The announcers are too loud shouting my name and hailing my call sign, chanting me home long before I even cross the finish line. But coming out of turn fourteen, there it is: the most beautiful black-and-white checkered flag I’ve ever seen, ready and waiting just for me.
Pride and relief and vindication and wrath burst through my veins and pull joyous tears from my eyes, and I yell out in victory as I pop a wheelie and take my win: my name a forever chant echoing through the tops of medieval trees, my front wheel chewing Bohemian air, right through the doubts and slander of all the freaking naysayers.
My front tire slams back to the earth, but my fist stays in the air, pumping to the roar of glory that I’ll never be able to quit, no matter what he says. And by the time Massimo crosses the finish line for second place—a full three seconds after me—I know with every glittery fiber of my soul that life is going to be absolutely, perfectly okay for me from here on out.
***
“Lorelai!” Frank yells from outside my room in my RV, and I stifle a laugh at the fake fury in his voice, not even pausing in finishing my lipstick. There’s no way anything is wrong, especially when I just freaking won.
I steal a last glance at my makeup in the mirror before I hook my purse over my chest, then blow a kiss to Tigrotta on my bed. But Frank loves to play this game when he’s happy, so I tentatively come out of my room, crossing my arms nervously over my comfiest gray cashmere sweater, paired with my lucky black leggings and favorite chunky ankle boots. “Yeah?”
Frank is scowling like I broke his favorite cereal bowl into a million pieces, his own arms crossed. Then he bursts into laughter, nearly doubling over with the force of it. “God, you’re gullible.”
Oh yeah, he got me. Still, I gape at him like he doesn’t do this every time I win. “You’re such a jerk.” I shake my head as I stride past him on my way out of the RV, but I don’t make it far.
Frank bear-hugs me from behind and spins me around, still riding the adrenaline of my comeback. Both of us are chuckling when he sets me down and turns me to face him. Until he puts on his manager face again. “I need you to do me one favor tonight when you’re out celebrating with all these yahoos.”
I groan, impatient to go. “No promises. Especially to someone who uses the word ‘yahoos’ in everyday conversation.”
He gently takes me by the shoulders, bending down to better catch my eyes and beaming like I was his own daughter. “Have fun, Lori. As much as you possibly can. You deserve it.”
Everything in me melts. “Thanks, Frank. And don’t worry. I plan on it.”
He drops a kiss to my hair, then waves me on. I practically bound out of my RV and onto the paddock, flooded with half-drunk racers and tipsy sponsor models, sponsors, and VIPs all talking and laughing, some singing. I tip back my head and drink in the perfect night air, the stars shining and twinkling above, and with the thick forest surrounding us on every side, it almost feels like Memphis. But better.
“Congratulations, Lorelai,” people tell me in a spattering of accents as I make my way through the paddock, and I smile and wave and thank every single one, my steps so light with the high of winning and being home at the circuit that I’m almost skipping by the time I get to Massimo’s RV and knock on his door.
“Way to go, Wreckless!” someone calls.
I turn to smile at them, but Vinicio answers the door first, pushing it open so abruptly that I startle and stumble back a step. He blinks at me and blinks at me, then checks around like he was expecting someone else. When he looks back to me, he swallows, then pastes on a tight smile. It dawns on me that I’m interacting with Massimo’s stepfather. “One moment,” he says in a thick accent, holding up a finger.
I’ve barely opened my mouth to speak when he slams the door in my face. Okay…?
It reopens a second later, Vinicio coming back out with Massimo right behind him, the former locking the door and then walking away, head down and not another word said.
“Tigrotta,” Mas rumbles the second his feet touch pavement, and I’m already dizzy under the mixture of his shampoo and cologne swirling with a hint of my fabric softener. My mom must have washed that shirt for him when he was at my house.
Stay focused, Hargrove.
“Want to share a victory beer?” My mouth is bone-dry with how sexy he looks when his hair is wet, and I can’t believe it’s been four freaking days since I’ve felt his hands on my body. But I figured Dabria probably wouldn’t take too kindly to seeing Massimo leave in the morning when he rides for a competing manufacturer. As of tonight, though, we are done with our duties and officially off the clock. “Mason said the Budweiser guys have a game of pong set up by the cooking stations. Or if you were up to being a little bad, I thought maybe we could sneak off track and go grab dinner downtown. And maybe a hotel room. My treat.”
