Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  “Get back,” I warn, then push off the dirt with the toes of my boot. My wrist twitches to open the throttle, the drop of my heel shifting from first gear into second as I charge from one hell toward another.

  Once I’m on the track, I duck low over my handlebars, leaning left into the turn. My breath is shaky in and out of my lungs, and everything in me sobs in anguish when my kneepad scrapes the track.

  Please, don’t let me die.

  GRAND PRIX DE FRANCE

  Le Mans, Sunday, May 19

  Pos

  Pts

  Rider

  Time

  World Rank

  1

  25

  Santos SAUCEDO

  43’49.762

  95

  2

  20

  Billy KING

  3.508

  94

  3

  16

  Massimo VITOLO

  6.126

  65

  4

  13

  Giovanni MARCHESA

  7.745

  53

  5

  11

  Cristiano ARELLANO

  9.499

  59

  6

  10

  Mason KING

  12.365

  50

  7

  9

  Deven HORSLEY

  17.136

  33

  8

  8

  Fredek SULZBACH

  22.385

  21

  9

  7

  Aurelio LOGGIA

  29.388

  22

  10

  6

  Elliston LAMBIRTH

  32.684

  29

  11

  5

  Galeno GIRÓN

  36.713

  13

  12

  4

  Lorelai HARGROVE

  41.575

  69

  13

  3

  Harleigh ELIN

  45.992

  28

  14

  2

  Gregorio PAREDES

  53.357

  25

  15

  1

  Rainier HERRE

  1’04.534

  10

  16

  Cesaro SOTO

  1’07.091

  5

  17

  Gustavo LIMÓN

  1 Lap

  0

  18

  Diarmaid DEAN

  1 Lap

  2

  Not Classified

  Donato MALDONADO

  17 Laps

  22

  Not Finished 1st Lap

  Timo GONZALES

  0 Lap

  5

  Chapter 8

  Massimo Vitolo—June; Mugello, Italy

  I cruise to a stop inside my Mugello pit box, always my best on Italian soil and my entire body still vibrating with fuck yeah energy. Mason King set a blistering practice pace for us yesterday. Billy and Giovanni are barely keeping up, and I know Santos has got to be sweating his balls off. It’s not a problem for me, though. I’ve been moving at warp speed ever since Le Mans.

  We’re only five races into the circuit, but with the high rankings I’m pulling down, my financial breakup with Gabriele is not only becoming a touchable reality, but the end date is moving up. Valencia is starting to look like Malaysia. Possibly Australia. Could be even sooner depending on how I race this Sunday and whether anyone important crashes out.

  I mentally curse myself for the jinx as soon as I think it. As much as I love watching Gabriele squirm every time I step foot in that asshole’s office, I really wish those envelopes weren’t heavy because Lorina is wrecking. Beating her in a battle is one thing. Passing her by when she’s in the dirt is another. But she’ll bounce back soon. She always does.

  As soon as I take off my helmet and tug out my earplugs, my crew and Vinicio greet me with their standard postpractice applause, Gabriele’s nephew included. Right on cue, Chiara leaps up from her chair, running over to me with a squeal and wrapping her arms around my neck in a hug that chokes the hell out of me.

  “I hate you so much for this,” my best friend whispers in Italian. “I’m so freaking bored.”

  I chuckle guiltily as I pat her back and untangle myself, getting off my moto. Chiara switches back into groupie mode, batting her eyes and fidgeting with her hair, and she’s laying it on way too thick. Lucio is never going to believe the act, and I really, really need him to buy this.

  Somehow, word got out that I followed Lorina to the hospital in Jerez. Ever since, my crew chief has yet to stop asking about my relationship with her. But it’s not him wondering whether Lorina’s sleeping in my bed. It’s Angelo Maggiore—the person Lucio reports to at Yaalon.

  Technically, Angelo can’t bar me from talking to Lorina. From visiting her in the hospital or being friends. Fine print is a bitch to dig through, but for once, it’s coming out in my favor instead of detailing how much my fine is for popping wheelies in front of her garage.

  What it also didn’t say—but I already know—is that with her riding for Dabria, Angelo can question my loyalty. Whether I want to see my team’s blue colors cross the finish line first or her team’s red ones. With my luck, that insinuation could downgrade into a threat, and it could happen fast.

  Her, or them.

  Too bad hindsight doesn’t help dick, so it’s useless to long for the days when they only saw us as rivals and didn’t think to look any closer. I should have kept it that way. I don’t know how I’ll ever choose between Lorina and the paycheck that protects my family if they try to make me, so I can’t let those assholes make me.

