Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  My hope bursts, my voice blasting out right behind it. “Why? So you can tell me how it’s all in my head and—”

  “No. If you think there is a problem, I will not say you are wrong when I do not know this without seeing these things for myself. And I cannot see them. But…I think you should still come sit with me. Stanotte. Tonight.”

  My hand stutters over Tigrotta’s stripes. A thousand responses trill through my mind, like how he said we needed to be careful—although I’m not sure why, if it’s a gossip thing with the other racers or what—along with just a resounding, instinctual no.

  It could be a trick or a trap.

  But when I think about all the times just being close to him has centered me and how close I am to possibly never seeing him again, I find myself looking toward my bag and my clothes as I hear myself answer, “Where?”

  Chapter 10

  Lorelai Hargrove—July; Chemnitz, Germany

  He answers my knock on his door quickly—in the same hotel, but two floors down—Massimo checking down the hallway when I cross inside.

  “Watching for assassins?”

  He doesn’t answer, just shutting the door and walking around me into the suite. Rolling my eyes, I turn to follow after him, but stop short when I find he’s now sitting on the bed with his back against the pillows: an exact replica of the room I just left, except the accent colors are different.

  It hits me all at once, and I can’t believe I didn’t…

  We’re in a hotel room.

  Why the hell did I say yes to this? He could think…

  I might…

  I swallow, trying to assess how much danger I’m in on a temptation scale.

  He’s still just chilling. The collar of his hoodie is smoothly rumpled around his neck and jawline, his dark stubble a little longer, his mustache a little thicker than he normally lets it grow before he shaves it again. The hem of his sleeve is almost meeting the remote he has lazily cradled in his hand, his arm draped over his bent knee and his fingertip just barely grazing the top of the pause button but not pushing it.

  Yep, I’m screwed.

  He is ridiculously sexy when he’s comfortable. And he’s comfortable on a bed with me in the room like it’d be totally normal for me to slip into the sheets beside him, curl up on his shoulder, and fall asleep to whatever he’s watching. Except I doubt there’d be any sleeping in Massimo’s version of…whatever this is.

  I cross my arms and lift my chin. He can never know how badly I’m handling this. Not with how well he appears to be. “If you called me down here to watch some twisted Italian porn, I’m leaving.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and damn him for that, because it makes him even hotter and, at the same time, lures me farther into the room.

  With every step toward him, it feels like a decision I don’t want to name. The conclusion of where this ends that I can’t wrap my mind around yet because we don’t…do that.

  But here I am. In his room. And he’s on a bed. Waiting for me.

  My pulse throbs in my chest, and I pull my eyes from his dark jaw, looking anywhere that will stop me from racing down the road toward the unthinkable.

  I glance toward the safety of the TV.

  My back stiffens, and I whirl toward the door. “Yeah, good night.”

  “Lorina,” he says, and it stops me dead in my tracks. It doesn’t stop the cruel hand of fear inching toward my throat.

  Of all the things that could be playing on his television set, it’s the crash at Jerez that has threatened to ruin my entire career. Betrayal bites at me, and I can’t stop wondering why it feels like I found another woman in his bed.

  “I don’t want to watch this, Massimo. I lived through it, and that was more than enough.”

  “Come sit with me,” he says again, softer. “It is easier to watch if I can see you, so I can remember you are okay.”

  His words lock me in place, breaking me in half. He isn’t supposed to say those things to me. He isn’t supposed to sound like he really means them. Like it really does hurt him to watch the crash, and he really does want me next to him, just so he can feel better.

  I should go. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place. I can’t be in his hotel room. What would people say if they knew? Mason and his never-stopping mouth would say we were sleeping together, and we’re not.

  I don’t care if Massimo is sexy. I don’t care if it would feel good. I’m not doing it.

  “Per favore, cara…”

  Damn it. Not that name. That’s the new one. The secret one. The one I’m afraid to translate online because I want to hear it from him first. Why he’s calling me that. Why now.

