Lorina flashes me a fake grin, raising her drink to me in a mock toast. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” She takes a deep swig of her raspberry-tinted water like that’s gonna do anything for her.
“Bene. You tell your boyfriend you are going to travel to other countries nine months of the year so you can ride moto.” I lean over, waving at no one. “Bye, boyfriend! See you in dicembre! Non ti preoccupare about the other sexy Italian men in moto.”
She looks at me, but when I don’t back down, she snatches my bourbon from my hand. My eyes widen with every higher tilt of the glass, Lorina drinking the whole thing in no less than six little swallows.
She winces and coughs when she’s done, her hand splayed on her chest. So it’s what I heard, then. That French prick she was dating broke up with her. What a dumbass.
Lorina glares at me, her voice strained, but we both know it’s not from the bourbon alone. “You’re such an asshole.”
I nod, as though I’m satisfied. I’m supposed to be, but it’s hard to remember why when she sounds like that. “It is good to have something you can count on. Like being a man and knowing that whatever happens during sex, it is not over until we are finished. For women?” I shake my hand in a maybe. “Depends how much your man likes you.”
She gapes at me, then bursts out laughing. “God, I hate you so much.”
I take the laugh and forget the rest. It’s not the first time she’s said it to me, and it won’t be the last. This always ends the same—her walking away, more determined than ever to beat me on the track. None the wiser of the truth. It’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Except for the part where I should’ve bailed out of this five minutes ago.
Her little temper tantrum and crashing me out cost me a lot of money today. And like Vinicio said, I need to stay focused on beating her in Jerez and making it up as much as I can. I can’t risk falling behind on my payments to Gabriele.
“So what about you, Massimo?” Lorina takes a sexy little sip from the rim of her champagne glass, and I will not think about all the other things I want to see her glossy pink lips wrapped around. “Girlfriend?”
My pulse kicks up a gear, but I only shrug, throwing a quick glance over the rest of the gala. Her manager is busy wrangling our teammates: Billy on the phone, probably with his girlfriend, Taryn, and Mason flirting with a sponsor model. The manufacturer reps are still giggling under the crystal chandeliers, congratulating themselves over the money Lorina brought in, and none of them have noticed she’s over here with me instead of safe with them. Good. “I have a…friend,” I tell Lorina. “A good friend. We have known each other for a long time.”
“Ooh. Sounds serious.”
I shake my head. “Not in that way. But it can be difficult.”
Lorina chuckles to herself, turning back toward the bar and setting down her water. “Well, whoever Miss Difficult is, I feel sorry for her.”
I grin, more than a little encouraged about the direction this conversation is going. “Perché you are jealous.”
“You travel a lot, and you’re a known club rat.” Lorina shrugs. “Men stray when they’re not getting laid. Meaning you probably cheat on her constantly while you’re on the circuit.”
The words smash my mood and break all my momentum, and my pulse thuds hard and angry from the character assassination I should’ve been expecting but foolishly wasn’t. I pluck the raspberry from her glass, throwing it at her.
Lorina leaps back, stunned as droplets of clear liquid sparkle on her dress. But she can afford to buy a thousand more like it, and no matter what she’s heard, I’m very careful about when I take my clothes off.
“You cheat,” I say before I can stop myself. “Rules mean nothing to you—”
“If you’re about to accuse me of cheating today—”
“Who cares about almost hitting people in straightaways—”
“You crashed because you were being a coward,” she says, pointing at me.
I lean closer, irritated to the point that I can’t find the words in English, and let them come fast and sharp off my tongue in Italian. “You’re the coward, Lorina, and you only race like you want to die because you’re too afraid to live.”
She blinks her thick black eyelashes at me, amber eyes searching mine and calculating her next move, and then she scowls. “It’s cheating to speak in Italian when you know I don’t understand what the hell you’re saying.”
Right. Because why should she learn my language, even though I learned hers?