He scrubs at the back of his neck and tries to smile, but it doesn’t hold—his eyes flicking everywhere else like he’s waiting for the same ambush Vinicio was. “I, um, I would love to, Tigrotta, but I cannot. I have to go. To Ravenna.”
It takes me a second to make sure I heard him right, because…he’s what?
It’s now that my eyes notice the black strap of the bag on his shoulder, blending perfectly into his shirt.
“Tonight?” I look up at him, trying to find in his eyes the piece of the puzzle I’m not grasping when we’re supposed to be celebrating our freaking asses off. Together. Naked. With the really expensive bottle of champagne chilling in the suite I just booked online at the Grandezza Hotel Luxury Palace. Then my eyes pop. “Oh my God, is Dario okay? Is he—”
“No, no, he is fine,” Massimo rushes out, then smiles real enough that I believe him. He’d never lie about that. “Però other things have come up, and I…” He shakes his head, rolling his eyes like it’s all stuff out of his control.
My brow crinkles as my pulse spikes to where it was when I crossed the finish line. Massimo and I may have been born in different countries, but we were cut from the exact same stock, and he only ever does what he wants, when he wants to. If something is pulling him in a direction he doesn’t want to go, something is wrong. Very, very wrong. “What things?”
He adjusts his bag on his shoulder. His eyes go back to darting over the party on the paddock, then he clears his throat and looks back to me. “Niente,” he lies, then winks since I think his smile might be broken. “I will see you in Austria. In realtà,” he drawls, “I am going to kick your ass in Austria.”
The taunt is a last-ditch effort. A Hail Mary to distract me from the way he’s breathing faster than he should and can’t stop fidgeting. A bitter fear starts to solidify in my spine, because everything about this feels like a fumbled escape—but not quite from me, and not from us.
I cling to that amendment hard. Hold it tight in my chest, feel its warmth, and remind myself a dozen times over that Massimo isn’t like the other men who have always left me. It’s the only thing that allows me to force my brow to smooth, then playfully shove at his chest like everything’s cool. “Dick. Pretty sure I smoked you today.”
He sighs with all the relief I wish I could feel. But that’s impossible when he’s leaving, and he won’t tell me why. But I trust him. I’m trying to anyway.
“Massimo!” Vinicio calls out, and I startle at the urgency in his voice, finding him over by the exit gate with a cab ready and the trunk open.
I look back to Massimo, but he’s eying the hem of my sleeve, his jaw locked like he’s in physical pain. With a gruff clear of his throat, he opens his mouth to speak, his eyes searching mine as a thousand things rush behind them, and I prepare myself for the inevitable: Come to Ravenna with me, cara. Right now, with no notice, and spend the rest of the night dealing with airport security and signing autographs from fans in the terminal instead of privately celebrating in a five-star suite.
Except I don’t have the first freaking clue how t
o answer that question.
It’s not like I have a problem with Ravenna—even though I’m pretty sure his mom has a problem with me. I do have a problem with setting that kind of precedent when I’m already terrified about the fact that if I lose my contract and he keeps his, I’m going to get a choice. How much I’m willing to travel, how much of my own free time I’m willing to give up in order to be with him.
The worst part is, even though everything in me screams that I shouldn’t have to—that if he wants to see me, he can get on a plane, because no way in hell am I letting a man pressure me into being anywhere I don’t want to be, to go places I don’t want to go—it’s Massimo. Meaning there’s also a very convincing whisper in my heart that swears he’d be worth it. The exception. Just him. Whatever he needs. No matter what I have to give up.
Tonight, the question never comes.
“I will call you later,” he tells me in Italian instead, trusting I know what he said without ever bothering to check.
With a pain-filled smile, he steps around my side and walks toward Vinicio, slipping his bag off his shoulder and passing it to his manager before disappearing inside the cab. I hug my arms around myself, already missing him so much it hurts. The rest of the paddock keeps on celebrating my win without realizing I’m watching his cab pull away, and once I turn and start heading back to my RV, to Tigrotta waiting for me on my bed, I can’t stop thinking that this is exactly the problem with him.
That it would be so much easier if he were making impossible demands on me, because then I wouldn’t want to break the one rule I swore I never would.
