Loneliness bubbles in my throat, and I force myself to swallow it down, starting the short walk back to their house behind them.
God, I need a freaking boyfriend. But a win at COTA will more than suffice.
CIRCUIT OF THE AMERICAS
Austin, Sunday, April 14
Pos
Pts
Rider
Time
World Rank
1
25
Lorelai HARGROVE
43’52.437
65
2
20
Cristiano ARELLANO
1.368
41
3
16
Billy KING
2.499
54
4
13
Santos SAUCEDO
6.126
45
5
11
Mason KING
7.842
32
6
10
Gregorio PAREDES
9.796
23
7
9
Giovanni MARCHESA
12.536
24
8
8
Elliston LAMBIRTH
16.884
23
9
7
Deven HORSLEY
19.642
22
10
6
Harleigh ELIN
23.531
15
11
5
Fredek SULZBACH
27.379
12
12
4
Donato MALDONADO
31.942
9
13
3
Aurelio LOGGIA
35.557
12
14
2
Galeno GIRÓN
42.389
2
15
1
Diarmaid DEAN
48.419
2
Not Classified
Rainier HERRE
3 Laps
0
Timo GONZALES
7 Laps
1
Gustavo LIMÓN
8 Laps
0
Massimo VITOLO
16 Laps
38
Not Finished 1st Lap
Cesaro SOTO
0 Lap
0
Chapter 4
Massimo Vitolo—April; Austin, United States
All hail Princess Lorina, victor of COTA.
My knee is killing me more with every step past the double doors into the gaudy Austin hotel ballroom, and even though it’s Lorina’s fault, I glare at Vinicio.
“Massimo,” my manager warns, but I don’t want to hear it. I shouldn’t have to bow and scrape at Lorina’s feet in a tux just because she won a race in MotoPro. Especially when that win—and its cash bonus—should’ve been mine.
Forty-five minutes, then I’m out of here. I won’t look at her, talk to her, or even think about her. I’m gonna be good this time.
Maybe thirty minutes.
“You want a water?” Vinicio asks in Italian when we get inside. All I can do is scoff and gesture toward the banner draped across the ballroom, congratulating Lorina on her victory.
I don’t know why everyone is so shocked that she finally did it. I always knew it was only a matter of time once they let her on the moto. But dozens of people are swooning over her victory as waiters sweep by with trays of hors d’oeuvres. I’ve clocked at least two fountains of champagne, a string quartet just started playing in the corner, and Christ, what did they spend on this thing? Pretty sure all I got in Qatar was a pat on the back, followed by a stern “Don’t fuck it up in Argentina.”
I look at Vinicio, my voice as cold as my mood as I point at the banner. “You think I’m drinking water under this? You’re out of your mind.”
“You can’t drink.” There’s a warning in my manager’s words that we both know extends further than this party. “You’re on painkillers.”
I almost chuckle at the cruelty of it all, a ruthless smile curling my lips as I turn fully toward him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Whatever you say, boss.” Then I walk off, swiping a glass of something dark off a waitress’s tray and throwing it back. Vinicio curses from somewhere behind me as the liquid burns happily down my throat, but I smile at a group of sponsor reps like a good little puppet, weaving through the crowd and trading my empty glass for a fresh one along the way. Twenty-eight minutes.
“Hey, Massimo,” more than a few of the sponsor models purr in a spattering of languages, their bodies draped in black lace, black silk, black chiffon, like they’re all going to a funeral after. I only wink at their smiles and keep moving, not in the mood for company tonight after the nightmare of today. I should’ve expected it after I beat Lorina for pole position.
Not the first time it’s happened. But considering she’s still pissed about Qatar, she most graciously accepted her second-place starting pole by pressing me toward the bailout in lap sixteen until I crashed today. When she came back around the track, I threw her a gesture from the dirt that no man should ever do to a woman, and she looked forward, shifting up a gear.
My knee is strained, I’ve got a hairline crack in my rib, and bruises cover half my lower body. But most of that was because I fucked up the roll after she forced me down, and we’re straight. Square. Even, for now. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck in an overcrowded room listening to everyone babble about how amazing she is, all while my knee has a pain in it that I need to go the hell away. My Yaalon teammate, Billy King, has spent the last few years in and out of surgery proving exactly why.