  I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I can control my actions, thoughts, and feelings. And I can hang out with a guy without it meaning anything more. I work out with Billy and Mason all the time when we’re home, and I can watch TV with Massimo. It doesn’t have to end in nudity and orgasms and awkward “Where do we go from here?” conversations. We can just spend time together. As friends. While we can.

  Keeping my back to the screen, I walk toward the bed and sit next to him. It’s a little weird, trying to find a way to sit where I’m comfortable. But that’s basically impossible with the small amount of space between us strangling me. How easy it would be for it to become less. How cold the air is on my skin, and how warm he looks in that hoodie.

  Maybe that’s what he had in mind all along.

  If it was, he doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t do or say anything, just rewinding the video to restart the sequence of events. My fingers pick distractedly at the down comforter, waiting for the sound of the crash. Massimo’s hand lies on my calf.

  I startle at his touch, my eyes flying to his and pleading with him not to go there. I can’t take it right now on top of everything else. He doesn’t move his hand, only slightly arches his eyebrow, and I swallow. He waits.

  I wish I’d worn something more modest than shorts and a T-shirt. I wish I’d worn nothing but lacy lingerie under a trench coat, a scarf and set of handcuffs in the pocket.

  God, what is wrong with me?

  Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter now. Because with just the tiniest bit of pressure that tingles over every other part of my body, he begins gently massaging my leg, and I can’t bring myself to do anything except look at the bedding and let him keep touching me.

  What the hell is happening? How and when did we get here?

  “Your technique in turn nine is magnifico,” he murmurs. Like that’s something he would ever admit to me under normal circumstances.

  I prop my chin in my hand and remind myself I am in control, even as my heart races faster with every graze of his fingertips on my skin. I am not acting on anything; we’re just hanging out. At least until Massimo’s fingers increase the pressure, slowly climbing higher up my leg, and my knees open wider before I can stop myself because I want more.

  “But, in turns two and three…” He whistles. “You fly, Tigrotta.”

  My eyes fall shut. I love the beginning of the track in Jerez, the sensual swing from right to left—it’s all hips. It’s not as much of a rush as the chicane at Laguna Seca, but it’s still a blast.

  Massimo’s fingertips dare toward the inside of my knee, goose bumps betraying me with their encouragement. I don’t open my eyes, but I can almost feel his smile. I absolutely feel the pad of his thumb, lightly sweeping across the border into my inner thigh.

  A shiver tingles down my back, my hips aching to shift closer and closer—it feels so good to be touched. Doesn’t help that I haven’t been with anyone since Etienne. Wincing off the memory of eloquent French hands and a breakup voicemail, I shift my head in my palm, listening to Massimo breathe quietly next to me over the muffled sounds of the crowd on the video.

  It’s impossible not to soak in the silent whi
sper of his fingertips on my body and my own secrets of how I want them higher, deeper, in the private places of me I swore he’d never touch. But with Massimo, nothing is simple.

  We’re enemies by trade, forever competitors. Except it’s together that we’re secluded from the world behind chains around the paddock, living in airports and train stations. He’s a sign of home on foreign continents; a stranger I shouldn’t trust, but I do.

  At the same time, I will see him always. Every track, every press conference. And the reminder of what’s coming, the races and the watchful eyes of Dabria on my point tallies, puts a stopper in this more than any other consideration.

  Despite how easy it would be to give in and take what my body is obviously craving—what he appears to be silently offering—and despite how easily I could shift and pin him, strip him down, and sink deep and ride… I have more important things to think about than sex. And the absolute, very last thing I need to do is fall down another slope that might have no bottom.

  My eyes open, and I bat his hand away from my leg. “Stop touching me.”

  He huffs, his hand tossed up in exasperation. “Why do you always have to be difficult?”

  “Because. This is the last thing I need right now, especially from you.”

