Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  “Damn it!” I curse, trying to find a way to pass her, but she’s as ruthless as ever.

  Engines growl behind us, pushing us, and I don’t look back. I need to find a way around her. I need to make this lap the fastest I’ve ever run, because if no one else pits and I do, I’ll lose so much time that winning is straight out the window.

  I take my engine to the limit in the sharp switchback of turn two, pushing hard and then harder through three, four, five, and six. I’m so low over the handlebars in the straight from six to seven, the vibration into my chest makes my teeth chatter, and the whole time, I’m praying.

  Praying my crew gets the wets out of the warmers and onto my second moto in time for us to switch. Praying it’ll be out of the garage when we pull in. Praying I didn’t just make a huge mistake that is going to cost me everything.

  I lean hard to the left in turn eight, another slight left to nine and a nudge to the right for ten. Lorina doesn’t give me an inch, still dead ahead. She doesn’t look back at me, though, and I swing through eleven and barrel toward twelve, glancing up at the sky in the straightaway. It’s not raining. My face shield is clear, the track dry, and I don’t know what to—

  Hard right in twelve. Long swing left of thirteen. By the time I downshift for fourteen, I still don’t know what to do. I can bypass the pit and keep going on slicks, but I don’t know if Lorina is going to pit. She’s stubborn and dangerous, and it could be she only called out to Frank because she was banking on the fact that acting like she was going to switch would send me into the garages after her. But then she won’t at the last minute, and I’ll be screwed.

  It’s a strategy right up her alley—to send me back in the lineup and assure she’s got a clear hold on first place. We can’t trust each other when we’re racing, because we both live to win and…fuck.

  I pull out of turn fourteen, Lorina’s second moto set out in front of her garage, but mine isn’t. Because I didn’t tell Vinicio to get mine out—I only told Lorina.

  Son of a bitch. I didn’t stay focused on winning; I was only focused on her.

  I don’t have a choice. I stay on the track as Lorina pulls off into pit lane, people jumping out of the way to clear a path as she flies down it.

  Fifth gear. Sixth. My heartbeat rises to meet my redline—I’m in first.

  I look for her. She waits until the last possible moment, then slams the brakes so hard, her back tire lifts up as her front tire locks to a halt.

  Check my speedometer. Downshift. Throw a look at the garages. People are screaming at her as she hops from one moto to the other. It’s still not raining, and with every second, people are passing by where she’s stuck, absolutely still.

  Turn one. Hard lean to the left, fourth gear, fifth, six. Transmissions growl behind me, but they can’t catch me. My moto is perfect, and I own Valencia. I always do.

  Wait until the last moment, then drop all the way into first gear, nearly flat on my side through the left turn. Gravel wants me, pavement reaching up to grab me, but it will never taste my skin. I will take the podium here, then a second tonight, my name on a list that declares me a World Champion.

  I punch it when I come out, everyone else already falling behind, and Lorina swerves back onto the track. Pull to the right in turn three, and she leans hard to the left in turn one—all the way back in twentieth place.

  It’s done.

  I’m going to win, but there’s more than a good chance Lorina is going to lose her contract. It’s going to hurt like hell, but I don’t care who she ends up racing for, whether it’s MotoPro or Superbike. If Billy and Taryn can figure this out, then so can we, and I’m not going to stop trying to convince her that just because we’re not racing together anymore, it doesn’t mean we can’t take the next steps forward.

  Some things just are, and Lorina and I…

  Third gear. I don’t know how to stop fighting.

  Fourth. Not with her.

  Fifth. Definitely not for her, over what I’m allowed to call her.

  Sixth gear. She has always been my win, and I’m not fucking losing.

  Chapter 26

  Lorelai Hargrove—November; Valencia, Spain

  My breath echoes in my ears as I lean through turn seven, the fans in the stands hopping to their feet as I fly past. They’re decked out in ponchos and doing their best to shield themselves with umbrellas, but it doesn’t stop them from cheering when we come around.

