The second we get back to the house, I’m going to my room, taking the coldest shower ever, and then I’m getting out my laptop. I need to study the Automotodrom Brno. I need to replay videos of my races from the past and remember, plan, and strategize. I need to stay ready so I can head back to the circuit and win until there’s no question of making the final podium for World Champion and keeping my contract with Dabria. I need…
To go to his room and see what’s hiding behind those jeans, because I felt it in the bathroom when we were making out, and I’m pretty sure he’s rocking at least—
I shake my head at myself, pushing more power through my legs and concentrating on the taste of the hot air streaming into my lungs.
Moto. Not Massimo.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
I clear my mind and focus on the sight of tall trees and open sky, the wide cut of grass with plenty of space to run. And yet Massimo is soon caught up and riding my ass, close enough that I start to hope one of my shoes catches him in the shin. It never does, and he keeps right on pushing us, faster and faster.
I inch to the right so he’ll just go around me and do whatever it is he wants. He moves to the right with me. I fade left a few minutes later, but again, no budge from him. I don’t know if he’s staring at my ass or just trying to screw with my head by pretending to slipstream, but all it’s doing is pissing me off. I get enough of the battle crap on the racetrack. I don’t need it while I’m running.
The sound of his shoes hitting the ground gets a little louder like he’s closing in behind me. I push more power through my legs to regain my distance from him, but Massimo’s speed only picks up more until I’m nearly sprinting with how hard he’s pushing me. We start across the wooden bridge over the creek, and I glance back over my shoulder to curse him out for whatever childish game he’s playing. He darts past me.
Orange Hotaru paint flashes in my vision, the groan of crashing metal tumbling down pavement ringing in my ears. His elbow brushes mine. My body flinches away, and I stumble, falling into the water.
It gulps me down as my shoulder burns with the memory of pain, and I scream underwater. That’s all that rushes into my lungs.
I’m going to die.
Right now.
Muddy spots blot my vision, and my weightless body is no longer at home in Memphis but strapped down in the back of the ambulance in Jerez. Gone are the cheers of fans, the heat of the sun, the growl of my bike. The world is only muffled Spanish voices and my hot breath slapping into my face under the plastic nebulizer.
Frank’s face appears above me as he smooths his hand over my forehead, pushing away my hair. “Breathe, Lori. Just breathe,” he repeats. His hand runs down my arm while my back bows in pain at a bump in the road, followed by a sharp turn. The G forces roll me into the strap belted over my chest, and it’s a hammering ax to my ribs, puncturing my lungs. “Everything is going to be okay,” he tells me, a strained smile on his face.
I burst into sobs. It hurts too much to see, the lie scaring the absolute shit out of me.
“Frank…” My words catch in my throat, but I manage to squeak out, “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, honey,” he breathes, his eyes misting as he forces another smile. “It’s not your fault.”
He’s wrong. It’s all my fault.
One of my shoes scrapes the sodden bottom of the river, striking me back to reality. Panicking, I claw my way toward the sun as my lungs continue to flood. When my head breaks the surface, all the water I just swallowed comes right back out.
I stumble toward the bridge, hooking my elbows onto it for support. Icy fear and water lap at me from every angle, my breaths shaky as I try my hardest not to cry. It’s just…it’s so hard not to when I can’t stop seeing the crash behind my eyes. When I can’t stop hearing my bike’s engine, but it’s no longer a hum telling me I’m home. It’s a threat. A warning. And that is so, so wrong.
A finger tucks a loose, wet hair behind my ear, and my head lifts. Massimo is crouching in front of me, concern in his eyes that doesn’t match any other part of his expression. He blinks and it’s gone, his normal cocky gaze in place and his hand held out to me. “Andiamo.”
I knock his hand away. The corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile. Jerk.
He straightens and steps back as I push out of the river, water pooling in my shoes.
“Are you hurt, from the fall?” he asks.
“No.” I squeeze out my hair. “I’m just royally pissed at you for pushing me in the freaking water!”
He shakes his head, but it’s barely a reaction. “I did not push you. You were afraid, and you jumped.”
“Bullshit.”
He mumbles to himself in Italian before he switches to English, sounding annoyed in both languages. “Why am I surprised that because you are in denial, you think I know nothing? Hmm?”
I don’t respond. And he’s the one who’s in denial.
“Fine. I will tell you a secret. Then, maybe you will believe me.” He grins, his voice dropping as though someone may hear us. But we’re deep into my property, and I haven’t seen a horse or farmhand for a while. “You like to win, Tigrotta. But more, you like to chase.”
I cross my arms, staring him down. “Do you make sense in Italian? Because you fail at it in English.”
Massimo doesn’t take the bait. “When I am in first, you race better. You lose your fear.”
My back straightens, pushing me a little taller. It’s not enough to bridge the gap between our heights, but I feel bigger. Stronger. “I am not afraid of anything.”
“That is a lie.” Massimo shakes his head. “When you are in second, you look forward. No fear. When you are first, you always look over your shoulder. Afraid. And now…” He checks over his shoulder again, his voice dropping further. “Your fear is even worse since your crash at Jerez.”
