Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  “Thank you,” I gasp out, my voice broken from crying. Massimo is apparently in too much shock to hold me back, but I don’t care, only clawing at his leathers to hold him closer as I press a kiss to his neck, his cheek, the brutal shortness of the sides of his hair. “Thank you, for always believing in me.”

  A love with some kind of name I don’t even know floods my limbs, and it’s a snap of a movement between the air rushing from his lungs and his arms coming around me, clutching me against him. And I know, as well as I know how to open my eyes when I wake up in the morning, I’m right.

  He’ll never let me win, because he doesn’t have to hold back for me. He doesn’t ask me to give up my dreams for him, and he won’t do it for me either. He truly believes I’m strong enough to stand toe-to-toe with him, and yes, he bitches about me being dangerous, but only because he loves me, wants a future with me. But even that doesn’t stop him from chasing me down and cutting me off. From fighting for what he wants, because on the track, he may be my biggest rival, but when we’re away from it, he’s also the absolute love of my life.

  And God help the guy, because he’s shaking all over, but I don’t think it’s from the cold or the rain soaked into his leathers. Although I’m not sure why he was so scared I’d be mad that he didn’t pull the throttle. A part of him must’ve known that if he did, I’d never forgive him. But believing something and doing it, then having a swarm of photographers shout in your face your worst fear as though it’s already fact…

  I hold him closer, regret sinking deep in my stomach. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I never should’ve—”

  “I am sorry,” he breathes, his face tucked into my neck as he shakes his head. “I do not want you to lose, Lorina. I do not want you to go. But I do not know how to lose either when I am racing and I—”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him as I pull back, cupping his face in my hands as I smile. “I’d rather lose today and know it happened because you were faster than win the other way. I just…” I sniffle, blinking a few times to clear my eyes. “The only thing that matters is that I got to race my last race with you. That’s all I care about.”

  His hand comes up to wipe away my tears, his brow furrowed. “You are not going to care if you lose?”

  Never in ten years has he heard me say that. Before today, I haven’t been okay with anything close to the notion. But it’s not that simple anymore. I don’t know if it ever was.

  A broken chuckle bursts out of me. “Of course I care,” I tell him, swiping at my eyes before I grab his hands, my fingers lacing between his. “I still want to win. I will always want to win when I race. I can’t change that, and I won’t apologize for it, because that’s just how I’m built. It’s how we both are. But I care more that you’re still you with me.”

  It takes him a moment, but when Massimo nods, it’s tight, shaky, his jaw locked taut probably to hide the fact that it’s quivering. I settle my palms on his chest, aching for the color of his skin and for the embrace of the monsters that cradle me in my sleep. And I wish I had prepared for this, that we had some semblance of privacy before I say what I’m about to. But I can’t change the past, and I don’t want to change how we live. All I can do is ask for more time—even with the fans still screaming outside, the rain pouring like a hundred-year flood, our crews and managers no more than a few feet away.

  “Ti amo,” I tell him.

  His eyes pop. “What the hell, Lorina! You are going to leave me now after you just said—”

  “No, no…” I rush out. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, ever, so there’s no reason why I can’t tell you that. You don’t have to wait until our last days to know how I feel about you, so…get over it.”

  He grunts, irritated, and it takes him a second to catch his breath after I probably just scared the crap out of him. But he gets there, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Ti amo, cara.”

  I tilt my head, smiling as I ask in Italian, “Do you love me? Really?”

  Massimo sighs, a teasing tone to his voice. “What do you want now, Lorina?”

  “I, um…” I have to pause when my voice gets stuck in my throat. God, my hands are shaking. “I want you to marry me.”

  Massimo’s eyes widen, but even over the crowd and the rain, I know he heard me. Yet he doesn’t say a word. And as much as his silence is paralyzing me, I’m not taking it back.

  I want him to say yes. I want him to marry me. And not because I’m scared I’m going to lose him if I don’t. Not because it’s a safety net for whatever is going to try to wreck us next. But because I love him.