She arches a smug eyebrow like she’s decided she won the argument, and I storm away, ignoring the terse whispers as I make my way out of the room, down the corridor, and out the back entrance of the hotel.
I don’t know why I ever fucking try with her. Nothing is ever going to change.
The hot Austin air slaps into me once outside, but even the downtown lights and music flowing from Sixth Street bars aren’t enough to calm my temper as I raise my hand for a cab. If there is a God, one of the dozens in the crowded street will pull over before Vinicio comes outside to rip me apart with a bunch of crap I already know. How pissed my sponsors probably are. How reckless it is to risk my career when the estate taxes balloon with interest faster than I can cross the finish line. How pointless it is to let her twist me when it’s been ten damn years, and she still doesn’t get it.
“Massimo…”
Christ, I just can’t catch a break. I hold my arm farther out into the street like that’ll speed up my ability to get the hell away from her. But the bitter smells of barbecue and traffic exhaust are already bowing to the soft grace of southern citrus, and the harshest part of the truth is it’s me that can never stay away.
I blame my father. It’s his fault for putting the idea in my head in the first place. And I’ve done every screwed-up thing he told me to do, but none of it has made a difference when Lorina’s so fucking difficult.
Maybe my mother was right. Maybe he was backward, with all his rules and all his theories. Maybe I am ruined. But I have to believe he knew what he was talking about when he told me how to be worthy of her heart, because she is exactly what he said she’d be: infuriating.
Lorina’s high heels click on the pavement, then stop a few feet behind me, and I let out a sharp whistle in a prayer for just one cab to pull over before she says it again. I took it fine the first time, but I can’t handle a second “I hate you” right now. I’m not even close to drunk enough.
“Do you think it’s possible,” Lorina says, her voice soft over the traffic, “that we could ever, just once, have a conversation for longer than three minutes without fighting?”
The words unnerve me so much that even though I shouldn’t, I look at her, my brow furrowed. Fighting is what we do. It’s the only thing I allow us to do, for a very important reason.
But her bare arms are hugged across her chest, a curly strand of brown hair starting to fall from where she pinned it back, and this would be so much easier if I didn’t know how exhausted she probably is. Especially after racing today, then having to dress up as Princess Moto for all these assholes. The only thing keeping me going is pharmaceuticals and frustration, and just as the sponsors shouldn’t have made me go to this thing, they shouldn’t have thrown it for her in the first place. Not tonight at least.
They should’ve allowed her to rest, to recover. To have fun if she wanted.
She deserves that.
“Sì, Lorina. I do.”
A breath rushes from her lungs that sounds like pure hope, and if we were anyone else, this would be simple, my next move as clear as the red lights that set us free on the track. But I stay where I am. Because I am me, and she is her, and every time she looks my way, I have to shrug off the itch in my shoulders that wants to hunch in her presence.
I don’t know if she can tell that under the expert cut of expensive clothes, I’m still
very much the kid in the alley boosting motos to save my father’s mechanic shop. But whether or not she sees it, I still know it, and it’s reason number I-lost-count of why I’m going to tell her good night, then walk away. Exactly like I should’ve done after she followed me to the bar just so she could yell at me, rightfully, for getting into it with Santos.
“Però…” I clear my throat when my voice nearly gives me away, and I can’t let it give me away. Not until Valencia, when the last cent will be paid. “I think you would miss the fighting, Tigrotta.”
Something flashes in her expression like she wants to fight me on that too. But it would only prove my point, and Lorina still hasn’t learned how to lose. The pain in my knee, in my ribs, says so.
A cab pulls up beside me on the curb, and I throw her a wink as I slide into the back seat, shutting the door. After a quick question, the driver nods and pulls away, steering me toward the basement bars where I already know I’m going to spend the rest of the night—drinking, dancing, trying to forget under the hands of strangers the truth that’s burned in my veins since the first time I met her and she left me in the dust.
