Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  “But,” I say, switching back to English. I brush a kiss to her hair before I shift back, catching her eyes. “I also know if someone cuts off my dick, I will not die. I will not be happy, but I will live. At the same time, if someone were to say to me, ‘I can kill you, or I can cut off your dick,’ I would probably say, ‘Kill me and leave my dick alone.’”

  Lorina smiles at me like that was the most romantic thing she’s ever heard. “You’d probably say that?”

  “Sì, probably,” I confirm. “I like my dick. It is my favorite part of me.”

  Lorina laughs, but I’m not kidding.

  I love her, and like Taryn and Billy, we’ve got a real shot at making this work if we can keep working through our baggage. Something there is no shortage of after ten years of diving for each other on the track. But we can’t fix that stuff if we’re constantly apart. And if she loses her contract? It won’t even matter whether she decides to go Superbike or just retires to Memphis to hide out. I’m going to be so lost without her beside me every day—as she’s always been—that I doubt I’ll be able to stay away from her for long. And I don’t trust that I won’t do something really dangerous to get back to her.

  Lorina yawns and shifts a little closer, her head going right to its place on my shoulder. The wind blowing through the trees starts to pick up, and I tuck the blanket a little tighter around her, wishing time would stop, just for once, instead of speeding up.

  Starting tomorrow, I have to win the next ten races. I have to find a way to pay off Gabriele faster than I ever thought possible and somehow, at the same time, make sure Lorina makes the podium for World Champion and keeps her contract with Dabria.

  I have to.

  All the other options, they’re just not good enough.

  Chapter 16

  Massimo Vitolo—August; Brno, Czech Republic

  I’ve had Lorina laughing from Memphis to Madrid, Madrid to London, and London to Brno, which is good. Great, even, considering she’s staring down her first race back since tanking in Germany. She didn’t sleep much our last night in her bedroom, tossing and turning until she left and went for a ride on her Dabria. But she’s not acting nearly as nervous as she was in Le Mans or Mugello. And despite that fact that I’m 95 percent sure she’s going to be fine on Sunday—especially considering our recent inauguration into the mile high club that took place somewhere over the Northern Atlantic—I’m 100 percent sure I’m in big fucking trouble.

  I’m barely across the gate into the timbered Automotodrom paddock when I see them waiting for me: Vinicio about nine levels past pissed off under baby-blue skies and white fluffy clouds, and Angelo practically salivating behind him, appearing to grow as tall as the thick woods surrounding the circuit. Because I just served up proof of exactly where I wasn’t supposed to be over the break.

  “Wanna get something to eat?” Lorina hooks the security badge around her neck like no one would recognize her after her freshly shaved undercut, but whatever. “Mas?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t shake my head. I just keep walking, blending into the herd of people closest to me and trying to make it look like it was a coincidence that we got here at the same time and not that we shared the cab pulling away from the curb. That Billy and Mason and Frank also just poured out of…

  Screw it. I’ll take the lecture, say I’m sorry and I won’t do it again, and then…done.

  Back to moto. Back to Lorina. Simple.

  “Okay…I guess not, then,” I hear called out behind me. Some of the people nearby stop and glance around to see who she was talking to, but I keep my head down and keep moving. I’ll deal with the fallout later. She’s forgiven me for worse. Like being a jerk for ten years running specifically to keep us apart because I knew it was dangerous, and we had things to focus on. Like making it here.

  Vinicio waves me toward him as if I weren’t already headed that way. But neither my manager nor sponsor rep says anything as I approach—no excitement about the coming race or animatedly running me through my press and practice schedule. They only turn and lead me toward the historic green-and-white grandstands, then inside it and down a long hallway until Angelo pulls open a door to a conference room. He waits as Vinicio crosses inside, then me, gesturing for us to take a seat at the solid teak table big enough for forty rotund capitalists that only see me as a profit margin. But there’s no one else here.

  No witnesses.