It doesn’t take long before I find a corner tucked in the back of the ballroom, one a little darker, a little shadier than the rest, where at least I can lean against the wall to try to take the weight off my knee. It should absolutely keep me away from the line of fire, and I need to get thr
ough this thing unnoticed as much as possible.
We’re all here for her, which means they’re all gonna be watching me. And I’m not in the mood to play nice when the fact that they’re wrong about us sleeping together is a slap in the face.
“Hey, man,” someone says in Spanish, and I barely resist a groan when Santos Saucedo strolls in my direction.
He moved up to MotoPro three years ago, but we raced together in the lower levels before that, and he’s such a dick. I don’t know what Giovanni sees in him besides a ranking.
Santos takes a swig of champagne, then hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the party. “Believe this?”
“Not really that surprising.” I do my best to ignore his cringe at my accent, my Spanish more than passable, but not perfect enough for Santos, apparently.
“Waste of money if you ask me. She’s never going to last the full circuit, and she should’ve kept her perky little tits in Superbike along with the rest of ’em.”
My eyes narrow in his direction, wondering if he’s ever dared to say that to Billy, whose girlfriend rides Superbike. But Santos doesn’t notice my reaction. He’s already back to scanning the crowd.
So I shove the hell out of his shoulder, making sure he gets it.
Santos stumbles, surprise darkening his face as champagne sloshes over the rim of his glass. I chuck mine over my shoulder as bystanders start to whisper and scoot back, and I don’t give a shit what they fine me. Tonight is not the night, and he’s way over the line.
“What the hell is your problem, man?” Santos straightens, fluffing the lapel on his jacket before he lowers his voice. “Not that everyone doesn’t already know. Worst kept secret in the whole fucking sport.”
I storm forward until I’m in his face, forcing him to back up more with every word. “The fuck are you so afraid of? Is it because she’s faster than you? Or because she’ll still be here winning races long after you’re forgotten?”
His eyes flare, the glass shattering when he drops his drink the only warning I need.
I sidestep out of his swing, my palm landing square on his chest as I shove him into the wall. His head snaps back, his teeth knocking together from the force of it. My fist is primed for his rebound when someone fishhooks my collar and yanks me out of reach.
Vinicio appears in front of me, his arm an iron bar across my chest as he drives me away from where Santos is sagging against the wall.
“Anything else?” I spit at him.
Santos shoves himself vertical, pointing at me as microphone feedback crackles through the room. “Watch your back, Vitolo. Your girlfriend too.”
I ram my weight against Vinicio to get past him, but he’s got sixty pounds on me, and I’m screwed when his hands clamp on my shoulders, whipping me around. “Enough!” he hisses in Italian.
“Hi, everyone.” Lorina’s nervous chuckle floods the ballroom as Vinicio marches me away, my pulse pounding and every inch of me desperate to finish the fight he stopped. “I’ll try to keep this short,” she says in country-twanged English, “but I just want to thank y’all so much for being here with me tonight to celebrate the future of women in Moto Grand Prix. And especially to the other riders,” Lorina adds, her voice a little sharper before she smooths it out again. “Just, thanks, guys, for always saving a place for me on the grid.”
Everyone claps while still managing to throw me scandalized scowls on our way past, Vinicio’s grip on my shoulder tightening as a couple of guys call out friendly taunts in heavily accented English. I grit my teeth, Lorina giggling like they’re all best friends. She has no idea they have a running pool over whether she’s going to cross the finish line or leave the track in an ambulance. Every. Single. Race.
I look over my shoulder at Santos, who started the whole thing and is now busy arguing with Giovanni.
That prick’s not gonna see anything above fifth place in Jerez.
As though he can read my thoughts, Vinicio smacks my head and elbows me into a corner. I round on him but he blocks me, his eyes furious when he raises a single finger in a warning.
Lorina starts thanking everyone again, going down the list of all the people who sign her paychecks. The ones she’s contractually obligated to mention in that Memphis twang of hers every time she opens her mouth in public, and I’m calming down, but still.
“Thank y’all so much again,” Lorina finishes, “and I hope y’all have a great rest of your evening.”
The room erupts into polite applause, and Vinicio leans toward me. “What the hell were you thinking back there?” he says in Italian, his voice low. “Do I really need to remind you what’s at stake if you blow this?”
I don’t answer, looking away and tugging my tie loose.
“Get it together,” he growls. “She doesn’t need you to fight her fights, and you need to stay focused before—”
“I am focused.”
