17
Diarmaid DEAN
52.489
1
Not Classified
Galeno GIRÓN
3 Laps
0
Gustavo LIMÓN
15 Laps
0
Cesaro SOTO
16 Laps
0
Chapter 3
Lorelai Hargrove—April; Memphis, United States
“So get this,” Taryn says from two stalls down, cleaning Gidget’s while I do her mare’s. Which really isn’t fair, because Aston Magic is a way messier horse than Gidget, but everyone always assumes I don’t like Billy’s stallion. More like the Akhal-Teke has something against me—probably because Gidget can tell that the ranch life has never fit me as well as it was supposed to. Not like it fits Taryn. “Miette tried to convince me we were supposed to race on Bridgestone tires instead of Dunlop, and when I didn’t go for it, she tried to pander some story to the press about how my parents were first cousins.”
I crack half a smile, even though my heart and soul are locked away with my Dabria. She and Miette have been warring for as long as Taryn’s been on the Superbike circuit, it seems. “Yeah?” I pull out the ultimate one-upper. “My toothpaste exploded in my suitcase on the way home and got all over my new Alice + Olivia sundress.”
Taryn laughs and groans as I throw all my weight into the dig, my hands sweating in my gloves and my shoulders aching, abs straining. I keep my groan to myself as I heave the soiled straw into a wheelbarrow. The Memphis breeze kicks half of it back, sticking to my sweaty neck and tangling in my hair. I bat it away with a curse, only making things worse.
I hate doing ranch chores—cleaning horse stalls most of all. But Taryn asked me to hang out with her, and I really wanted to see all she’s done with the ranch she and Billy just bought. Except my version of “hang out” looked a lot more like sitting on her porch with some curse word coloring books and maybe shopping online for new furniture. Or clothes. Not sifting through straw in search of horse manure.
“So how’s MotoPro been?” Taryn calls down. “Seems like you’re liking the cc jump. Mason definitely won’t shut up about it every minute he’s here and eating his way through my fridge.”
“Pro’s freaking awesome,” I call back, taking a moment to lean on my muck rake and wipe the sweat from my brow. It’s hot as hell in their barn, but at least there’s a breeze through it. Does a doozy of mixing the smells, though, pushing them so far up your nostrils, it smells like your whole head is up a horse’s ass. “I almost had Massimo in Qatar—like, I freaking had him—and I kicked his ass in Argentina.”
I don’t know what his problem was in Termas de Río Hondo. It was like he was possessed or something. Anytime a reporter asked him a question, they had to ask him twice, he was so focused on studying the track telemetry that was practically glued to his hand. Didn’t really matter, though. Five laps to the flag, Billy checked him in turn seven; Massimo went wide, I cut through, and he never caught us after.
“Can’t wait for COTA next week,” I tell Taryn, my whole body wound tight with anticipation over our next showdown. “He has no idea what’s coming for him.”
Taryn laughs from her boyfriend’s stallion’s stall. “You realize I asked you about the power jump and you went straight to bitching about Massimo?”
“Shut up,” I singsong, going back to work with more fervor. There’s not much more to do before I can wheelbarrow out the dirty straw and lay down some fresh. “Anyway, his style is totally different, so the Yaalon isn’t working for him like it did for Francesco. But sucks for Massimo, because my style isn’t that far from what Luca’s was, so it’s not that big of a deal to tweak the Dabria to work for me. We’ve almost got it perfect already too.”
My new constructor is a genius and is somehow able to understand exactly what I need when I need it: more front end feel, more bite on the back end, when she’s tight on the right turns and jelly in the lefts, anything. Every practice, every qualifying, every race, we get closer to finding that synergy between me and her, and it’s so hard to be away.
After shoveling the last of the dirty straw into the wheelbarrow, I take a second to catch my breath, propping my muck rake against the side of the stall. It’s not far to the dump pile behind their barn, but it feels a lot farther when you’re barely tall enough to see over the pile. Guess it’s a good thing Frank’s been okay with me incorporating body building into my workout routine. He is still worried about the muscle weight gain, though.
