by Teagan Kade
*
Carl’s in pole, but it means shit. In many ways I prefer starting second. It allows me to keep an eye on the prick.
I start weaving during the warm-up lap at Yas Marina, but it becomes apparent something’s wrong when I check the fuel gauge. We’ve only done half a circuit and already I’m a third of a tank down and heading south fast.
Jesus, not now.
“Steven!” I yell into comms.
Silence.
“Steven!” I yell again. “Anyone?”
Only static. Shit. All I fucking need.
Klaus’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Andy? Come in now.”
“Klaus? Where’s Steven?”
“With security.”
“Security?”
“He put a small slit in your fuel line this morning. He set off the fire alarm. You’ve got to pit.”
“He what? How do you know?”
“I set up a camera in the garage last night, thought he might try something.”
Klaus, you clever bastard. I cannot fucking believe this. Of all the times, why now, at the end? “Does the press know?”
“We’ve been able to keep it under control… for now.”
I check the fuel. It’s plunging, way too fast. At this rate I’m going to run dry before the race even begins. “What can we do? Talk to me.”
Only static.
“Klaus!” I scream. “I need an answer. I’m not going to be left out here rolling to a stop on the last round of the fucking season!”
“You’ve got to pit,” he repeats.
“Now? On the warm-up lap?”
It’s almost unheard of.
“You can use the spare car, but it means you’ll start from the back of the grid.”
Everything’s going to hell.
Focus.
I won’t be out of the race, but it’s going to be the fight of a lifetime to scrape my way back to the front.
Fuck it.
I dart towards the pits, the engine stumbling from fuel starvation.
Just a little bit more.
I roll into the pits off-throttle. The spare car’s waiting.
Sara is watching on anxiously as I’m helped out of the car and into the spare.
Rattle guns, shouting and I’m off again, barely making it to the back of the grid before the flag drops and the race is on.
I push away the self-doubt. I lock it in a fucking box and get to work, picking my way through the field. Yas Marina is a tough cookie, every corner unique—all twenty-one of them. The surface is perfect, though, grip for days and perfectly suited to my style of driving.
I cut in hard, push the engine to the limiter over and over, ignore the warning lights turning my steering wheel into a Christmas tree. I’m going to have to risk it all if I want to get up to Carl and his cock-sled.
I knew Steven wanted me out, but I can’t believe he’d sabotage the car himself. He could have killed me. There’s no doubt he was behind the abduction now.
I’m tired, the fatigue setting in from a long and difficult season, but I bring the focus back, the clarity that blocks everything else out but the line.
They poured millions into this track at Abu Dhabi, but it’s sterile, missing the heritage and history of Monza or Spa, the great tracks of Formula One. But I know it. I know it inside-out and upside-down and Carl does not. He’s only raced here twice and never fighting for the Championship.
The spare’s a little off-tune, a touch wish-washy on the rights, but it will do. I cut through the back of the field fast, working my way to the front. It’s not easy. Every driver here wants the most points possible coming to the end of the season. Every car sent to my rear-view is a battle in itself, Klaus feeding directions and data, the two of us working together like a team should.
Full throttle down the straight, Carl five cars ahead and half the race down. It’s no longer looking impossible.
I manage to swing wide around the Red Bull car. Poor bastard doesn’t see it coming, too busy admiring the architecture to concentrate on his tail.
Four, three—two laps to go and I’m right there on Carl’s ass. I see his head turn slightly in the mirror. I put two fingers up, let him know I’m here and coming through. Nothing can fucking stop me short of the Second Coming.
I punch the throttle harder, ignore the warning lights, oil pressure, water temps—everything on the limit. Everything at stake.
I try to run his inside, but he’s there. He’s not going down without a fight.
“I know you want this,” says Klaus, “but you’re too close. We want a one-two finish here, not a DNF.”
“I’ve got it,” I tell him. “You’ll have your one-two. It just won’t be Carl on top of the podium.”
“Your funeral. That’s what you Americans say, isn’t it?”
I keep my thoughts together. I picture Sara and rather than distracting me, she gives me strength.
One lap to go.
Breathe. Concentrate.
The final lap and I’m seconds away from Carl’s ass. I know he can see me, know he’ll be giving it absolutely everything he has, and he does. He shuts me down at every corner, always one step ahead, but there’s one thing he doesn’t have—balls.
One more corner.
Carl’s inches away, but he can’t snake around me. I keep him at bay, full throttle.
I know Carl’s been sloppy on the final turn. He always takes it wide, probably to cut in harder for the next, but I can use it to my advantage. It’s going to be tight, but it’s the only chance I’m going to get.
I visualize the move in my head, make it certain.
The turn comes up and I pull up as close to Carl as I can. This has to be perfect. A moment of hesitation and its lost.
But I come through.
I drop a gear, the revs soaring but enough to cut down Carl’s side and take him by surprise. I can almost see the look of horror underneath his helmet as he realizes he’s been had. I pull ahead, giving the poor girl everything she has left to catapult me to the checkered flag.