  The fastest, biggest jerk on the planet, who lets me boss him around in the gym before he asks me to cut his hair and then complains the whole time about the way I do it. Who doesn’t care I have some kind of kink about tying him up in bed and who writes dirty jokes inside romantic greeting cards, tucked into a bouquet of tulips. Who will never ask me to walk away from my dreams, trusts me to keep them with my own strength, and who is still freaking staring at me.

  My knee bounces in bashful nerves. “Look, I know this is probably bad timing and not really romantic or anything… And yes, I’m fully aware we haven’t talked about where we would live or about having kids or any of that stuff, and it’s soon too. Like, really, really soon.”

  He looks away, muttering something I can’t make out. God, why is he being like this when I’m trying to propose?

  “You asked me first!” I hear myself snap. “And I know I said no at the time but…” I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. “I would really like you to marry me. As soon as possible. Please.”

  Massimo shifts his weight, making me wait the longest ten seconds ever, then he leans closer, his voice harsher than I expected. “You do not get to make the rules about when we will be married, Lorina. The priest decides, and most of the time, they make you wait at least six months. And before you start to cry about it, yes, it has to be in the Catholic church, or my mamma will die.”

  I blink at him. Over the chatter of our crews and the roar of the fans, the thunder and the rain. It takes me a second to translate what he said, even though it was in English. Then I get it.

  My hands fly to my mouth, my eyes blurred with tears.

  He said yes. I asked Massimo to marry me, and he said yes.

  I don’t even care about the people around us; that the press are capturing the most important moment of my life and are probably going to sell it to the tabloids with some ridiculous headline. None of it matters when Massimo winks, just like that, and then something in him shifts. His shoulders relax as though he can finally breathe, all while wearing a smile I’ve never seen before but know I’ll always remember.

  He pulls me into him—thank God—because I can’t even think to move right now. But it’s everything I want and need when his hand cradles the back of my neck as I tuck my face into his chest, his other arm wrapped snugly around me.

  I don’t even know if he did that because he hates to see me cry—whether they’re good tears or bad—or he just needed to feel me. But I think I figure it out when he takes a deep, shaky breath, then whispers, “You could have just said yes the first time, cara, but that would probably mean you would have to stop being difficult.”

  A smile breaks across my lips, and I sniffle, my words mumbled against his leathers and over his heart. “I wouldn’t count on that happening anytime soon.”

  Massimo chuckles, pressing a kiss to my temple. Then he leans back, the pad of his fingertip tilting up my chin and his face entirely stoic. “Good thing I love you anyway.”

  Tears streak into my eyes, my heart so full that I have no idea how I’m going to survive a lifetime of him making me this happy, and then I’m his. His kiss is slow and deep, my tears caught between our lips as tingles surge all the way through me. And as I rise up on my toes to hug my arms around his neck, it breaks my heart for every pe
rson who doesn’t know this feeling and worries they never will. I want them to be filled with this sense of awe when they realize: I found him. My one. And he was there, right where he was supposed to be.

  My manager pointedly clears his throat.

  I rip my mouth from Massimo’s, biting off over my shoulder, “Get over it, Frank!”

  Before he ever responds—if he responded—I have some kind of freaking aneurysm. The entire Grand Prix Commission is taking turns shaking Frank’s hand. Along with Taryn’s rep for Munich Motor Works.

  “Lorina,” Massimo breathes, “you see who is over there?”

  I flash him a smile, then grab his hand, bringing him over with me. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  His brow furrows as we stop next to the team of suits, Werner extending his hand to me. “Congratulations, Lorelai.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well…” He glances toward the leaderboard, then back at me. “I know we said MMW would be prepared to offer you a spot on our women’s MotoPro team—”

  “Women’s what?” Massimo asks, and I dart him a look that is every translation of shut the hell up.

  Werner chuckles. “That we’d be prepared to offer you a spot based on your final time today. But even though Tissot has still not released your placements, I see no reason to keep you in suspense.”