  Everything in me is freaking the hell out as I drop my bags that still smell like Lorina’s bedroom in Memphis: vanilla sweet and sensual lemon, and nothing like the salty air of Italy. Vinicio is paling next to me as we both pull out rolling desk chairs, his deodorant overtaking his cologne because he’s probably sweating through his shirt under his jacket. He’s always hated confrontation.

  “Massimo,” Angelo growls in Italian the moment my ass hits the seat. He glares at us from in front of a big blank whiteboard that shows a faint trace of the track with arrows pointing at the corners even though it was recently wiped off, the adjacent wall of video screens completely dark, and the silence in the soundproof room is nauseating. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase here.”

  Bile rises in my throat. He still hasn’t sat down.

  I tell myself that no matter what happens, not to let myself puke from the stress until after it’s over. All I’ve gotta do is ride it out. Get to the finish. This can’t be as bad as he’s making it seem. I’ve read my contract very carefully, and he can’t dictate who I’m with or who I love. It’s none of their damned business.

  At the very most, he can fine me for unbecoming conduct or disobedience. But this still isn’t even close to some of the other stunts I’ve pulled in the past. He’s just trying to scare me.

  Fuck him.

  Angelo starts pacing back and forth behind his side of the table. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that we’re more than a little disappointed to have discovered that during the break, you accompanied Lorelai Hargrove to her home in the United States. Even after we made it clear we had concerns over the nature of your relationship with her. And while we are always proud of the camaraderie of riders…” Angelo stops and faces me, a sadistic smirk on his face. “We need you to understand that you are contracted to see Yaalon place on the podium for World Champion. Not Dabria Corse.”

  My feet are flat on the floor, my palms on my thighs, and I just started pouring sweat like I’m running for my life. The fact that Angelo thinks I need to hear him say that says it all: he didn’t like the relationship. Fine. But I pissed him off, and now, he’s accusing me of throwing races we haven’t even run, of rolling out a red carpet for Lorina to take my spot on the podium.

  The hell I am. I would never do that, whether we’re sleeping together or not, and we haven’t done a thing to deserve this. The insinuation alone is insulting.

  Angelo leans forward, bracing his weight on his fists. The table creaks. “The fact that there is no precedent for this kind of relationship between riders makes this even more complicated. So I’m going to see if I can make the situation a little clearer.”

  His face tightens, and I barely keep my eyes from narrowing. No precedent? Wait till he finds out about Santos and Giovanni. That’s been going on for just as long as me and Lorina. Except they’ve actually been sleeping together for years, whereas everyone just assumed wrongly about us.

  “While at present, there is nothing in your contract that prohibits you from having a relationship with her, be advised,” Angelo snarls. “Any evidence you are sharing confidential information about your strategy to win races—including the disclosure of any changes and/or modifications made to your motorcycle after practice and qualifying—will be viewed as subversion. Furthermore, Lorelai Hargrove is not to be in your garage, pit box, or Yaalon-provided RV at any time from this day forward. Equally, you are not to be in her garage, pit box, or Dabria-provided RV. And because we are all aware she is und
er pressure from her own manufacturer, if at any time it is discovered that you are assisting her in winning races or manipulating the point system, you will be excused from the remainder of your contract with Yaalon Moto, indefinitely.”

  The air conditioner kicks on overhead, chilling the room ever further, and I can’t breathe.

  Angelo just wrote himself a blank check on how to fire me.

  I expected threats. Restrictions? Sure. Maybe a fine. But I already know that staying out of her garage won’t matter in the end. The very minute I don’t place where Angelo wants, he’ll say I did it to help her, and there will be no way to argue. No way to prove I didn’t back off or tell her anything about my moto when we’re away from the track.

  I can’t see a way out of this…

  I could go to the press. Maybe I could convince Lorina to do some kind of photo shoot with me that I fundamentally disagree with but know would work to get the fans on our side. They’ve already been speculating about us for years. If we give them their happily ever after fantasy, maybe their roars against the manufacturers will be enough to give us immunity.