  He shakes his head, but at least he’s not going aggro on me. “Life does not let you choose simple, Lorina.”

  “I don’t need simple,” I tell him, my temper twisting the more he stays calm. “What I need is to figure out how to get back to winning on the track, and sleeping with you doesn’t help me fix that, does it?”

  He arches a haughty eyebrow. “I never said I was going to help fix you.”

  I sputter, though I don’t know why I’m even surprised. He’s probably thrilled I’m tanking right now. “Well, that’s just great,” I deadpan. “And since I’m apparently on my own, let me make this clear: I don’t have time for whatever romantic crap you’re trying to pull.”

  “That is okay.” He shrugs, relaxing back into his pillows and twirling the remote in his hand. “I have plenty of time.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You think you need to wait to have fun until you are no longer afraid? You will wait forever, and trust me, Lorina, I know. I made the same mistake.”

  I know that was English, but that couldn’t possibly have meant what I think it did.

  He sits up a little more, pausing the video. “Always when we race together, I have to choose between you and moto. I know that if I want to win, I will have to make you angry, scare you, maybe even make you crash. And I cannot be afraid for you because of the bad choices you make.” He pauses, his eyes dark with the competitive fire I’ve known for years. But with nothing more than a blink of his thick eyelashes, his expression softens, a new shade of him coming into view. “But if I want you to smile,” he says, something velvety teasing the corner of his voice, “if I want you to be happy, to win, then I will have to lose.” He blinks again, and my blood chills as it all falls away, a cold determination the only thing left in his expression. “I choose to win.”

  I look away, my hands clamping into fists so tight, my nails cut my palms. Nothing about what he said should shock me, and yet it hurts like hell to hear him say it. Especially after the last few months, when he’s been so…so close to me. “You are such an asshole.”

  “Sì. So are you.”

  My eyes flare, but a knock on his door turns both our heads before I can respond. My pulse surges wildly at the prospect of being caught in his room, Massimo getting off the bed and heading toward the door, gesturing for me to stay put.

  He cracks it open, Vinicio’s voice sneaking past. “È tardi. Vai a dormire.”

  Massimo rattles off something to his manager, then he closes the door, locks it. He turns and starts striding toward me. I get up and meet him halfway there. I can read anger in his gait from a mile away, I’ve known it so many years, and I’m not about to let him tower over me when he starts yelling.

  His steps come to a harsh halt, his voice even more so when he points at me. “I am not the only one who chose to put moto first. You just told me that you have to find a way to win before you can think about love. And I understand why you did this when we were young and still trying to make MotoPro, but we are here now, and it is enough, Lorina. I am tired of choosing between winning or losing, between friends or enemies. I have what I want in moto, but I want a life after too. And I am tired of waiting to have both.”

  My eyes search his, stunned.

  The sexual tension between us lately…that’s one thing. Understandable, even, when he’s been drawing cute hearts on my hand and whispering, “Buonanotte” to me on the phone at night. But he can’t seriously tell me he’s been waiting ten years for this, because everyone knows: you can’t compete against the person you care about.

  He sighs like he’s crumbling apart under the agony of hesitating, then he continues shocking the holy hell out of me. His hands come up and cradle my jaw, his thumbs sweeping over my cheeks. My heart races, my mind trying to decide whether to register him as friend or foe. It should feel strange, to be touched so sweetly by this man I’ve hated. But so many times in my dreams, I’ve felt the calluses on his fingertips, the warmth of his palms. I don’t know if I like it. All I know is that in real life, it’s different.

  Instead of the roughness I expected, his fingers are smooth, long cared for by his racing gloves. He’s warm but cooler than I thought he’d be. His touch is more gentle. His eyes are more stark. And I know: that’s exactly what he’s saying. For ten years, he pissed me off to keep me at a distance. We were cruel to each other because we couldn’t afford to be anything less.