  I swallow, slipping my fingers through Massimo’s.

  Werner leans forward, a massive grin on his face. “Ready to ride for MMW and get us on the podium in women’s MotoPro?”

  “Absolutely,” I promise, my heart thundering in my chest as Massimo clamps the ever-living hell out of my hand. “Whatever it takes, I’ll get you there.”

  Werner nods once, satisfied, extending his hand once more. “I’ll make sure to get the contract to you right away, and we look forward to your first practice. We have a lot of work to do.”

  “Yes, we do.” Because the bike I tested for him in Germany had never been ridden at the speeds I pushed it, and it doesn’t have the years of development behind it the rest of them have. But it’s no fun if it’s not a challenge, and when we’re done crafting their untested prototype into a titan of the tracks, we’ll not only have changed the face of racing a dozen times over. We’ll have made a bike that is 100 percent me.

  Werner dips his head. “Congratulations to you both.”

  My grin is ear to ear as he leaves, waiting for the rest of the racing commission to head out into pit lane. As soon as they’re gone, I collapse against Massimo, hiding my face in the front of his leathers as it hits me, all at once.

  I did it. I found a way to keep winning. And yeah, I cut a backroom deal that sliced Dabria out of my life before they could pen their Dear John letter, but so what? Everyone talks to everyone about moving to new teams, and they do it all the time. But the second I saw that picture of Miette in Dabria leathers next to the MotoPro prototype, I knew it was proof Dabria wasn’t interested in finding a place for me on their team next year. Talking? Sure. Pictures? Whole other ball game. So I hit a grounder toward MMW.

  If Taryn was right and they were coming to Moto Grand Prix, they had spots to fill. Quietly. Quickly. Not that it stopped me from calling every other manufacturer on the circuit and letting them know I was separating, and it was their call over who was going to get me. No matter what, I wasn’t going home empty-handed.

  Massimo’s hand runs down my hair. “Women’s MotoPro, hmm?”

  I nod. “Yep. For MMW.”

  “Hmm. I think I can live with that.” I chuckle against his chest, loving every bit of pressure when he drops a kiss to my hair. “Però you, cara, still have a lot of explaining to do. Most importante, why you did not tell me when we agreed: no more secrets.”

  I raise my head, because he’s right: we did promise each other in Rimini that no matter how bad or complicated or difficult it was to explain, we wouldn’t hide the truth from each other ever again. But I didn’t want to get his hopes up until I knew for sure that MMW was going to offer. Scarier, if they offered, I was going to get one of two options: women’s Moto Grand Prix or women’s Superbike. But I didn’t know anything.

  Massimo tilts his head, waiting, and I start to tell him everything: about testing in Germany and how absolutely terrified I was when we crossed the finish line—that he may have forfeited his career to save mine, but only because I hadn’t told him I might have already saved myself. “So basically—”

  “Lorelai!” Frank calls out.

  I groan, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll celebrate later.”

  “No. Listen.”

  I look to Massimo to see if he knows what’s going on, and that’s when I realize that all I hear is silence. In a crowd of 150,000 fans, hundreds of reporters, dozens of racers, and each with their own crews. It should not be this quiet.

  A clap of thunder rings out, followed by the crowd in the stands exploding into cheers so loud, it’s actually a little scary. Massimo smiles, then lifts a kiss from my lips.

  “We are not finished talking about MMW.” His palms slide smoothly down my arms. “But for now, cara, it is time to know who was faster. And not domani. Not tomorrow. Today.”

  I bite my lip, and Massimo wrinkles his nose, growling at me. I can’t help but chuckle, but I know he’s right. It’s time to know whether he beat me or I beat him, and I need to be brave enough to look. I am brave enough to look. I’m Wreckless, damn it. More than that, I am Tigrotta—the Centauro racer who rocks an undercut and can stare down two names on a leaderboard without shaking in her racing boots.