  He can’t do this. This can’t happen.

  “Finally,” Angelo says, straightening. He adjusts his shirt sleeves under his jacket, checking his cuff links. “I would advise you to cease whatever relationship you have with her immediately. Because if”—massive emphasis on the if—“you continue to ride for Yaalon in the coming years, you should expect modifications to be in your contract that will clarify this…issue, so we can all remain confident we share the same goals.”

  He smiles at me. For a long, long time. Letting the words echo in the soundless room. I glance at Vinicio—this just went from bad to apocalyptic.

  Angelo unbuttons his jacket, then finally pulls out a chair and sits at the table, his chin high and hands clasped in front of him. My temper is raging, but I already know if I speak right now, I’m fired. It doesn’t erase the fact that everything in me is ready to fight, to protect her, protect us, and let the rest of the bullshit come crashing down, because she’d be worth it.

  She’s the future. My only future if it comes down to it. I know what I want. I won’t let him make me forget.

  “Massimo,” Angelo says like he’s on my side. But all he cares about is cashing his bonus check, the one he gets if the team he recruited lands on the podium. I know what he drives and how much that watch on his wrist costs. “We signed you because you are one of the most promising riders we have seen in many years. You showed focus and talent while competing in MotoB and MotoA, and we expect that same focus to be applied to seeing Yaalon Moto on the podium for World Champion. For that to be your only focus. Are we clear?”

  The fuck we are.

  I place my palms flat on the table, more than ready to grab my stuff and go—back to Lorina, back to my RV, and let Angelo follow through on his threats.

  I’d love to see that asshole try it.

  But Vinicio’s hand shoots out, closing around my wrist. My eyes dart to his, and I’m sledgehammered by the terror in his face. The fury and the helplessness. “Mio figlio,” he mouths.

  My son.

  He lets me go. I sit down. I sink in my chair.

  I lose. Just like that.

  Because it doesn’t matter that I won’t let anyone take Lorina away from me. This isn’t just about us. It’s about Vinicio too: my mother’s husband, the stepfather of my little brother. The other provider for my family. It’s about Gabriele and the money I need to pay him in a week or watch everything we own get seized overnight. A recurring amount so egregious I have no other way of earning it fast enough to keep up, through legal channels or otherwise.

  I nearly gag at the noose Angelo unknowingly looped around my neck.

  I won’t give her up—I can’t—but I can’t risk their future either.

  It’s for that reason, and that reason alone, everything in me splits apart as I hear myself yield: “I understand.”

  Chapter 17

  Lorelai Hargrove—August; Brno, Czech Republic

  Breathing hard on the sunlit track, I check over my right shoulder. Four men directly behind me. I look forward, debating whether to shift gears. The grassy knoll against the edge of the fence is blurry in my peripheral vision, going by too fast for me to see clearly. Two more laps, and I’m in twelfth place: seven men in front of me in the pack. Another four in front of them, leading the first group.

  Panic threatens at the edge of my mind, telling me this is it. If I don’t make at least sixth place, there’s no way for me to numerically make the podium for World Champion, and I’ll lose my ride. I’ll lose him. And I still don’t know how to accept either of those possibilities.

  Fifth gear. Fourth. Third, and lean.

  My body lies left into the sharp corner of turn six. My kneepad scrapes the track, my eyes trained on the rear tire in front of me, but I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. When Massimo broke the track record during practice.

  Pull vertical, lean left into turn seven. Cut inside, steal apex. Eleventh place. How proud I was of him, not threatened. Swing left for turn eight. Steal apex again. Tenth place. Screw it. Bump down to second gear to steal RPMs. Right to turn nine, open throttle.

  Third gear, fourth, fifth. Sixth gear.

  Ninth place.