I cross the line, chaos in the pits, the stands.
I’ve done it.
I have fucking done it.
I have my twenty-five points. The leader board confirms it, my three-ninety-eight to Carl’s three-ninety-five.
I’d like to say it’s better than sex, but given recent events I’d be lying. In fact, by the time I’ve pulled into the pits, the race, the sponsorship with Ferrari, the thing with Steven… It’s all gone. Only she occupies my thoughts. Only she is there.
And then she’s real life. I’m hauling her into my arms and not giving a damn who can see us. Let them.
Carl steps out of his car. I wait, expecting him to come at me with a fist, but it’s with an open hand instead. I take it and he squeezes. “Good race, but I’ll be back next season, you know. I won’t be so easy on you then.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He slaps me on the shoulder and walks off.
Sara kisses me, the camera flashes popping left and right. I see Stacey at the back of the crowd, a sour look on her face. I hope it doesn’t leave anytime soon.
She’ll keep her distance now. She has no other choice with Steven gone. I’ll get the proof they were behind the kidnapping. It’s only a matter of time.
Luigi pushes through the crowd, pulling me into a garage away from the paparazzi.
“I heard what happened with Steven, everyone has. Nasty business.”
I nod.
“But… that was one hell of a race. I don’t think I’ve seen finer in all my twenty years of racing. I expect the same and more next year.”
I smile. “You’ve got it, Lui. With Ferrari behind me, anything’s possible.”
“And me,” adds Sara.
I sweep her up into my arms again, spin her around. “Of course with you. I want you by my side the entire way,” I whisper into her ear. “That’s if you can get out of bed.”
She smiles back. “If
I didn’t know better, I’d say you were challenging me again.”
“How many times have you come in one night?”
She brushes her hair out of her face, that ponytail she used to wear now history. “Before or after I met you?”
*
I make the announcement right there in the pits. Klaus congratulates me afterwards, doesn’t seem surprised I’m moving to Ferrari. “You’re still an asshole, though,” he laughs.
“And you’re still a cocky prick. Have fun with Carl.”
Goodall will try to bring me back. It’s clear corporate had no idea what was going on with Steven, the lengths he’d go to shut me down, but it’s time for me to move on. It’s time for everyone to move on.
It’s nice being on top. The champagne is warm as it hits me in the face, and fuck me, it even looks like Carl has pulled his panties out and is actually having fun.
I look down at Sara, dead center in the crowd and I want to get to know everything about her. I want to meet her mother and let her show me baby pictures. I want to hug the mysterious Gretchen and tell her she has the most amazing sister in the world. I want to hold her and treat her right and make love to her every damn night until our sheets are burnt through. I want to father her children and…
Too soon?
No. Things have never been clearer. Whatever cloud I’ve been living in has cleared and I finally see everything, everyone, for who and what they are.
Sara. My Sara.
Always.
*
Sara’s smiling to herself when I find her at the after-party. We’re at another palace, another royal family playing host. She looks incredible, as always, the star of the event in shimmering gold. She’s placing her phone back into her handbag.
I sweep her up into a kiss. “Your other boyfriend?”
“Caliber, actually.”
I lean back. “What do they want?”
“They want me back.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“No, of course, but that perhaps there might be opportunity for us to work together again.”
I run my hands down my sleeves. “I do miss those suits.”
“No one made them look as good as you.”
“Not even Carl?”
Sara hands me a flute of champagne. She’s been watching my drinking lately, making sure I don’t overdo it—the sponsor without the AA. “Not even Carl.”
“My friends!”
A rather jovial Luigi finds us, his pinstriped suit appearing tailored before he started eating his way through Italy. “How are we this fine evening?”
I take a sip. “Couldn’t be better. I can’t say the same about certain others, I’m afraid.”
Lui draws us together. “Yes, yes. I’m afraid Steven has more than the Integrity Commission to worry about, my friend. I have it on good authority he’s in heavy debt to several bookies, shady characters indeed.”
“How heavy?” I question, curious.
“Millions, maybe more. He’s done.”
I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear those words. “What now?”
“What else?” laughs Luigi, grabbing his glass, “We celebrate!”
Luigi walks off to a group of team managers congregating around an ice sculpture of an Arabian horse kicking into the sky.
I notice Stacey’s missing. Probably caught the first flight out when she heard about Steven.
“How does it feel?” asks Sara, her hand on the side of my leg. I have a mind to take her to the bathrooms and make her come—hard.
“To win? Fantastic, but I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You were the one behind the wheel.”
I shake my head. “Not true. We’re a team, which is why…” I pull a box out of pocket, the Cartier logo probably a giveaway, but fuck it, subtlety is not my strong suit.
Her eyes go wide. “Andy?”
I go to put it away. “Hmm, on second thought, perhaps I should save it for another day.”