  Still, because I’m also Lorelai, darling only and ever to Massimo, I squeeze my eyes shut before I turn around. Strong and familiar arms lock around my chest, monsters hidden under leathers protecting the heart that beats beneath mine, my fingers grasping the cross dangling from my neck. And with only a single deep breath between the rest of mine and Massimo’s racing careers—but not the rest of our lives—my eyes lift to the clock tower.

  Enjoy this sneak peek at what’s coming next for the stars of the MotoGP.

  Chapter 1

  Mason King—November

  What the hell was I thinking last night?

  My hungover head throbs with a vengeance as I glance toward the bright-as-hell light coming in through the windows. Turns out, I’m a dumbass and forgot to pull the curtains closed before I passed out. Wonder how many people saw the X-rated show that went down in here? My hotel room is on a higher floor, but that doesn’t mean anything with the almighty power of today’s camera phones. At least it can’t be on YouTube yet, because Billy would be beating on my door to ream me out for risking my sponsorships. Or he’d send Frank, our manager, to do it.

  I scrub a hand through my hair, blowing out a stream of air for like the millionth time in my disastrous life. Who am I kidding? No one gives a shit what I do.

  Except for maybe this girl—the naked woman on the pillow next to me moans and stretches luxuriously my way, her eyelashes fluttering open and a smile teasing her lips. Fuzzy memories of last night flash through my mind: the end of season award ceremony, the bikes and the medals, the music and fountains of champagne between whiskey shots sipped from my secret flask. Stumbling past the press corps back to the hotel and up to the room, where I unzipped her green sequin dress and she shredded my tux and rode me like I was a Moto Grand Prix World Champion, even though I’m not.

  A guilty grin dares to stretch across my mouth—talk about getting lucky. She’s freaking gorgeous: the kind of woman I always swore I got, but my redneck ass only ever really dreamed of. All smooth skin and long eyelashes, brown hair that’s long in the front and short in the back, and with the sweetest curves. And she definitely knows how to use them.

  Her freezing-cold hands start exploring the finer aspects of my chest, and Christ, what’s her name? Stella? Sabrina? Definitely started with an S.

 
“Buenos dias,” she purrs in Spanish, and that makes a lot of sense considering we’re in Valencia, but I just…I remember her being German for some reason. “¿Descansaste bien?”

  I don’t know what that last part means, but I smile real pretty and run a tentative knuckle down her prettier cheek, soaking up the way she leans into my touch. Even better, she’s not really waiting for an answer as she starts kissing her way up my outstretched arm and across my good shoulder, and I’m certainly not about to stop her to ask for a translation. I haven’t been laid in weeks before last night.

  Too much time traveling between motorcycle races—bouncing between so many countries, I’m gonna have to get another passport soon. And too many rodeos when I’m home in Memphis. Too many bulls to remember all their names, too much drinking to cover the pain of getting bucked, and too many managers trying to help me make better decisions.

  As far as I can see, I’m doing just fine on my own. Especially when one of those icicle hands of hers drops way below the sheet-line. I cough out a grin, nearly lurching into the ceiling in the best way—buenos dias indeed.

  “You are so big, Billy,” she growls, and I lurch again. But for a brand new, super-sucky reason.

  I tug her hand away from my already-wilting cock, scooting back on the bed and my throat starting to itch like my digestive system just shifted into reverse. Because why wouldn’t my hangover decide to kick my ass even worse when I’m already down?

  “Billy? I’m not Billy.”

  Sexy-Sa-Something’s staring at me like I’m the one who’s done something wrong, even though she’s in my hotel room calling me the wrong damn name.

  Christ, I hope I wasn’t aware of this mix-up last night.

  She scrambles for the bedsheet, clutching it to her bare chest until she’s covered. Apart from one gloriously-dusty nipple. “Then who are you?”

  “I’m Mason.” No spark of recognition, no nothing as she blinks those thick black eyelashes at me. “Billy King’s little brother.”