  I narrow my eyes in my helmet, squinting through the rain splattered across my face shield. The sky didn’t fully open up until lap eighteen, and everyone headed for the pits to switch to wets. Everyone except me and Massimo, who pitted in lap two. Until he did, I was horrified that maybe he had done it on purpose. Scared me into changing bikes to secure his win and keep his contract. But I saw him make the change the second his bike had been rolled out, and I’m trying to let it go.

  He loves me. He wouldn’t do that.

  At least I had managed to make up some ground before the rest of the riders ducked off, managing twelfth place. The belated blessing of their pit stops wasn’t enough to put me into first or even second place, though. The pack came back onto the track, and I slipped into ninth.

  Twenty-four laps down, three to go, and I’m tired. Water is soaked into my leathers, shivers chattering my teeth, and it’s nearly impossible to see with the spray from tires hitting my face shield. Leaning hard to the left through turn eight, I’m once again staring at the blue fairings of Gregorio Paredes from Spain. He straightens and wobbles, and panic strikes me in my chest. If he falls, I’m too close to dodge him.

  I downshift to steal RPMs, opening the throttle to blur past Gregorio before dropping to the left for turn nine. The speed is too much with the water on the track. My back tire skids. I suck in a breath and shift up a gear to level out, pulling it vertical to control the wobble before leaning into the right of ten.

  Jesus, that was close.

  My heart is pounding in my chest, but I check to make sure Gregorio is okay. He’s fine. Looking forward, I focus on the curves ahead, blinking rapidly.

  “You’re okay,” I tell myself. “You’re okay. Just breathe…”

  Flying down the straightaway, I check the tower. Two laps. I can do this.

  I open the throttle, my speedometer topping at 211 while Massimo, Mason, then Cristiano bank into turn one in front of me, Billy and Santos already into turn four. I downshift just as the three guys in front of me are coming out of it, and I can’t be more than three seconds behind them. Probably closer to two.

  Giving it everything I’ve got, I wait to brake until the last possible second through turns two, three, and four. My front tire is inches behind Cristiano’s as we head into turn five. Ducking into his slipstream, I wait for my moment.

  One heartbeat, two, then I charge. Pop from third gear to second without backing off the throttle, RPMs screaming as I careen around him on the right, then shift into third and lie deep for turn six, my knee scraping the track. An inner roar cheers me on at passing him, not at all dampened by the rain still kicking up into my face shield from Mason’s back tire.

  I inch as close as I can, trying to gain on my Dabria teammate through the straight before turn seven.

  I can’t get there. He’s slipstreaming Massimo, and he’s blocking me.

  Seven through fourteen, he never gives an inch. Every time I shift left, he does the same. I feign right, and he doesn’t fall for it. The finish line holds no escape as we fly past, counting one lap to go.

  Turn one, no hole to move. Turn two, nothing.

  “Damn it!” I yell, losing my mind that I can’t beat this guy.

  That’s when it hits me. Fear is death. Speed is savior.

  Massimo and Mason downshift for turn three, but it’s barely a turn, and this is so freaking dangerous, but it could be my last race ever, and screw it!r />
  I back off the throttle but don’t downshift, and when Mason leans to the left, I don’t.

  Soaring past him, I dip at the last possible minute to account for the curve. My back tire skids on the water but holds on the curbstone, and I rip her vertical, popping the clutch to get back into sixth gear.

  The people in the stands scream to their feet, feeding the explosion in my chest. I look over my shoulder to see Mason failing to accelerate like he’s a little shaken. I can’t blame him; that scared the shit out of me too. But for all the crap we give him, no one can deny he’s got serious guts. Probably how he didn’t crash.

  Looking forward, I focus on Massimo.

  God, here we go.

  Royal-blue fairings lean to the right through turns four and five, and I gain as much as I can, but he doesn’t give me an inch in turn six. I’m right on his exhaust pipe in the stretch to turn seven, but in eight, nine, ten, and eleven, I can’t find a way to pass him. There’s nowhere to go, and this is it. Billy and Santos are already across the finish line, and after two more turns, for me and Massimo, it’s over.

