Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  She glares at me. “To be happy in front of me because I’m hurt. That I crashed.”

  I bear the force of the verbal slap and use it to propel me toward the door. “I will go.”

  “Massimo, wait—” Her words rush past her lips before I can even cross the end of her bed, and it’s a sharp yank on the string that has me tied helplessly to her. I’d cut that thing in a heartbeat if I could, but I can’t. I can only pause, looking over at her.

  Her eyes sweep over my leathers, still covered with dust and exhaust. She’s probably pissed I didn’t have the decency to shower before coming to see her when she likes everything clean and tidy and overly organized. She can get over it. I had to watch her crash.

  “Um…” she starts, wincing. “Have you seen Frank?”

  I face her fully, a little concerned that’s what she asked first. She’s not usually one for avoiding a tough subject. “He is downstairs, talking to the press. I was not supposed to leave your room while he was gone, but my brother called me, and I had to answer. So I left and went into the corridor, and the nurse told me she would stay until I returned.” I clear my throat to see if that’ll somehow stop me from babbling more. Doubtful. But she threw me off with the Frank question. “So it is my fault you woke up alone.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh.

  I should probably leave before she asks why her manager was cool with me standing guard when normally, I’m the one they guard her against. But I don’t get much further than that in my mental debate when she takes a deep breath, then asks, “Massimo, am I okay?”

  Yank, yank, yank. And still avoiding. If I didn’t think she’d call security, I’d already be pushing her buttons until she’d be too busy roaring at me to remember she’s hurt. But my Tigrotta is hurt, and today, it’s left me with no other choice than to be the version of myself I keep safely away from her.

  I walk over and take the seat on her left, leaning forward with my elbow sliders resting on my knees. I keep my eyes trained on my hands because I can’t look at her when I say it. I’m still telling it to myself, over and over, and even with her awake and beside me, it’s nearly impossible to believe when I was so convinced she was gone. Everyone was. “Lorina, you are okay.”

  She lets out a long, quiet breath.

  “Your shoulder, it was—”

  “I remember.”

  My eyes flash up to hers, but she’s staring at the blanket, and I don’t force it. “Bene.”

  The last thing I want to bring up is how she screamed when they reset it. Knowing Lorina, she’d probably be embarrassed to the point that she’d hurt herself worse trying to prove to me what a badass she is. The woman is as tough as they come, brave to the point of absurdity, and she screamed like she was being murdered. No one should have to know that pain. No one.

  She clears her throat. “Is that it? Just my shoulder?”

  “You also have a bump on your head, but it is very small.” I shrug, but it’s the understatement of the century.

  Her helmet cracked. Like it was struck by lightning from the bottom of her chin to her forehead, and all the way across the American flag on top, straight to the back of her crown. The faceplate was also shattered, but she must have pinched her eyes shut tighter than anything against the blast. The shards cut her cheeks and forehead, but by some miracle, she wasn’t blinded.

  Her helmet is now in a plastic bag, inside my room in my locked RV, parked behind gates on the paddock. It’s gonna be a massive pain to smuggle it into Italy when Dabria is probably tearing apart all of Spain looking for it, but I’ve moved stuff before, and Ravenna is the last place anyone will look. I never want Lorina to see it. Her manager agreed, and he’s the one who slipped the bag into my hand when the officials weren’t looking, too busy doing media damage control and talking about how the safety measures worked and the sport is safe, blah blah blah.

  “You have some broken bones in your right hand,” I continue, “and these…” I lay my palm flat against my own left rib cage, forgetting the word in English for the body part. I’m on a roll today. “But nothing is broken in your ankle, only twisted. They said you are still okay to race at Le Mans in two weeks, if you are ready.”

  Her brow furrows, that temper of hers already poking its head out. “Why wouldn’t I be ready?”

  Of course. I tell her she nearly died, her body is broken, and all she wants to know is when she can race again. I should’ve told her she was paralyzed so she’d consider taking the next race off to recover, but it’s more likely I’m gonna be the one unable to walk when I tell her what I did.

  “I told your manager…it may be difficult.”

  Her whole body jerks, her voice blasting out, “You told Frank to sit me out of the race?”

  “Five turns to the left, Lorina!” I take a second, getting myself back under control. “Which is good for your shoulder, since it is not too many. But the left turns are bad for…” I touch my palm to my side again.

  “Ribs,” she grumbles.

  “Bad for your ribs. Also, there are nine turns to the right, which is too much pain for your hand and ankle. Molto dolore.”

  She glowers at me, her chin tilting up. “I’ll be fine, and it’s not your place to make Frank worry.”

  My eyes narrow. Her little I-have-it-under-control look may work on everyone else, her manager included, but it doesn’t fool me. “Sì, you already did this enough on your own. Playing a dangerous game on the racetrack that makes you crash while he is forced to watch from the garage.”

  She only lasts a second longer before her bottom lip trembles, and she breaks eye contact.