  A grin breaks across my face as I barrel down the straightaway, daring to let hope touch me. But over the sound of the crowd, raging in the green-and-white grandstands while waving endless red, white, and blue American flags for me, Massimo’s voice is echoing in my head:

  “You like to win, Tigrotta. But more, you like to chase.”

  Ignoring the fear in my stomach, I watch the four bikes in front of me. We’re approaching the hard right of turn ten. It’s a third gear turn if you’re an idiot. Second gear if you’re smart. When I took the record here last year, I was practically suicidal. Massimo screamed and screamed at me afterward because he knows how I did it. Just like he did yesterday, when he broke said record.

  Hypocrite.

  “When you are in second, you look forward. No fear. When you are first, you always look over your shoulder. Afraid.”

  I glance toward the braking marker, somehow clearer than my vision has been offering. I want my record back. I won’t get a chance until next year, if I’m still here, but I can give him a run for his money today.

  My breathing slows, and I listen to them downshift ahead of me. Fifth gear. Fourth. Third gear. Second.

  I downshift to fourth, cutting to the inside and flying past them as I pray. My leg hangs to cut the momentum before my knee and elbow scrape the track, my abs screaming at the G forces and my fairings flexing like they want to shatter. But she holds together, and one bike, then two, three, then four move seemingly backward on my right side. Fifth place.

  I yank her vertical, and the crowd explodes, homemade signs and massive flags pumping high into the clear blue sky. Grinning in my helmet, I downshift to second gear, pulling hard to the left for turn eleven even though I already know: I am going to get so much crap from him later for doing that. Still, I’m practically giggling as I swing to the right for the chicane of turn twelve, coming into the straightaway.

  Santos is dead ahead, practically even with Massimo a third of the way through the last straight. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

  Massimo told me during our last night in Memphis about what really went down between him and Santos in Austin. That Massimo thinks my crash was half his fault, because he picked the fight that started it, and how badly he’s felt about it since. I told him there was no reason to feel guilty. Fight or no fight, Santos chose to hit me, and it was my fault for not backing off in the first place. A lot of mistakes were made, but they weren’t Massimo’s.

  Santos and I still ended up having it out in a press conference yesterday—the look on his face was nearly priceless when I smiled a
nd said I hoped he’d enjoyed his time on the podium. Because it was over. And yeah, it was a cheap shot to take, but I can’t escape the jerk’s constant presence on the circuit, and I’m not going to be afraid. I’m not going to flinch. I am going to beat him so badly that he never dares come near me again.

  Mas glances over his shoulder, first at Santos and then at me, and I grin wickedly. His transmission only roars louder as he looks forward, and I know he smells the blood in the water, just as I do.

  The fans ripple in a wave as I fly past, and I let it feed my soul, ducking low over my handlebars. My speedometer creeps past 150, 160, 170 miles per hour, and I am gaining on them faster than Santos can cope with. He downshifts to second gear for the sharp left of turn thirteen. Mas and I drop to third.

  We’re right on his ass as we come out of it, shifting up into fourth. Santos looks over his shoulder at us again, and Mas and I lean right. Santos looks forward too late, jerking harshly into the lean in an attempt to recover, but it’s over. His bike falls, orange fairings crashing onto gray track and shooting him to the left barrier.

  He’s sliding safely on his back, his bike far enough away that I don’t worry about it, and Massimo and I continue through the turn, leaving him behind. See ya, asshole.

  Fourth place.

  Pulling vertical, I smile at Massimo next to me on the straight as we cross the finish line together with one lap to go. We push into fifth gear, sixth, then back all the way down for turn one. But he hesitates to take the line in time, and I cut past on the inside, stealing the apex.

  I’m directly in front of him through turn two and turn three. He takes back the lead from me in the straight in the approach to turn four. But in turn five, I downshift and dart past him, then swerve around Billy and Giovanni to take the lead in six, and after that, I’m gone. Just fucking gone, flying so fast through the last lap, I can’t even hear Massimo’s Yaalon behind me anymore.