“Yeah? On what? Because it sure isn’t on your knee, your family, or—hell, I don’t know—not getting suspended for fighting when the ink isn’t even dry on your contract with Yaalon.”
I lock my jaw, taking it because he’s right. I know better than to let Santos bait me. His entire strategy has always been to piss people off into screwing up on the track when it matters. But he doesn’t usually go for the Lorina button, and I’m the moron who let him know exactly how well it works.
Vinicio sighs, looking at me for a long time before he gives up, waving me off. I take full advantage of the reprieve and head for the open bar, keeping my head down and my eyes trained on the patterned carpet, my back firmly to the rest of the room.
Fifteen minutes.
“Grappa morbida,” I order when I get there, but the Texan bartender just stares blankly back at me. “Bourbon.” This he understands.
I take a deep pull the moment he sets it down, even though I’m gonna pay for it later. I always do—pay for the stuff I say, the mistakes I make, the fights I start. For the things I’ve stolen, that were stolen from me before I even realized I had them to lose.
“Hi, if it’s not too much trouble, can I have sparkling water in a champagne glass? And can you put a raspberry in it if you have one?”
Shit.
“Sure thing, honey,” the bartender drawls. “Anything for the first woman motorcycle racer.”
I roll my eyes—Americans. That’s not even right. She’s not the first woman motorcycle racer, just the first to advance all the way to MotoPro. And if I were a better man, I’d already be halfway through the emergency exit. But I wasn’t born to play the good guy, and Lorina knows that. After ten years of racing against her, I’ve made sure of it.
My fiercest rival delicately clears her throat next to me, the air now glistening with hints of lemon chiffon, and the last of my self-control caves to the demon whispering on my shoulder—the one that lets my dick make all the rules. And despite the pain still throbbing in my knee—the pain that’s only there because I pissed her off—I finally let myself look at what I’m up against, and I instantly start to smile.
She never looks anything less than incredible, whether she’s in dirty red leathers with Wreckless scrawled above her ass or in a dress barely covering it. Tonight, she’s pink and sparkly: her rose-gold sequined top stopping short at her waist, the back open in a graceful drape, and paired with a creamy tulle miniskirt that slips the whole thing from stunning to sweet without bothering to cancel out the sexy. It’s ridiculously unfair…and exactly how she races.
Lorina glances at me, her earrings sparkling from where her hair is twisted up even though she always wears it down. Except for Sundays, when she French braids it. “I’m just waiting for my drink, then I’m going. So please, don’t feel the need to say anything.” She looks forward, mumbling, “Or make another scene I’ll have to distract people from.”
I take a sip of bourbon to curb the guilt swirling in my stomac
h, just waiting. I know from experience, my Tigrotta’s not done yelling at me yet. It only screws my head up more that arguing with her always translates to my dick as foreplay, but never, ever do we make it across the finish line into the bedroom. Might help our chances if she’d crack a book on Italian, or if I took the time to better my English. Not likely when beating her on the track takes up the majority of my priority list. I know winning is the only thing Lorina cares about.
True to form, her head whips in my direction. “You realize I wasn’t even supposed to have to talk tonight? Is your ego really that out of control that you had to get into a fight with Santos just because you can’t share the attention for two freaking hours?”
I tilt my head, unable to resist baiting her with the truth when it freaks her out so much. “Why are you so angry tonight, Lulu? Is it because your boyfriend did not want to come to your party?”
“Don’t ask about my sex life.”
My cock twitches, a grin teasing the corner of my mouth. “I said boyfriend. You said sex.”
Her eyes drop to my lips before bouncing up to my eyes. It’s fast—everything with her is fast—but not so fast I didn’t see. Since I like the way my face is arranged, I don’t do more than arch my eyebrow to let her know she’s busted.
“Ass,” she mutters.
I can’t help but laugh, especially when the bartender sets down her drink: the sparkly sweet appearance of danger that’s secretly innocent. Because unlike me, Lorina actually is the good little girl her sponsors love to parade around. Paparazzi never bust her slipping from the back doors of clubs in the hours we’re supposed to be asleep. She doesn’t drink, always prays before she races, and she’s usually glued to the gym every minute she’s not on the track.
I gesture dismissively in her direction. “Non è possibile for you to have a boyfriend anyway.”
Wreckless Page 5