My hands tighten into fists. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He nods like he’s placating me, then he steps forward again. But this time, we’re closer than dancing close, making love close. And very gently, he runs a fingertip down the scar on my forearm, goose bumps streaking instantly across my skin.
“You still have not learned how to lose, Lorina,” he whispers. “You think if you lose a race, lose your contract, then you will not be Tigrotta anymore. But you have forgotten, cara: you were already Tigrotta when we met at the Rookies Cup. And you were Tigrotta when we raced MotoB and MotoA. Because Tigrotta is not about what you ride or who you ride for. Tigrotta is here,” he says, gently poking at my heart. “So let go of Dabria. Let go of the contract. Be ready to lose. You will still be you. I promise, Lorina.”
I swallow thickly, no idea how to rise to his challenge. To be me and also back down.
I’ve never backed down from anything.
Massimo dips his head, touching his forehead to mine. But just for a moment before he steps back, his eyes and voice back to normal. “We run again. This time, I will be in front. When you are ready, you take first.”
Embarrassment is rife through me. “I don’t need you to do me any favors.”
“Then I will not give you any.” He grins. “Maybe I like it when you take it from me.”
I gesture for him to lead the way before I think too much about that.
Massimo starts an easy pace on the path. I walk it, watching as he follows it into the woods. When he’s no longer visible, I start to jog, my feet squishing in my shoes and my thighs rubbing awkwardly from the wet spandex. But I find my rhythm until I’m breathing the right way, my arms bent at the elbows in a natural swing.
Learn to lose, Massimo says. More like Frank would lose his shit if he heard him say that.
I do my best to ignore the conflicting words echoing in my head, and I let the smell of trees soak through me instead, drowning in the
whisper of animal feet scurrying in the brush. But after turning a corner, my peaceful run through the woods is interrupted by the sight of Massimo dead ahead. He’s running, but not nearly at the speed he was earlier.
I push harder, my eyes homing in on the back of his hoodie. I’m three feet behind him when his pace shifts into a higher gear, and I adjust to overtake him.
It’s nothing I haven’t done countless times before: proving I’m faster than he is. And I know, I know, there’s a part of him that hates me for it—for wanting the win more than he does. It’s why he’s always yelled at me, accused me, embarrassed me every chance he gets.
And he thinks I’m the one who needs to learn how to back down?
I’m less than a foot away when his eyes stay forward, but his hand reaches back.
Everything in me says to ignore him. That it’s all a ploy. Massimo has perfect timing when it comes to finding me vulnerable, convincing me that this time, he’s changed. But then out of nowhere, I’m left reeling in pain, stunned by whatever insult came out of his mouth while he saunters away, laughing. So him holding out his hand? He’s probably going to push me into the trees in his attempt to teach me some pointless lesson about trusting your competitors.
I should push him into the woods. Teach him a lesson about screwing with me, that I’m not as weak as he thinks. I should take his hand, then use it to slingshot around him and get back to the house long before he does. If he falls in the process, he falls.
I take his hand. Our steps never falter as we continue to run, me slightly behind him and the sound of our shoes hitting the path falling into sync. I get ready to overtake him, but my plan goes out the window when he settles my palm on his shoulder.
My eyes prickle in shock as he holds me there for a second, letting me feel every shift in his muscles from the relaxed swing of his arms. Then he squeezes my hand and lets me go, keeping me with him but pushing our pace a little bit faster.
Something warm tingles through my veins until it’s all I feel, and it’s something I only ever feel when I’m with him. Because I still can’t lose, and neither can he. But he can’t let me fall behind either.
For the rest of the run, I never move my hand.
Chapter 13
Massimo Vitolo—July; Memphis, United States
“Hey, buddy? You doing all right there?”
Christ, not another one. I do my best not to roll my eyes at the cowboy. Her house is crawling with men. But I don’t need one of the ranch hands giving away my position. “I am okay,” I tell the third one who’s asked me that, giving him an American thumbs-up and a smile so fake, it hurts my face.
He tips his cowboy hat at me, then keeps meandering past the garage and toward the barn. I check my watch again—she’s late. She usually rides her horse after she’s done kicking my ass in the gym all afternoon. But little does she know: I’m not reading in her father’s library while she rides today.
Five more minutes, then I’m going looking for her.
My watch vibrates and lights up, and I wonder if I’m busted and Lorina’s calling to find out where I am. But nope. It’s a third call from Vinicio.
Unable to ignore him any longer, I dig my phone out of my pocket, having to swipe a couple of times before the screen accepts the press through my gloves. “What?” I answer in Italian, backing into the garage a little, just in case.
“What do you mean ‘what’? What the hell are you still doing in Memphis? You were supposed to be back here yesterday for prep.”
I turn away from the sunny world outside in favor of the parked McLaren closest to me—the one my father would have lost his mind over and probably serenaded with a love song before presenting it with linguine. There’s no reason for me to fly back to Italy this early, especially when I know Lorina wouldn’t take it well. I just got here barely a week ago. “No one cares where I am. It’s fine.”
“Massimo, everyone is wondering where you are. Including Angelo.”