I try to mentally silence the ten-year debate over my ideal diet and physique as I haul out the dirty straw, dump it, then bring in fresh and start to spread it out, avoiding the puddles of horse piss. And once more, I can’t stop wondering what Taryn sees in all this. How it was worth it to turn down a condo in Munich paid for by MMW, instead dropping 2.5 million dollars on an eighty-acre ranch for her and Billy.
She swears she made the right choice for her in the end, though—staying in Superbike even while living in the States, kicking ass and taking trophies on badass production bikes instead of our purpose-built prototypes. And I love to give her crap that she wouldn’t be able to handle my Dabria compared to her stock MMW, but the power gap isn’t really all that different. There’s also less of a glass ceiling for women in Superbike, as opposed to the one I spent years smashing my head on in Moto Grand Prix.
“Any word from Etienne?” Taryn asks from behind me, and I stop shoveling straw to face her. She’s as sweaty as I am, but with her long legs, blond hair, and blue eyes, she looks like a western deodorant commercial. “We’re done. This is fine,” she says, indicating the stall.
I take another glance at it, and my mom definitely wouldn’t call this fine. She’d call this fired. But it’s Taryn’s ranch, and I didn’t wanna do this anyway, so I go ahead and follow her out.
“No,” I admit, propping up my muck rake next to hers. “Haven’t heard from him, and I don’t expect to.”
Taryn gives me a look like I’m the one being stubborn about this, but I don’t want to hear her opinions on my perennial lack of a love life. I definitely don’t want to think about it.
Etienne was gorgeous: a six-foot-one dark angel of dirty sex, with soft skin, hard abs, and double degrees in sixteenth-century poetry and organic chemistry. But our “relationship” was one physically blazing weekend while I was in France for Le Mans, and then six months on the phone while I was everywhere else. Thanks to the time difference between France and Malaysia, he ended up dumping me on my voicemail—I was asleep when he called.
“Well, then,” Taryn starts all innocently like I don’t know exactly what she’s about to suggest. “Why not consider—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
She rolls her eyes, not saying anything else about the subject we do not speak of, since thankfully, Billy and Mason are walking up from where they’ve been working with Dax and Bryan all day. It’s a lot easier to agree to come over and help when the ranch hands they hired are both super freaking hot. Dax has that whole tall-and-shaggy John Krasinski thing going on, and Bryan could win a World’s Sexiest Smile contest, no contest. He’s practically Michael B. Jordan’s hotter fraternal twin. Too bad they’re also one of the sweetest couples I’ve ever met, so no luck for me there either.
“Hey, honey,” Billy drawls to Taryn when they stroll up. He touches his hat in my direction before he bends down to brush a kiss across Taryn’s lips. I look away, something in my chest pulling tight across where something else is empty. My eyes settle on Mason. Leaning against the barn entrance,
his black Stetson is dangling in one hand, his other using the open lapels of his pearl-snap shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
His abs are better defined than my eyeliner ever is, his dark hair a little long and rustling into his baby-blue eyes. A gust of wind slams me with manly sweat and Italian cologne, and I grind my teeth together, finding something else to focus on.
Taryn’s right. I need a boyfriend before I end up sleeping with freaking Mason. And Mason has slept with everyone. His reputation among the sponsor models and umbrella girls is almost too big to be believed.
“How’s Aston’s meadow?” Taryn asks, her palms flat on Billy’s chest as she looks up at him like he lit the stars just for her.
“Bryan’s got it under control. Ants are finally out, Aston’s on her way back in, and Gidget’s pouting up a storm because she won’t let him come in there with her.” He steals another kiss off Taryn’s smiling lips, then glances around. “Y’all are done cleaning out the stalls already?”
“Yeah.” Taryn shrugs, planting her hands backward on her waist.
Billy’s head slowly tilts on his neck, Taryn only standing straighter. Until Billy wanders down and looks into both the stalls, then flatly calls out, “Mason.”