  Damn it, I’m going to have to hit a church on my way out of here, because I just bought a first-class ticket to hell for making her cry right now.

  “Have you seen my bike?” she whispers.

  There it is. The one question I’ve been waiting for and dreading the most. I can only bring myself to nod once.

  “Is it…?”

  Christ, I can’t do this. I always give it to her straight, and she knows that. But I can’t be the “suck it up” guy I usually am with her. Not with the tears making her eyes sparkle in a way I never want to see again.

  She promised me a long time ago that I would never see her cry, and I was counting on that. It’s what keeps me fast on the track behind her, able to cut around in front of her.

  She sniffles, and I can barely get my swallow to go down. “She is gone, Lorina.”

  She chokes on a raspy sob, tears streaming down her face as she looks toward the light coming through the window. I need to go. She probably doesn’t want me here when she’s this upset. I definitely don’t want to see it. But I still can’t bring myself to leave her alone in this cold, unfamiliar room.

  Damn string. She has one of those too, but hers isn’t tied to me. It’s tied to the moto I just pronounced dead. And I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world, because even though I’d probably feel the exact same, I need to make her stop crying. Five minutes ago.

  “It is okay, Lorina,” I say like it’s no big deal. “They will make you a new moto.”

  It’s the truth. She knows it, but still, she shakes her head. “It’s not the same.”

  I drop the act. Wasn’t like it was working anyway. “I know.”

  She glances over at me, those tears still caught in her eyelashes, and that string is now a cable slicing my chest in half until I can’t stop my brow from creasing in strain. She hurriedly wipes at her eyes, and the wound isn’t healed, but at least it isn’t gushing my entrails anymore.

  I sit up, grasping for a change of subject but not landing far. “I watched the replay of the race very close.”

  Her eyes widen. “Did you see it?”

  I shake my head, disappointing her as always. “None of the cameras see. Not even your OnBoard; you were leaned over too far. It only show
s you and Santos in the turn, and then you crashed.”

  “But you know, don’t you?”

  Slowly, I nod.

  Santos Saucedo is becoming more of a problem every day. Picking fights during press conferences after having close calls in nearly every turn, and I don’t care what his side of the story is. The only thing that matters is that every version ends with Lorina in here.

  “What happened after?”

  The muscles in my jaw flex as I glance at my folded hands. I barely remember the rest of the race, apart from trying to get through everything as fast as possible so I could get here. “He won first, took the podium, gave his interviews with the press.”

  She shakes her head, her voice low with anger. “That asshole. He hit me, Massimo. And not accidentally. On purpose.”

  “Sì, I know.”

  I also know it might be my fault. Because after I shoved him into that wall in Austin, he warned me to watch my back—to watch hers—and I didn’t. I didn’t warn her about the fight I’d started, and I didn’t protect her. I just let her go after him, alone.

  “Are they even going to do anything about it?”

  I shake my head. “The stewards already reviewed it. They said there was nothing wrong.”

  Filing for an investigation won’t help her cause either. The most she’s gonna get is Santos earning a long lap penalty in Le Mans, and she doesn’t need to spend weeks reliving the wreck to a bunch of investigators who’ll probably try to blame it on her. She should’ve backed down long before he was close enough to do what he did.

  “But—”

  “Quel ch’è fatto è fatto. What is done is done. You need to look forward now, Lorina.”

  “Look forward to what? To someone else trying this crap again in two weeks at Le Mans? They’re all out for themselves!”

  “Sì, and if you let fear in your heart”—I snap my fingers—“you die.”

  “I am not afraid!” She winces from raising her voice, her head probably pounding, and I still can’t make myself leave. Now more than ever.

  “No?” I lean forward, my voice just between us. “I think you are very afraid. I think you are scared to lose. I think you fear the other riders.”

  She glares at me. “They’re dangerous.”

  “So are you, Tigrotta.”

  She jerks back, blinking at me like she can’t believe I actually admitted it. But I’m not taking it back, and I’m not above switching tactics when necessary.

  “When we were at Qatar, you pushed me, and you pushed me hard inside turn sixteen. You did this even knowing I was probably going to crash. You did the same thing in Argentina, only that time, I did crash.”

  “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as her eyes grow horrified. “I never meant to make you—”

  “You scare me, Lorina. I was never going to tell you this. But you have no fear of me on moto, and you push hard.” I narrow my eyes, daring her in the way she’s never been able to resist. “You need to push everyone else the same way. So when you see yellow and red and Santos orange, and you feel fear? You think Massimo blue. Then…” I wave my hand. “You will have no more fear, and you win.”

  I sit back in my chair, propping my boot on my knee. I don’t actually think some crap about color association will work, but it’s something to get her head out of the wreck. Out of this hospital room flooded with so much antiseptic cleaner, it’s burning my nostrils. It’s exactly how my mother always smells at the end of her shifts.

  But I don’t want to think about her or how she feels about Lorina right now. And Lorina needs to start thinking about Le Mans if she’s not going to sit out. She needs to crave revenge. The win. It’s the only thing stronger than fear.