“What? How does he know I’m not at home?” I dare to run my finger down the length of Lorina’s father’s Lamborghini. “He spying on me?”
“Doesn’t have to. Some fan posted a picture of you on Twitter: asleep on a bench in Heathrow airport with a departure board full of cancelled U.S. flights in the background.”
Great. What do I need, a disguise now? “What did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him?” Vinicio snaps. My mind comes up with a billion shitty possibilities as he pauses, letting the threat sink all the way in before he sighs. “I lied and said you went to see some friends in California, and I assured him you would be back in time for the next Grand Prix. Which you will be.”
Is he—? I gesture, flabbergasted, to the last model of the Lotus Esprit they ever put into production. “When have I ever missed a race?”
“Never. But we also made a deal when you left that you’d be back here by yesterday to start prepping for Brno, and you’re still screwing around in Memphis. So I’m having a hard time trusting what you say you’re going to do.” He lowers his voice, but his words only sharpen. “Not to mention, how the hell do you expect to handle Gabriele from over there?”
I glance over my shoulder, but the view is clear of any cowboys or otherwise. “I have it under control.”
“You’re really gonna make her—”
“She can handle the drop. And I’m not missing the race.” I hang up, then turn off my phone, heading back to the edge of the garage. This is such bullshit.
No one gets to tell me how to live my life, where I go, or who I see. Not Vinicio. Not Gabriele. Certainly not Angelo Maggiore. Besides, I’m not doing anything outside the boundaries of my contract. I’m not that reckless.
Racing is the blood in my veins, what wakes me up in the morning, and what puts me back together when everything breaks. No way in hell am I walking away from that. Especially when I can’t risk losing that kind of income when I have people who are counting on me.
I’m pushing the line, but I’m not crossing it. So Angelo can learn to deal with it.
I check the time on my watch once more, doing my best to shake off the argument, and then I wait. Again. It’s not much longer until I finally spot Lorina walking toward the stables, her boots sinking into the damp grass. Perfect.
Ducking back inside, I sneak through the shadows and past the rows of her father’s cars that he refuses to even let me sit in, much less take for a spin. But he happily tossed over the keys to her Dabria when I asked, and the Atrani 1299S is nearly invisible in the darkness. The fairings must have been custom-painted—instead of red, the whole beast is a geometric mix of sleek obsidian and matte titanium, and I cannot wait to ride this thing. More, I need to get Lorina on it, yesterday.
I tug on my helmet, flipping down my face shield and securing the chin strap. The part that really irritates me is that I didn’t actually come here to help Lorina get her head straightened out when it comes to her moto. She’s a big girl, a professional, and she knows how to handle this stuff. I came here because I’ve been in love with this woman since before I knew how to give one an orgasm, and with Gabriele’s money-sucking presence nearly out of my life, I’m ready to get the next phase together.
But Lorina’s also earned the right to retire on her terms, and I can’t do nothing when she’s hurting this much.
Swinging my leg over, I wait until she crosses in front of the garage, pulling the rim of her cowgirl hat a little lower. Adrenaline and something a little kinkier floods the base of my skull when my thumb flicks and wrist twitches, the engine roaring to life.
She jumps and looks toward me, her hand clasped over her heart, and I grin, everything in me impatient to go. On the road, as fast as I can. Up to her room, with her laid out bare on the bed. I want it all, five seconds ago. Ten years ago. Now.
It takes her a second to recover, her eyes traveling up from my b
oots to my jeans, past my black leather jacket and my blacker helmet. With the dark smoke face shield dropped down, I can read every shift of her expression, and she can’t see a single aspect of mine.
“Get off my bike, Massimo,” she says, but her attempt to make her voice stern is a bust. I smile wider as my gloved hand lifts from the handlebar, daring her to come closer with every inward curl of my finger. She straightens her shoulders, being difficult as always. “That’s too much engine for you to handle, and you’re not used to the clutch or the brakes.”
I barely keep from laughing. Her Atrani is basically a jet plane on pavement, but it still doesn’t come close to what we race with on the Pro level. Should be enough to ease the twitchiness that’s been setting in, though. I can only be away from that kind of speed for so long before I want to burst out of my skin. Sex helps, but we’re not having it. So it’s either this or another shower, and I’m sick of showering.
Just to remind her how much she likes it, I rev the engine low, slow, letting it build until it comes to a screaming climax, and then I drop it into no-satisfaction blankness. Her chest expands like she sucked in a breath because she wants, and she knows I want to give it to her.
Lorina shifts her weight, glancing at the house, then at me. Finally, she deflates. “I have to get my jacket.”
I point to the table in the garage, where I set out her leather jacket, her gloves, and her helmet. I checked them all, very carefully, and they’re totally safe and completely fine. I almost want her to give me an excuse about tears, cracks, or splinters, because I’m happy to set the record straight.
All she says is, “You suck.”
I grin behind the safety of my face shield when she walks into the garage, then picks up her jacket and threads her arms through her sleeves. I fidget, restless to go as she trades her cowgirl hat for her helmet, and her nose wrinkles as she slides it on. Probably at the thought of riding as a passenger on her own moto. Good. That’s the whole point.
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