  His hands slip down to my neck, over my shoulders, and down my arms. My palms catch his forearms, wrapped in the soft cotton of his hoodie and bruisingly solid underneath. We’re locked together but far enough apart that I can still breathe as my mind speeds, trying to remember who started it. Trying to determine if there could have been another way.

  I look at Massimo a little more closely—his jaw tight and eyes more vulnerable than I’ve ever known—and I hate what I see. He’s right. We were trapped. I had to hate him if I was going to resist him. I couldn’t worry about his life on the track; I had to worry about mine. And I couldn’t risk feeling guilty for winning when it meant he’d lose.

  He brings me a little closer, his warmth soaking into my skin when he drops his forehead to mine. My eyes fall closed, my heart throbbing in my chest as my hands dare to slide higher up his arms, feeling the swell of his biceps until I land on his shoulders. There’s no reason why we can’t try to be together now that we’ve made it past the finish line of advancing to MotoPro. My eyes pinch tighter shut. Except we’re still racing against each other, and I’m losing, bad.

  Massimo shifts a little, hooking a finger under my chin and tilting my face up to his. It would be so easy to let him kiss me. So easy to melt into him and forget that right now, I can’t find my way back to the biggest love of my life. That adding a relationship with Massimo into the mix isn’t going to make anything clearer.

  He could make it go away, though. All the confusion and the pain and the frustration. He could make me forget until he’s all that’s left. I know he could.

  Stay focused, Hargrove.

  I can’t let him.

  Me first. Career first.

  I cover his hand with mine, then pull it away. When he looks at me, the frustration that was in his voice is now anger popping his jaw, hurt burning in his eyes. It kills me, seeing it there when I never meant for this to happen. But there’s no going back now.

  “What are you doing, Lorina?”

  I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “This, us… It’s not that simple.”

  “It is simple,” he rushes out. “For the first time since we met, the first time in ten years, it is now sim
ple. But you want to wait? Fine,” he sneers. “Do as you like, Lorina. You always do. I am not waiting anymore.”

  I take a step back from him, my hand held out between us. “What does that mean?”

  He looks at my hand like its very presence offends him. “Why do you think I follow you to the hospital? That I call you? That I asked you to come here?”

  “I thought…” My mouth is a desert. “I thought you were doing it because you wanted to help me.”

  “Wrong.” Everything about him gets infinitely darker—his eyes, his voice, even his words. “I cannot fix you. I do not even think you are broken. You are just a spoiled little girl, crying so someone will pat you on the head, tell you it is not your fault, and then give you a new doll as a prize. Or new plates.”

  My eyes bulge. “What?”

  “Wah,” he mocks. “A boy made me crash. I am so scared now.”

  “Screw you!”

  “The only person who thinks you are broken is you. You need to stop crying and accept that you crashed not from me or Santos or anyone else. You crashed perché you are dangerous, Lorina, and you still have not learned how to lose. And not only to lose a race”—he barks out a pitiless scoff—“but to lose everything! You are holding on too tight to the things that do not matter, and you have so much of them that you forget nothing is promised to you. Not even moto.”

  Infuriatingly, my eyes start stinging with tears. “I cannot believe you’re saying this to me right now.”

  He nods. “I choose. I choose to tell you the truth. I do not care if you are sad. I do not care if it makes you cry.” He steps forward, barely an inch away. “I do not care.”

  My bottom lip trembles, and I bite it. Hard.

  His eyes follow every movement.

  “The problem,” he continues, “is that you think I say this because I am an asshole. But I say these things because you ask this of me!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You asked me to be your enemy when I would rather be your friend.” His voice cracks on the last word, Massimo wiping a hand over his mouth like that’ll erase that it happened, and it shatters me. Totally and completely. “This is not what I want, the way I want for us to be. You think because I make jokes, I do not feel these things you say? ‘I hate you, you are an asshole,’” he mocks. “But this is what you want, so fine. I do this for you.”