  I sling my arm around Chiara’s shoulders and bring her with me to the edge of the garage, Lucio and the rest of my crew already starting to break down the stats readouts and prep the moto for adjustments. “They say anything while I was out there?” I ask quietly.

  “Nope. Just that you should def
initely beat her for pole position tomorrow.” Chiara pivots to face me, smiling like the sun shines out of my ass. She hands me a bottle of water, petting and poking at my leathers, and it’s annoying as hell. But Lucio glances over and smiles at me, then goes back to what he’s doing, so I let it go. Chiara drops her voice to a whisper. “I thought you said she was getting better?”

  “I said she was going to get better. And she will.”

  Chiara scowls at me like this is somehow my fault. “You need to help her, Massimo. You picked the fight that started this, which means you need to set it straight.”

  I gape at her, hating how much she’s right. “I didn’t tell you that just so you could throw it in my face.”

  She grips my jaw like a grandmother adoring a child. “Where did you expect me to throw it?” she says in a baby voice. I bat her hand away, Chiara snickering.

  “Look, what do you expect me to do? She doesn’t need my help, and she wouldn’t listen even if I tried. The only reason she ever talks to me is to yell at me.”

  Chiara shrugs. “Have you done anything lately she should yell at you for?”

  I think for a second, but I’ve been good at press conferences and keeping my mouth shut during riders’ meetings. “No. I haven’t even gone near her since her practice at Le Mans. When giving her advice didn’t make a single bit of difference, like I told you it wouldn’t.”

  Chiara’s whole expression slips into a mischievous smirk that makes me want to check for my wallet. She jerks her chin at something behind me. “It made a difference.”

  I glance behind me, and holy shit. Dabria leathers are heading my way. I whip back toward Chiara, my pulse racing even faster than before.

  “Be nice,” Chiara says patronizingly. Then, for real, “And don’t say a single word about her practice time. I mean it. She needs a friend, not another man telling her what she’s doing wrong.” Chiara glances at Lucio and my crew, then pecks my cheek and spins around, breathing, “Smack my ass.”

  I can barely keep up with her absurdity at this point. “What?”

  “Smack my ass!” I give her a little pat, and she jumps and squeaks loud enough to draw the attention of my entire crew. “Oh! Massimo, you’re so bad!”

  Vinicio groans and covers his face with his hand. But Lucio is drooling as Chiara jogs her “Keep Calm and Klingon” tank top and yoga pants out of my garage. I turn toward pit lane to see if Lorina’s going to stride past me on her way to the paddock and her RV.

  Wonders will never cease. She stops in front of me, cloaking me in sharp lemon and sweet moto exhaust. “Hey,” she says, a quiet smile to match her voice. “Do you have a second?”

  Yes, I have a second. I have all the seconds. Something she would know if she had ever willfully sought me out before, but usually, she just runs the other way. “Forse,” I tease her, shaking my hand in a maybe as I switch to English. “Depends on what you want, Lorina.”

  “I…” Her hands and entire body start to fidget as her smile and gaze drop to the garage floor. “I just wanted to say hi to my friend. After my friend finished his practice.”

  I can’t help but chuckle at my own words coming back to me, Lorina peeking up from under her eyelashes: all rich amber eyes searching mine, the Tuscan sun sparkling over her curls and cascading over her red leather shoulders, and I have no idea what racetrack we’re at anymore.

  Maybe that talk in her hospital room did more good than I thought. Maybe, finally, we’re really becoming friends.

  At least until Lorina wrinkles her nose in confusion at something over my shoulder, then tentatively waves. I turn in time to see Chiara waving enthusiastically at Lorina, and I whip forward, even more tongue-tied than before.

  “Is that…your cousin or something?” Lorina leans past me to get a better look, and I quickly block her view.

  Explaining my and Chiara’s history is gonna be more than a little complicated, and it’s not something I’m looking to share with Lorina yet when we’re barely starting to talk. Not fight, but talk.

  Lorina looks back to me, her eyes narrowed. “Just forget it.”

  Not likely. She’s starting to trust me, possibly even like me—if I can get out of this—and that’s better than any qualifying time. Fine or no fine. “Why should I forget?”

  “Well, considering you have some mystery guest you’re refusing to explain…” Lorina gestures behind me.

  My smile grows impossibly wider. If she wants to go there, let’s go there. “I am not hiding anything.”

  “Then who is she?”

  I take a step closer, whispering, “First, admit you are jealous.”