  She stays quiet for a while, probably riding the track in her mind. Visualizing turns and already deciding what gear recommendations she’s going to ignore, what braking suggestions she’s going to fly past. How satisfying it’s going to be when her heel drops and wrist twitches, launching from the starting line.

  It’s what I should be doing. Reconciling myself to the fact that when she gives me an opening on that day, I’m going to have to take advantage of it. Swerve and steal, probably scare the shit out of her. I don’t have a choice if I’m ever going to get out from under Gabriele’s thumb, and it’s exactly why I shouldn’t be in this hospital room.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” Lorina asks, and I tilt my head, no idea what turn sequence she’s talking about. “Ten years we’ve been racing against each other, and it’s only now that we’re able to talk like this.”

  I shift in my seat a little. So much for visualizing Le Mans. “Hai rimpianti? Do you…have regrets?”

  “Like regret racing against each other?”

  “No, that is not what I asked.” I run a hand over my hair, trying to find the guts to say all the words of the question I’m really wondering. “Do you have regrets about what happens when we race? Together?”

  It takes her more than a few deep breaths before she whispers, “Yes.”

  Holy shit.

  I nod once, like the simple act of her saying that hasn’t almost convinced me to forgive all the times we’ve nearly killed each other out there, but it helps. “Bene.”

  A small laugh slips out of her, quickly followed by a grimace. I need to go, let her rest. She closes her eyes and breathes through it, then reopens her eyes and asks, “How is that good?”

  Five more minutes, then I’m out of here. Before whatever drugs they gave her wear off, and we start fighting when she remembers she hates me.

  “If you had said no, I would think you a liar.” I risk a grin that’s a little more suggestive than I should dare, considering we’re alone. “Everyone has regrets. Even you, Lulu.”

  She levels a look at me, indifferent to me noticeably flirting with her and not even acknowledging her least-favorite nickname. “Fine. If we’re playing this game, then what are your regrets?”

  “Not today,” I tell her. “Maybe domani. Maybe tomorrow, I will tell you.”

  No chance in hell.

  “Sounds like you’re the one who’s afraid.”

  The simple taunt is too much to endure. I sit forward, my hands folded calmly, but tension ripples off me. I’m not afraid of telling her the truth. It just won’t change anything when all she cares about is winning, and my bank statement says I need to keep seeing her as a competitor. Not a woman who braids her hair only for races and lets it live free the rest of the time. Who never fails to break my sentences in half when she walks into a sponsor party wearing a gown that would look right at home on any red carpet.

  The problem is, as much as she can’t back down from a race or a fight, I can’t back down from her.

  She swallows, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she were to hit me with all I’m letting sneak past my eyes. I know to stop it. I can’t. Today, I saw her die, and I didn’t stop to help her.

  I jerk my chin toward her, my personal rulebook firmly and completely disappeared. “Close your eyes.”

  She doesn’t close them; they only widen. Can’t really blame her. “Why?”

  There’s no way I’m answering that, so I just wait. She swallows again at my silence, but then surprisingly, she does as I ask. Definitely finding a priest on my way out of here. There’s got to be one roaming the corridors.

  As quietly as I can, I grab the stuffed tiger I bought while staring blankly at the shelves in the gift shop, taking it out of the bag I left in here earlier. Then I set it next to her on the bed.

  “Massimo,” she whispers, nervous because her eyes are closed and I’m alone with her in the room. I deserve it—I’ve spent years making sure she doesn’t get close enough to trust me. What I can’t remember was whether that was for Lorina or for me.

  I look at the bandage on her hand, the one on her temple, and I remember. So with all the par
ts of me that are good, the ones I don’t let her see, I silently rise, then press a kiss to her cheek. In it, I leave the longing I’ve never dared voice. The pride I have for her. The love that has ruined me for anyone else.

  She trembles, and I pull back and turn to leave the room.

  Christ, I shouldn’t have done that. We’re rivals, and she will always love racing more than anything else.

  “Massimo?” she says, and because I am hers, I stop.

  She pauses, and I tell myself to suck it up. The sure to follow “Don’t do that again.” The “That’s nice, but I don’t feel that way.” I’ve heard worse from her, and I’ve lived through it.

  Her voice is quiet and unsure when she finally mumbles, “See you in France?”

  I pivot, the corner of my mouth turning up as I respond with something low in Italian. Something she can’t accept but I’ve known since we were fifteen.

  She rolls her eyes. “In English?”

  “Ciao.”

  I disappear around the corner, ignoring as she calls after me, “That wasn’t English!”

  Damn right it wasn’t. And it never will be.

  GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA

  Jerez de la Frontera, Sunday, May 05

  Pos

  Pts

  Rider

  Time

  World Rank

  1

  25

  Santos SAUCEDO

  41’08.685

  70

  2

  20

  Billy KING

  1.654

  74

  3

  16

  Giovanni MARCHESA