  Fifth gear.

  Fourth.

  Third, and lean.

  My knee scrapes the track as my braid hangs over my right shoulder, flirting with the wet pavement inches away. I pull vertical and shift up to fourth, starting through the long left curve of thirteen. Fifth gear. Sixth. Sodden green grass flashes on my left, gray pavement and bailout gravel rushing by my right.

  Just like I did to him in Qatar, Massimo fades left, forcing me farther inside than I want to be. He’s pushed me out of the apex for turn fourteen, and when we bank hard and harder to the left, I’m going to run wide into the right side of the track. All he’ll have to do is cut around behind me, and then he’ll fly past on the inside, taking third place for the podium and securing himself as a World Champion.

  I can’t let him.

  My body lies flat, bike flexing under ruthless speed and gravity pulling it further down. His transmission winds down as he makes the same mistake I did: letting off the accelerator so he can duck around behind me.

  Taking a page from his playbook, I slow down with him. Massimo speeds up, and I do the same, then slowly start to drift outside and directly into his left knee and elbow.

  It’s a risky move, and I’m still out of the apex, but he is now too. What I don’t know is how he held the turn once I hit the bailout in Qatar.

  God, why didn’t I ask him how he did that?

  Think, Lorelai, think.

  But I can’t. All I know is that every time I’ve come up against the choice of choosing to win instead of live, I’ve lost. So against every instinct in my body, I tap the brakes, gritting my teeth through the hard pull to the left.

  “Oh fuck!” I yell, my bike flexing and begging me to let her fall. It takes every ounce of strength in my exhausted body to tilt her vertical, and I shift up to sixth as quickly as I can, letting the torque do the work for me.

  Holy crap. I’m in the straightaway.

  I can barely feel my body to breathe, but I peek over my shoulder. Massimo isn’t behind me, grappling for control as he wobbles in the gravel. He’s beside me, somehow pulling off what I couldn’t at the beginning of the year. A flicker of jealousy stirs in my stomach, but whatever. I’ll deal with that later.

  My face shield clears with no one in front of me, and I bend low over my handlebars. My bike screams as I push it for every ounce of power it has, racing toward the finish line with Massimo creeping up beside me, the difference between us too close to determine who is in front.

  Faster, faster, faster, I push my bike until the checkered flag waves, the finish line flying under us.

  The stands explode, and I let off the throttle, bursting with pride and relief and excitement and fear and a thousand other things at knowing that was it. It’s done.

  I sit back and look toward Massimo. No matter what happens now, we’re free. But he’s not looking at me. He’s checking the clock tower. Then he curses loudly in Italian.

  His gaze meets mine, his voice full of guilt as he calls out, “It was all I could do, Lorina! I did not have a choice.”

  Didn’t have a choice to do what? Race me for the win? And why the hell would that make him feel guilty? It’s not like he…

  I look over my shoulder at the clock tower, my eyes popping.

  No, please say he didn’t. Anything but that.

  But this is Massimo.

  Who pushed me away to protect me. Who makes terrible decisions for all the right reasons and thinks my dreams are worth sacrificing his for.

  Who doesn’t know how to lose me.

  I don’t know whether I’m right—if he pulled the throttle and let me finish first—but it doesn’t erase the fury stinging my veins as I look forward, my heel dropping and wrist twitching to pass him before I lean into turn one for the cooldown lap.

  Because first place went to Billy. Second to Santos Saucedo. But the spots on the leaderboard for places three and four are blank.

  Chapter 27

  Massimo Vitolo—November; Valencia, Spain

  I pull into victory lane behind Lorina, but it feels closer to cruising down death row. My crew and Vinicio rush toward me, everyone screaming and jumping and hugging one another as I tear off my helmet. But I have no idea how they’re celebrating when the apocalypse just happened.