  Lorina shakes her head, like that’ll keep her from getting more pissed off. “Whatever. Keep your secrets. It’s not my business anyway.”

  “Lorina, it is not a secret. It is just—”

  “Massimo,” Vinicio says behind me. I glance at him, and his eyebrow arches, every word heavy with importance as he continues in Italian. “She cannot be here right now.”

  My gaze follows his toward my crew. Who have stopped what they’re doing. Lucio is standing in front of them, his arms crossed, as though just the sight of them having tools in their hands is giving Lorina some kind of advantage for the coming race. Yeah, okay.

  Still, I don’t have a choice but to turn to back to Lorina, concentrating hard on what’s most important—what has to come first anyway. “Speaking of secrets, if you want to spy on me, maybe next time you should wear something more sexy than leathers. It would work better.”

  Her eyes widen. “What do you mean ‘spy’?”

  “They are working on my moto for the race, and—”

  “Oh.” She backs up, embarrassment coloring her features as she looks at Vinicio. “Sorry, I’ll go.” She turns on her heel and starts heading back the way she came, but at twice the speed as before.

  Since when does she back down that fast?

  I take a drink of water, steeling myself. I should get back to working with my crew in case they have any questions about the changes I need them to make. To make sure Lucio sends a favorable report to Angelo about my loyalty.

  Lorina dodges Santos walking past her, and she hugs her arms around herself. Yank.

  “Ehi! Lulu,” I call out before I can care about the kind of trouble this stuff has caused in the past, and I find myself jogging out of my garage, ignoring Vinicio calling my name.

  Lorina looks at me once I’m caught up to her, and under the scent of sharp citrus layered with hints of deathly speed, I’m already struggling to keep my thoughts straight. But something in her eyes reminds me of her crying in the hospital, and I’m completely screwed. I glance around, but there’s nowhere we can go to talk privately. Definitely don’t want to think about the fact that my very empty apartment is only a couple of hours from here. I should probably count my blessings for that, but I never did find that priest.

  “I am going to get something to eat,” I lie. “Come sit with me, and you can tell me all your dirty Tigrotta secrets. I will not even judge you for them.” I lean a little closer. “Much.”

  Hope brightens the corner of her lips, turning up into a smile. “Okay.”

  I nod, and together, we head off pit lane and into the open paddock, where there are plenty of people. So far, so good. Most of their eyes widen a little when they see us; they’ve all been witnesses to our arguments over the past years. At least by being in public, they can all report to anyone who asks that nothing is happening that shouldn’t be.

  Once we’re outside the cooking station set up for me and Billy and our team, Lorina takes a seat across from me at a table. But instead of merrily glaring at me under the perfect Tuscan weather, she’s staring at her hands in her lap, dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t been sleeping enough. She’s also shrinking inside her leathers instead of wearing them like a superhero costume as she no
rmally does. I practically have to bite my tongue to keep from asking her what the hell happened at Le Mans.

  I’m telling myself it was just the soreness. I told her those broken ribs were gonna hurt. But Lorina is also Centauro—a true racer, in heart, in spirit—and I never really expected her to sit out. I’m also expecting her to mount a comeback challenge this Sunday, which means I can’t rule out that all of this—the surprise garage appearance and the quiet sullenness—could be a ploy to get me to drop my guard.

  Kinda doubting it, but with Lorina, anything is possible.

  “So, um, how was your break?” she asks the table, and I nearly choke from pure shock. I didn’t know Lorina was aware there was life outside the circuit. Apart from that disastrous conversation surrounding her last boyfriend, we’ve never discussed our home life.

  “It was okay,” I tell her carefully. Expensive would be more truthful, but that’s a lot to unpack. “Um…” What do I say? Nothing about racing or her practice time, Chiara said. What else is there? “Your family in Memphis, you raise horses, yes?” Billy never shuts up about his stallion, Gadget or Gidget or something, during our team meetings.

  Lorina nods, something a little sweet playing in her voice. “Carthusian-Andalusians.”

  I had a joke teed up about whips and saddles, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was. “So…beautiful horses,” I say instead.

  She nods again, but the movements are all skittish and impatient. Same with the sigh she lets out before she glances around, then demands, “What do you do when you’re not racing, Massimo? Or what would you do if you…couldn’t race?”

  I repeat her words in my head multiple times, hoping I’m getting one of them wrong, but nope. Why is she talking about retiring? We just made MotoPro, and barring any more big wrecks, she has ten years to go before her age becomes a factor. Must be Billy freaking her out while they’re home in Memphis. Especially with how everyone is constantly on his ass to hang it up.