers.

  “Oh, fuck,” I groan, his balls hitting my thigh as he goes deep inside me.

  “This. Is. Real,” he bites out between hard thrusts. “This is real, baby.”

  In the dark of night, I discover that anything is possible. I’ve let go of my ideas of how to be a part of the team. Cast aside my worries. Forgotten about our fights. Paid no mind to my impending departure. Given in to Griffin fully. Whatever this is, it is real.

  I lift my head off the desk, desperation to see him making me a cagey animal fierce with need. “Let me up,” I growl, struggling to separate our bodies.

  He slows and pulls out of me, a questioning look tinged in anger replacing the need and vulnerability I just managed to catch as he let me turn around. I grab his arms and push him back toward the bed until the edge takes out his knees. I climb onto his lap, directing him back inside me as I clutch his shoulders and settle onto him.

  Relief washes the tension from his face and his shoulders relax as he realizes I’m not telling him to get out. His arms circle my back, yanking the hem of my tank up and over my head. He pulls me close as I begin to rock on him with a desperate need that physically represents the ragged pieces of me that he somehow stitches together even as he frays the edges. I kiss his lips hungrily, my hands running through his hair and over his skin, not content to merely hold him to me. I want to memorize every hard plane and muscle, every inch of his smooth skin with the slightest dusting of hair and decorated by vibrant tattoos.

  “I do need you.” I press my forehead to his. “I do want you.” The awe that laces my words is humbling and so raw. I’ve made this stunning realization as I’ve said it. My eyes open wide as I still. I tilt his face to my own, my lips brushing his. “God, Griffin, I don’t just want to try. I want to make this work.”

  He buries his face in my neck, exhaling a hard breath that matches his thrust. “Finally.”

  He rolls us over, holding my stare with his deep blue eyes that spark and smolder. He hikes my thigh over his hip as he catches my lip with his teeth and tugs. I mewl into his lips and swirl my tongue with his. He takes me deep and hard, his pace steady, working over my spot with each thrust. I can feel my release building with pins and needles in my fingers, my toes curling along his leg. He wraps his arm around my thigh and dips his hand between us to flick my piercing, once, twice, and finally I come undone. I cry out and waves of pleasure roll over me as his pace becomes erratic, pressing into my tight heat to fall over the edge with me.

  I lie gasping and spent below him as he breathes deeply against my chest, our sweat-slicked bodies hot and sated, slowly returning to the present. Once his chest is rising and falling slower, he eases off of me to head to the bathroom, returning quickly and pulling the blankets down for me to crawl under. He follows, gathering me into his arms and kissing my hair as he holds my face to his chest.

  “Do you mean it? You want to make this work?” he asks quietly.

  “Yes,” I whisper into his chest. I sigh deeply, matching the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he holds me tighter. I’ve never been more sure of anything.

  While I listen to his heart thump-thump below my ear, I study this beautiful man who is running his fingers through the ends of my hair. I softly trace the black ink forest that circles his wrist and points into the swirly galaxy on his forearm with the North Star shining brightly through the cosmos. Dust clouds at his elbow become the fiery tail of the crowned phoenix rising from a shadow of itself that decorates his bicep. I brush my fingers along Hokusai’s Great Wave done in a splash of watercolors over geometric thin black lines with a tiny sailboat below the crest that sits on his shoulder.

  Earth. Air. Fire. Water. This man has the elements branded on him in the most flowing, gorgeous, and colorful way. So much thought, pain, and excellent execution went into this sleeve that he wears so well. I remember his father’s memorial tattoo, drawn in a vertical line on his inner bicep, hidden to the world and shown only when he wants to. He showed me once, just like he’s tried to show me who he really is and how much he wants this to happen.

  “What made you get these tattoos?” I ask as I continue to gently trace the lines and color on his skin.

  “Each one means something to me.”

  “Care to elaborate?” I smile, my cheek pressing up against his chest.

  Griffin shifts so my head is resting on his bicep and he can point to his other arm for me. He takes my hand and guides my fingers along the black ink trees on his wrist.

  “This one is to remind me to stay grounded and stand solid in what I believe in. Not be moved by the shit life throws at you, but to weather the storm strongly, like these Redwoods.” He pulls my fingers up to trace the purple and blue galaxy and finally lands on the North Star. “This is to show me that we are but specks of dust in a greater plan, yet each of us has as many atoms in a single molecule of our DNA as there are stars in a galaxy, so each of us is a little universe.”

  “How did you come up with that?” I ask, raising my head to look at him. He smiles at me for a moment before kissing my nose and looking back at his arm.

  “I heard a quote by Neil DeGrasse Tyson about it, and it stuck with me. I love all tattoos, but sometimes I think an image can be more powerful than the words it embodies.”

  I snuggle back onto his arm and run my nose along his peck. “Go on. I like when you talk nerdy to me like this. It’s hot.” His chest rumbles under my face as he laughs.

  “The phoenix, well, it means more than just the usual rising from the ashes. I put the shadow under it instead of ashes because I feel like you will always carry every iteration of yourself with you—the good, the bad, the old and the new. You will be remembered for your actions and your words and judged according to your past as much as who you are now. The crown is a reminder to rise above it, to move forward and claim your destiny, no matter what your past has to say about it. I’m still learning how to separate myself now from who I was.”

  “Who were you before?”

  “Angry, bitter, reactionary.” I giggle because I see so much of that from him now, that I can’t imagine this being more even-keeled for him. “Don’t laugh, I’m still working on it.”

  “What made you angry? Was it your dad dying?”

  “Life. My dad. My mom. You name it, it all
made me angry.”

  I frown at the first mention of his mom. “What did your mom do?” Griffin shifts and clears his throat. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer if you would prefer not to.”

  “No, it’s okay. I...I want to.” He releases my hand and scrubs his face. “My mom left us when I was young, like twelve or so. I don’t think she wanted kids, but had Talan and me because my dad wanted a family. I don’t remember her ever being particularly awful, but she wasn’t the warm and cuddly type, either. Funny thing, she ended up getting remarried a few years later and had another kid. I’m not sure what it was about Talan and I, but it seems like she just didn’t want us. I know I was a handful. I had emotional and behavioral issues. I was always getting angry and wasn’t able to process my emotions. I would lash out for the slightest thing. It always seemed like everyone was to blame for why I was unhappy, when it was just me unable to deal with shit like a regular kid. It wasn’t easy for the people in my life to deal with my outbursts and I definitely put strain on our relationships. She had to deal with me the most, and I was a hateful little fuck most of the time. I still sometimes think I pushed her away. It’s my fault she left.” His voice quiets and I wonder if he will continue.

  I stay silent, giving him his moment to collect himself while I wrestle with what that must have felt like. I adored my mother and knew how much she loved me and Henry. To have anything less than that is frightening. My mom was taken from me by the ugliness of cancer. Griffin’s chose to leave him. I can’t even imagine how that would feel. It’s as good as death, and no wonder he has issues with people leaving him.

  “My dad took full custody of two rambunctious boys and had his hands full. If you think I’m bad now, you can just imagine what I was like as a teenager. Rebellious doesn’t even begin to cover it. Dad owned a car shop, so we spent a lot of time there when we weren’t in school to help keep us—well, me—out of trouble. I had to degrease parts and clean engine bays every time I got in trouble, so I started getting better at not getting caught.” Griffin chuckles, the rumble making me smile even though his story is heartbreaking.