  The crowd is in a frenzy that blasts into full surround sound when I take out my earplugs, and my eyes go back to the clock tower and the leaderboard. Two names still missing in the places for third and fourth. What the hell is taking them so long?

  My eyes snap forward to my executioner, Lorina taking off her own helmet, shrugging off her manager and crew. Then she turns in my direction.

  Yep. I know that look, and I’m a dead man.

  “What did you do?” She rushes toward me, and I swallow, swinging my leg off my moto. My heart is still pounding, adrenaline tearing through me, and I catch sight of Angelo jogging down pit lane in our direction. This just went from bad to worse.

  Lorina’s hands collide with my chest with enough force to send me stumbling back.

  “Hey!” Vinicio shouts.

  “Lorelai!” Frank echoes, running over to us.

  The flash of the press cameras ignite into a steady glaring light, all aimed in our direction, and this is so not good. “Lorelai! Massimo! What’s going on?” a photographer shouts. “Does Lorelai abuse you when you’re alone?”

  “Someone get her away from him!” Angelo yells, running into the garage.

  Lorina’s crew crowds in front of her, glaring at me as they corral her away.

  “Screw you,” Lorina shouts at Angelo, her whole body vibrating as she points over the arms of the men holding her back. “You don’t own my life, and I don’t care what you threaten me with, you’re not going to keep me from yelling at him right now!”

  “What is this I did?” I yell at her. “I did not tell you it was going to rain to trick you. I tried to save your life because you make bad decisions that are fucking dangerous!”

  “It’s not about the goddamn rain,” she blasts out, Angelo’s eyes going wide as he comes to a stop next to us. “It’s about keeping your promise to stop trying to control everything, about you sacrificing yourself because you think you know better!” She sobs out a disappointed breath, then says the worst thing she’s ever said to me. “It’s about whether or not you backed off the throttle at the last moment.”

  “You did what?” Angelo yells in Italian, his gaze narrowing in my direction.

  “Massimo! Massimo!” the photographers shout. “When did you decide to throw the race?”

  My pulse explodes as lights flash and stun me, my chest and airways constricting, and I think I’m having a heart attack.

  Lorina shoves past her crew and Angelo, her hands fisting i
n the front of my leathers. “Answer me!” she yells in English. “Did you back off the fucking throttle?”

  “No, I did not!” I shout back. “I raced you with everything in me, and I do not care what contract you are going to lose or if it means you never race again. I will never let you win on purpose!”

  Lorina’s hands fly to her mouth, her eyes watering and her fire raging in a way I’ve never seen. I swallow, unable to feel any part of my body. All I know is that Lorina is crying, and it’s my fault.

  “Lorelai, are you definitely going to lose your contract with Dabria?” the press shouts. “How does it feel that Massimo doesn’t care if you win or lose?”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Frank says.

  “Give them some space,” Vinicio chimes in.

  Both our managers and the combined force of our crews push the press back into pit lane, creating a barricade between us and the rest of the gawkers, standing shoulder to shoulder along the edge of the garage.

  Angelo claps me on the shoulder, and bile rises in my throat. I don’t look at him when he speaks, just keeping my eyes locked with Lorina’s, who is shedding more and more tears as the seconds pass.

  “Massimo,” he says in Italian, “I have to go congratulate Billy, but you made the right decision today. We’ll look forward to seeing you in February for testing next year.”

  He walks away as more tears slip down Lorina’s cheeks, and all I can think is that I should have backed off the throttle. I should have made sure she won.

  Holy fuck. What did I just do?

  Chapter 28

  Lorelai Hargrove—November; Valencia, Spain

  The crowd rages outside, Frank and Vinicio arguing from where they’re guarding us at the edge of the garage, and my eyes frantically search Massimo’s for some sign he’s lying. A twitch, a flicker, anything. But there’s nothing there but the truth: he didn’t back off the throttle at the last minute. He raced me with everything he had, and I just…

  I leap onto him, Massimo stumbling back from the assault.