None of it’s going to make a difference, but somewhere in me, I hear my father’s voice whispering it’s fine. It’s good. That Lorina is safely back in the hotel, because she went back to racing, and this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
It’s bullshit.
Chapter 5
Lorelai Hargrove—May; Jerez, Spain
Speeding down the straight between turns five and six at Jerez, the world is a stadium roaring in unison, swaying in bright reds and greens. I bend lower over my bike, trying to gain every inch on the leaders I can. It shouldn’t be a problem here in Spain. I kicked ass at COTA, earning myself a special award party to boot. Too bad my head has been a complete wreck since then.
I still have no idea what Massimo and Santos were fighting about, but I heard the whispers afterward that it revolved around me. I don’t need to know more—what they said or who said it first. They’ve all taken their shots through the years. But I can’t help wondering if it had something to do with the way Massimo was looking at me at the bar…
And there was something about the way his voice sounded outside in that thickly sweet Austin air. Like maybe, one day, we’d be able to talk about something other than who finished first and who won what. About things that are real, that matter, away from the circuit.
A glare from the bright Andalusian sun reflects off my face shield, taking me back to plotting gear shifts and apexes for the Jerez track. Stay focused, Hargrove. I refuse to let a man distract me from going after my dreams. I promised myself a long time ago I never would. Not after what happened to my mom.
The Spanish crowd rages as I fly past, and I lose myself in their chants, rising and falling to the rhythm of my engine and calling me home. My true home.
Fifth gear. Fourth. Third, and lean.
I grit my teeth through the right turn closer to 180 degrees than 140, my knee sliding on the ground and gravity beckoning for my life. Gray track curves in my peripheral vision, then straightens. I pull my bike vertical, resitting more to the left as I push into a higher gear, preparing for the smoother left of turn seven.
Santos Saucedo from Hotaru Racing pops up and steals the apex, and I curse as I glide through the turn behind him. I’m slipstreaming his Hotaru, but I’m stuck staring at his tailpipe through the left of turn eight, the right of nine, and another in ten. From there, it’s sixth gear all the way: gaining inch after inch as I come up on his right side, level as we barely lean through the smooth slide of eleven.
Coming out of it, I check behind me. Three-second gap between me and the next pack, Massimo in front, Billy right behind him, and both of them gaining. Worry about that later.
Looking forward, I duck a little lower through turn twelve: another right curve that’s more straight than turn. Then I pinpoint my focus on turn thirteen ahead of us—a switchback that’s practically another 180, and it’s the one that matters. Come out of turn thirteen ahead, and you take the finish line. Every single time.
Hotaru orange takes over my vision in my left eye as the turn approaches, sand and gravel creeping in on my right. Panic rises in my throat. I’m on the edge of overshooting the apex, but I can’t go anywhere. Santos is still inching closer and closer… Damn it. It’s too late to get behind him, and he’s not backing off.
He looks at me, unbridled hate in his eyes, and screw this dude. I’m not backing off. We’re going to have to do this side by side.
I downshift once, then twice, starting the lean as my abs tighten and—
His right knee jerks upward into my left elbow.
My balance buckles, gravity wins, my left hip and the rest of my side slamming into the ground. A collective gasp from the crowd sounds like someone sucked the air out of the top of the stadium. Pain blasts through my leathers and deep into my bones, my helmet banging the track. The world darkens, time spinning, even as I know I’m careening off the track at nearly 100 miles per hour with no hope for control. My eyes open, and curses scream in my mind.
I’m high side.
The tire wall grows into a tsunami of encroaching death, my left leg coming free as my bike shirks away. But my left hand hasn’t unclenched the handlebar yet, and oh shit.
My bike hits the curbstone and swings for me, a violent beast with a taste for blood. It pulls my hand and arm backward. Something snaps, and I scream.