GRAND PRIX ČESKÉ REPUBLIKY
Brno, Sunday, August 04
Pos
Pts
Rider
Time
World Rank
1
25
Lorelai HARGROVE
42’53.042
94
2
20
Massimo VITOLO
3.462
139
3
16
Billy KING
10.397
200
4
13
Giovanni MARCHESA
13.071
100
5
11
Rainier HERRE
15.650
48
6
10
Galeno GIRÓN
15.725
47
7
9
Deven HORSLEY
21.821
67
8
8
Aurelio LOGGIA
23.240
56
9
7
Gustavo LIMÓN
43.784
17
10
6
Cristiano ARELLANO
45.261
86
11
5
Mason KING
49.973
97
12
4
Fredek SULZBACH
50.174
54
13
3
Gregorio PAREDES
54.437
48
14
2
Elliston LAMBIRTH
54.624
40
15
1
Harleigh ELIN
1’00.316
41
16
Donato MALDONADO
1’01.595
37
17
Diarmaid DEAN
1’02.388
16
18
Timo GONZALES
1’05.944
17
19
Cesaro SOTO
1’11.407
20
Not Classified
20
Santos SAUCEDO
21 Laps
176
Chapter 18
Lorelai Hargrove—August; Ravenna, Italy
Seventeen long, impossible hours of traveling to Ravenna, and I’m finally in front of a door. I just hope it’s the right one. I don’t have time to keep crawling all over this city of a thousand alleys looking for him. Frank, Billy, and Mason are already in Austria, and I’ve got barely forty-eight hours before I’ll have to backtrack to Spielberg for the next race. But despite Frank’s protests, I’m standing by my choice.
I have to. I still have no idea what happened to yank Massimo out of Brno like that. I called him this morning to make sure he got home okay, but he didn’t answer. He said whatever this was, it wasn’t Dario, but there was so much friction in his eyes last night, so much he wasn’t telling me. And I’m not happy that he couldn’t just tell me the truth instead of making a joke about beating me, but he showed up for me in Memphis when I needed him.
I can make this sacrifice for Massimo.
Take a deep breath, do a quick pit and breath check, unwrap my messy bun and finger comb my curls to one side, and then I knock.
Two seconds. Four seconds.
“Un momento,” a female voice calls out. Before I can collapse in frustration and even further exhaustion at apparently being at the wrong address, again, the door swings open. “Lorelai!”
Oh no. No. No. No. Anyone but her.
She chuckles as she splays her hand on her chest. “I am so sorry. I am Chiara. Please, come in.” She steps aside, tossing back slick brown hair that nearly meets her waist but is full of graceful, spunky layers that start above her chin and cascade all the way down. Her eyes are popping with the smoky eye she perfectly applied, lips pert with gloss, and I want to leave. I want to go find an overly expensive hotel with the world’s most comfortable bed and an all-night menu, then sleep and cry and eat until I forget his name.
Not until I kick his ass first.
I keep my fake-as-polyester smile plastered on my face, and I step over the threshold, Chiara shutting the door behind me. Her high heels click on the woo
d floor, then muffle on one of the many areas rugs as she leads me into a small but open apartment.
“Massimo did not tell me you were coming.” She takes a cell phone out of her clutch, set on a glass-top dinette, then starts tapping away on the screen. I can only guess she’s texting him I’m here?
“I, um, I didn’t tell him.”
“No?” Her eyes lift from the screen of her phone, then she turns and puts it away. “I am sorry, Lorelai.” She turns to face me, a model hostess. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Setting down my bags, I turn to the right. It’s not all that surprising, the décor and the space. Low wooden beams, ultramodern black leather sofa, abstract art with thick, black frames hung expertly on the walls. Not that far from what I’d have picked out, probably. Especially considering the light coming through the high arched windows, gleaming off the blue mosaic tile in the open kitchenette and the stainless steel appliances.
What’s bothering me is the smell. Light and clean…and feminine. Just underneath is him: spicy and dark and unmistakably familiar. It’s not the last of the contradictions either: vases of arranged flowers placed on side tables next to decorative candles, a creamy chenille throw blanket draped on a side chair, and a bright-pink espresso cup poised and ready to go under the espresso maker.
I was told this is his apartment. I’m hoping it’s hers. But I’m starting to think there’s a third option here I really don’t want to face.
“So where does Massimo think you are?” Chiara asks.
Turning to her, I answer, “Austria. I, um, I wanted it to be a surprise.”
She smiles, leaning over to whisper, “Then we should have some fun!”
Fantastic.
“Massimo!” Chiara calls out, and my stomach drops straight through the wood floor underneath my custom cowgirl boots. “C’è qualcuno qui che vuole vederti.”
There’s someone here to see you.
Quietly, she explains, “He is in the shower, but he should be done in a minute.”
Wreckless Page 23