I’m not surprised—Billy worked for my mom for years, and his high standards when it comes to cleaning horse stalls are almost worse than hers.
“Man,” his brother whines, picking up the muck rakes Taryn and I abandoned. “Why is it that when you buy a ranch, I gotta do all the damn chores?”
I look at Taryn, my eyebrow arched in a silent Right?
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“Because.” Billy comes back to take one muck rake from his brother before he gently shoves him into Aston Magic’s stall. “When it’s your ranch, you’re gonna be calling me every five minutes for help. So consider this a bunch of favors you can call in later.”
Mason hooks his hat on his head, then makes a face my way, grumbling, “Never buying a ranch. Too much work.”
I nod along in silent agreement. Try knowing you’re gonna inherit one—twenty times this size.
“Billy,” Taryn complains, following her boyfriend down the barn and into his stallion’s stall. That she already cleaned. Kinda. “It’s fine, honey. You’ve done enough. Go take a shower and rest your ankle.”
“Ankle’s fine,” he calls out loudly. Followed by a bunch of harsh whispers and…oh no.
My pulse spikes into fat-burn territory, and I sneak into Aston Magic’s stall, where Mason is busy finishing the job I half-assed. “Hey,” I whisper, waiting until he pauses to look at me. “His ankle is still bothering him?”
Mason doesn’t say anything. But his eyes flicker toward the stall where his brother is, then back to me, the corner of his mouth slightly pulling down in acknowledgment. He goes back to shoveling straw, and I can’t believe this.
“Does Frank know he’s still hurting?”
Mason nods, and he never shops shoveling, but he breathes back, “Frank says we can’t say nothing. That he doesn’t know how much longer his Yaalon rep’s gonna let him keep riding with the way he’s falling apart. First his knee, and now his ankle.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. That has to suck so freaking much.
It’s not Billy’s fault that he needed knee surgery after that fluke cold tire wreck. His ankle injury was his fault, but it shouldn’t cost the guy his whole career. I also don’t know what he and Taryn are going to do if the sponsors push Billy out now and force him to retire.
“Yep,” Mason says, making quick work of the job I reneged on. He stabs and pokes at the straw, fluffing it the rest of the way and spreading it around, then straightens and faces me. “Speaking of: you start prepping for COTA yet?”
“Yeah.” I nod, mentally going over the list of things Frank has me working on—better torque control and rear wheel steering. “Kinda ready to get there, to be honest. Coming off turn one is a bitch, and I want as many passes at turn two as I can get before Sunday.”
Mason shifts his weight, shaking his head. “Hate that track. Leave it to Austin to build something like that.”
I grin. It’s a downhill acceleration off turn one, your speed tripling, all while you try to control the wheelie, shift twice, and then bank for turn two. “I live for that shit.”
Mason laughs, his personal brand of gentle sarcasm thick in his words. “Yeah, we know, Lori.”
“You just gotta…let it go, man. You hold onto your bike like it’s a bull trying to buck you, and you’re strangling it.”
He wipes the sweat off his face with his shirt again before he rests his elbow on his muck rake, his voice in a different accent as he playfully says, “Damn it, Jim. I’m a bull rider, not a doctor.”
I roll my eyes at his Bones impression—ever the Trekkie. “Yeah? Well, try being a bull rider on a bull and a motorcycle racer on a motorcycle.” I wink at him before I go in for the kill. As nicely as possible—Taryn must be rubbing off on me. “Stop being so scared of it. Let the bike do what it wants to do, and you’ll be fine. She’s not a bull, and she doesn’t want to hurt you. She wants to win. So stop choking the throttle.”
His mouth twists to the side because he knows I’m right. Frank’s told him too. But I think the truth is Mason still gets scared of the battling sometimes.
He’s a hell of a bull rider, but that’s just him versus the bull. There’s twenty of us on that race track, and as daunting as it is to ride at the speed we do, it’s a million times harder once you start playing chicken with people at 200 miles per hour in a negative slope.