At the jarring change from track to gravel, my fingers release the handlebar when lethal speed windmills my body. Tumbling without end, the ground punches and kicks me, splintering bones shrieking through my hand and ankle.
In flashes, my eyes search for my bike.
I see her. I scream again.
She’s coming for me. Flipping end over end and breaking. Dabria-red fairings are flying off, hurtling toward me for hurting her.
I lurch to a stop on my stomach and glance over my shoulder, horrified.
Oh God. She’s right—
Chapter 6
Massimo Vitolo—May; Jerez, Spain
I can’t believe what’s happening.
My boots squeak shakily down one of the side corridors in the hospital, nurses and doctors rushing by with rapid Spanish spilling from their mouths. And even though I just promised a thousand things to my little brother—her biggest fan—none of it erases the truth still screaming behind my eyes.
How her moto broke apart as she tumbled out of control. How her helmet lifted up once she came to a stop because she tried to move out of the way. But the wheel hit her in the head like a boxer throwing an uppercut, knocking her back and flipping her over, the 130 kg moto rebounding off the tire wall and landing directly on top of her 50 kg body.
I come to a wobbly stop outside her room, and I only give myself one second to scrub my hand over my face and suck it up. I need to check on her. I need to make sure press didn’t sneak into her room. And I need to get the hell out of this hospital before anyone realizes I’m here and not on a plane back to Italy. It’s the only thing I’m allowed to give her.
My hand is still shaking as I open the door as quietly as I can and check inside. She’s still asleep, her brown curls hiding the ugly pattern of the hospital gown at the top of her shoulders because I undid her braid. I wouldn’t have done it if she were awake, but at least she’ll never know it was me. Probably won’t even think to ask when she’s going to be begging for painkillers when she wakes up.
My eyes steal a long glance down the gentle slope of her cheek—bruised and swollen, parallel bars of bandages trying to put her back together. I swallow, leaning against the wall by the door, hidden from her view. Someone knocks for the room next to us, and my fingers itch for my sunglasses, but I don’t have them with me. God only knows how long it’ll be before I stop seeing her crash behind my eyes. Doesn’t help that it’s playing on ev
ery TV in every waiting room, and I can hear it through the walls.
“Frank?” Lorina faintly coughs, her voice soft and broken. “Is that you?”
My head falls back against the wall. Of course, she doesn’t expect it to be me. I never follow her to the hospital. She doesn’t come for me either. But of all the times I’ve seen her go down, today is the first time I honestly didn’t think she would walk away.
I should feel better that she’s alive. That she’s awake. Except it doesn’t change the fact that I’m still pissed as all hell that she couldn’t back down, just once, and choose to live instead of win. But that’s not who she is.
“Frank?” she asks again. Then, more scared, “Hello?”
I pivot around the corner so she can see me, my jaw locked taut.
Her eyes widen. “Massimo?”
“Rest, Lorina.” My voice sounds weird—too soft. But all of this is weird considering it’s us. “You will not be alone. I will stay.”
Her eyes brighten, but it’s quickly lost, her expression fading into shame and fear, confusion. She glances around, her bottom lip trembling. Faster than I can blink, she tries to sit up in the bed, but I don’t need scrubs and a stethoscope to know she has no strength in her left shoulder, and her right hand is broken.
I’m there before she can ask for help, Lorina flinching at my fingers gently cradling her upper right arm. My other hand slips between her back and the bed, supporting her weight, and I am not going to think about—
She glances up at me next to her, and my eyes find hers.
Shit. I look to the pillow behind her, pushing it down so it can take the place of my hand. When I’m done, I step away and clear my throat, crossing my arms.
I don’t touch her. Ever.
Lorina swipes her fingertips under her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t answer. She wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“Come to gloat?”
Gloat. I search my mind for the meaning but come up blank. The only thing in there is the sound of the crowd gasping in horror. The flashing lights of her ambulance peeling out from the track on the way to the hospital. “What does ‘gloat’ mean?”
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