She swipes the box from my hand, opening it and gasping. “Holy shit. Where did you find this? The Tower of London?”
“That didn’t sound like a ‘yes’.”
She looks around. I’m surprised the glare of the thing doesn’t blind everyone in the room. “You haven’t asked me the question.”
I close my hand around hers, the box trapped between us. I press against her, lips against her ear, her aroma as intoxicating now as the first time we met. I think I knew it way back then. “Sara Young, you irresistible, sexy, bad girl you, you smart, funny and completely mad creature…”
“Yes,” she moans.
“Do you want me to get down on one knee? Because I will.”
She shakes her head slightly, reaching to hold my shoulder for support. “If I don’t have you to lean against I might fall over.”
I smile beside her ear. “Sara Young, will you marry me?”
She holds me away, looks into my eyes, her own wet with joy.
She kisses me and it’s all the answer I need.
We break apart breathless, but I’m not done.
I pocket the box. “You don’t want a grand gesture, huh? How about this?”
I love the shock on her face as I leap onto the nearest table and tap the side of my glass. “Everyone, if I could have your attention, please.”
The conversation stops, looks of confusion as to why I’m suddenly standing on a table.
They probably think you’re drunk.
I am, but not because of the alcohol.
I’m looking down at Sara and she’s mouthing ‘No, no, no’, but it only makes me want to say it more.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, putting my hand out to Sara, “my fiancé”.
As they say, better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.
EPILOGUE
Sara
Gretchen has disappeared inside the house a minute after her latest boyfriend. I almost choked on my Caesar salad when she talked about marrying him the other day. My sister? Settling down? I can’t picture it.
But I couldn’t picture Andy Fortes the father two years ago, and yet here we are. Andy’s got his gig with Ferrari and we’ve got places in Milan, Monaco and Texas, a big ol’ ranch like Andy always talked about, though far more homey than the stuffy manor of his parents. No, this home is messy, cluttered. It’s a living, breathing hub of activity, and although it drives me mad, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
After the crash in Spain, I thought I might lose him. Four drivers, one dead, Carl in a coma. Andy got off easy, managed to get out of his car before it became a fireball. It could have been so much worse than a broken collarbone, but it wasn’t the physical injury that had me worried. It was the lasting psychological impact.
I needn’t have worried. Andy was back racing the very next round, even started flying in to check on Carl in Geneva from time to time. Pop Princess waited less than a week after the accident before moving onto her next toy boy. When Carl came to, it was Andy by his side. If you had told me two years ago they’d be best buddies, I wouldn’t have believed you, but life is strange like that. You can plan your path all you want, know the route inside and out, but anything could be waiting around the corner.
We never heard from Steven again, or Stacey. Steven went missing after his stint in jail, Stacey nowhere to be found. Even the FBI hasn’t been able to track them down. Perhaps they never will. Steven owed a lot of money to a lot of people—bookies and loan sharks, even the Russian mob. Goodall distanced itself far from him the moment it all came out.
“Gretchen!” I yell up to the house, sure they’re up there screwing in our newly renovated bathroom.
“Go!” Andy pushes the back of the soap box racer. Our one-year-old boy, Asher, laughs as the soap car picks up speed, bumping down the hill towards the field where we keep the horses. His floppy blonde mop whips with speed, his smile so wide it seems to wrap around his little, pin-cushion face. He looks so happy. The cart slows a
nd Asher leaps out before it’s even stopped to push it back up the hill again for another go. He’s got his daddy’s need for speed, that’s for sure.
We have money, more than I ever dreamed of making at Caliber. Andy could easily have bought Asher a go-kart, a motorbike, a baby Ferrari, but no, he wanted to build a soap box racer with him, bond. Seeing the two of them in the garage night after night melts my heart, the father of my child, the reformed bad boy… Well, almost reformed. Even when I was pregnant with Asher we still made love like a pair of teenagers. There’s not a room in the whole house we haven’t ‘christened’, all twenty-two of them.
Andy jogs over. He’s backlit by the sun, fit as ever even though his eating hasn’t improved. He actually thought about releasing a cook book—‘The Fried Chicken Diet’. Harper-Collins was interested for about five seconds. One of his many and frequent lightbulb moments when he’s not racing. I don’t mind. I’m simply happy to have him home, safe.
Asher screams with glee, hands raised as the racer plunges down the hill again.
“Hands on the wheel!” yells Andy, shaking his head.
“He’s reckless, like someone else I know.” I raise an eyebrow at my husband.
He responds by placing his hand on my belly, already starting to swell again. “And what about the newest member of Team Fortes? Where do you think he will place?”
“He?” I question. “We don’t know the sex yet.”
Andy pokes my belly. “Yes, definitely a third leg in there, just like Daddy.”
I slap him. “God, you’re incorrigible. And if it’s a girl?”
“She’ll be like her momma.”
I laugh. “And how’s that?”
He smiles back—a husband, a father, the most passionate person I know. “Perfect.”
Drilled: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.