“So I’m still choking it,” Mason repeats.
“Yeah.” I reach out to clap his shoulder. “But you’ll be okay. Let her loose in Austin and see if I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“What are y’all talking about?”
I jump at the sharpness in Billy’s voice. He’s about as aggressive as a comatose kitten most days.
“Nothin’.” Mason tugs on his cowboy hat, switching his muck rake to his other hand. Taryn’s eyes dart between the three of us, subtly shaking her head at me from where she’s standing next to Billy, and I am a terrible, sucky friend.
If she’s waving me off, I’m going right for it. I’m not frightened of her Ferdinand boyfriend. She shouldn’t be either.
“COTA,” I say clearly. “We’re talking about COTA. That a problem?”
“Yeah, it is,” he barks, and my eyes widen as Billy Freaking King starts storming my way.
“Billy!” Taryn shouts, but her normal jerk on his self-imposed leash falls flat, my best friend looking at me with huge, freaked-out eyes as her boyfriend stops nearly on my toes.
“You two need to get something straight.” He looks between me and Mason like we’re both his younger siblings instead of just the one of us. “You’re not in the baby brackets anymore, and this isn’t a fucking game.”
I suck in a breath. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Billy curse before. Taryn winces behind him, turning away and wrapping her arms around her head.
“You want to help each other? Go ahead. Do it. See what happens.”
“You’ve helped me plenty of times before.” Mason squints at his brother like he’s seeing someone completely new in his place. “You always give me tips before we get to the track…”
“And it’s gonna stop right now,” Billy growls. “I helped you when you were in another category. But we’re all in MotoPro now. Y’all ride for Dabria, and I ride for Yaalon. And if you think I’m gonna lie over and let the two of you threaten my livelihood, you’re dead wrong.”
“We weren’t plotting against you,” I tell him. “I swear. We were just talking.”
“Talking about the race we’re racing against one another in a week.” He shakes his head at me, disdain plain in his eyes. “Figure it out, Lorelai. Y’all are at the t
op now. The only place left to go is out, and you have no idea how hard these guys will fight to stay in. They have a lot more to lose than a rancher’s daughter does.”
My temper snarls in my chest. I didn’t choose the name I was born into any more than he did. “No one wants to win more than me.”
He stares me down from under his big black cowboy hat. “You sure about that?”
“All right, that’s enough,” Taryn announces.
Billy glowers at his brother, then marches out of the stalls and the barn, and I nearly collapse from the shock of squaring off with him. We aren’t exactly besties, but we’ve never been enemies. Never.
I look at Mason, and he’s a statue. His jaw is locked, blue eyes blinking at the place his brother’s boots just were, and his skin a little paler than a moment ago.
“I’m sorry,” Taryn says to us with a sigh. “He’s not really mad at y’all. He’s just under a lot of pressure right now. With his…”
His ankle. Or his knee. Maybe both, or something new.
“It’s okay,” I tell Taryn, offering her a smile. It’s the only thing I can think to do when their whole future is in jeopardy. She makes good money racing Superbike, but not as much as Billy makes with MotoPro. And they’re also supporting Dax and Bryan now.
She half returns the smile, then turns and jogs out of the barn. “Billy, wait!”
I lay my hand on Mason’s arm, and he shudders back to life. Together, my teammate and I wander out of the horse stall, my eyes lifting a bit to spy on Taryn as she stops Billy on the way back to their house.
His hands move animatedly as he rants and raves, gesturing toward the barn and the house and her and himself. Taryn just stands there, her head patiently tilted as he goes on and on. Until she stretches up and hugs him.
Billy’s hands go still. The wind even seems to die down. Then he curves forward, his black hat dropping onto her shoulder as he hugs her, the two of them finding their strength in each other.
She holds him for a long time under the shining golden sun and clear blue skies, as long as he needs. And when they pull apart, walking toward their house, their arms are so woven across each other’s backs, it’s hard to know who is who.
Wreckless Page 4