by Mia Carson
My hands started to shake on the steering wheel, and my heart was pounding. I could barely breathe and quickly pulled over onto the wide grass verge. The line of traffic behind me continued through the barrier while I sat in my car. Tears welled up in my eyes. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t need this. I couldn’t face this place again, or anywhere like it.
I started to imagine my conversation with Geoffrey. Hi, it’s Summer. I couldn’t bring in this major contract because I was too traumatized by my childhood to set foot on a racetrack that wasn’t even built back then.
That’s okay, he’d say, just relax and sit this one out. And don’t worry about the next one, either. I’ll give it to someone who isn’t a total candy-ass.
Goddammit! I was better than that. I’d never let anything in this job faze me, never backed down from a challenge. That’s why they paid me. I was not going to start crying off now, like I’d seen so many other ‘strong women’ do in the past. I wasn’t going to be a victim of anyone’s mistreatment. Not a partner, a client, not even the things my father put me through.
I checked my face in the mirror, wiped my eyes without messing up my makeup, gave myself a stern look, and shoved the Mustang into drive. I floored it back onto the tarmac, throwing up great arcs of mud and turf from my rear tires as the big engine hurled me forward. An expensive silver sports car, I think it was a Maserati, had to brake hard to avoid me as I slewed out in front of it. I waved an apology.
At the gate, Dunlop’s PR team had left my tickets for me. The guard found an all-access pit pass and paddock parking pass in an envelope marked for me, handed them to me, and waved me through. It was race day, and the place was packed. Motorcycles of all sizes, shapes, and colors lined the roadways. Cars and trucks parked in the fields, and buses shuttled people back and forth from the parking lots to the circuit. After waving my parking permit at a few different marshals, I was directed to a space at the bottom of a 250-foot-tall tower. I looked straight up and saw an enormous observation deck high in the sky. The whole track must have been clearly visible from there.
As I got out of the car, the smell hit me. Nowhere else in the world smelled like a race track, yet each one smelled the same. The smell was hard to describe; it was like sun-melted tarmac mixed with the smoke from heated rubber, high-octane fuel, a hundred different fried foods, cigarettes, and beer: a heady, masculine smell that was irresistibly evocative to people who grew up around it. When I heard a couple of unbelievably loud engines roar by at a million rpms, I was back with my dad again. Only this time, it was exciting and fun. He was winning, the team was celebrating, and I wore a big smile on my face as I remembered those happier times before I was old enough to realize what was going on.
I’d phoned Dunlop as I drove through the gate, so there was a pretty, smiling PA called Sam waiting to greet me. She took me across a footbridge that ran over the track. I almost yelped in surprise as a motorcycle flashed under us at high speed before braking hard and leaning almost horizontally to disappear around the turn. As I closed my eyes and calmed my breathing, Sam giggled at my reaction. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one, with a short blonde bob, light skin, and a tight, white Dunlop t-shirt lashed to a pair of high, firm breasts. I just knew Donald had something to do with hiring her, even though I was sure I hadn’t seen her at the dinner last night. She made small talk about the circuit and the races. She liked one or two of the racers, she admitted with a slight flush to her cheeks, so she stayed in the Dunlop Moto GP division to follow them around.
For a second, I was tempted to ask if she knew James and what he did, but I decided against it. I shouldn’t be thinking of him or trying to find out anything about him. I should keep it a mysterious, preserved memory. Plus, another part of me didn’t want to hear how he might slut around with girls like her—or anything else that moved.
The bridge descended into another tarmacked area with a row of high-tech and posh trackside suites lined up and facing the raceway. A big Dunlop flag hung outside the third one, and there was Donald, chatting with some other suits. He turned to me as I approached
“Ms. Hayes,” he said, a slightly pained expression on his face, “so nice to see you again. I’m very sorry about last night. Far too much celebration, I’m afraid.”
“Please call me Summer, Donald.” I gave him one of my flirtiest smiles. “And rest assured, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve gone a little overboard and regretted it, I certainly wouldn’t need to make this deal.”
We both laughed politely. I was introduced to the members of his team and we actually discussed my PR proposals and did some proper work in the comfort of these converted garages for a while, despite having to raise our voices or stop talking altogether from time to time as the race bikes roared by on the track.
Lunchtime rolled around, and I was treated to chicken, smoked salmon, crudités, and white wine, courtesy of Dunlop catering, before Donald announced we should take a tour of the pits. The race would start at two, so I guessed I would have to man up and visit the track itself.
An oversized golf cart turned up, and I got in with Donald, Sam, and a couple of other execs, and it whisked us over to the pit lane. It had to be a quarter mile from where we were, around the middle of the track, so I was glad I didn’t have to walk it in my heels.
The garages in the pits were a hive of activity. Technicians buzzed around the sleek and colorful machines. The nearer to the center of the garage complex, the more bikes were on show and the more people in matching shirts milled about. By comparison, the teams towards either end, a few of which only had one machine, had as few as three people working on them.
The Repsol Honda garage seemed to be the most important. There looked to be hundreds of people in orange shirts doing important and technical things. Sam tugged my arm as she spotted one of the riders. He was distinguishable by the white and orange leather suit he wore, undone at the waist so the top fell down around his ankles. She was very excited because he was the twenty-two-year-old double world champion, Marc Márquez, who the sweet girl had a crush on. I recognized him as the short, high-cheekboned Spaniard I had to brush off last night before I hooked up with James.
And there he was in my mind again. Even in this hellishly hot and smoke-clogged pit lane, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I closed my eyes for a second as I relived the sensations his tongue gave me when he flicked it expertly over my clit, causing me to involuntarily thrust my hips against his face as his hands mashed and squeezed my tits. I could feel a satisfied smile creeping across my lips.
“Summer! Look out!” Sam screeched, dropping her clipboard to grab my shoulders and pull me backwards. In my daydream, I’d strayed too close to the back of one of the race bikes just as a mechanic started it up. The machine burst into life with a defining scream, made all the worse for me because I was only a foot from the tailpipes. The sound and the invisible wall of pressure shot straight through my body, shaking me to the core. My legs actually went weak, and although Sam had the gut reaction to pull me away, she didn’t have the strength to keep me upright. I felt myself dropping, but before I hit the floor, a pair of strong hands caught me around the waist and steadied me.
Someone called for a chair, and I was placed onto a hard plastic thing. Those hands let go of me. My head swam for a second, and when I opened my eyes, I saw James’ face again. I blinked and shook my head to clear it, but his face stayed in front of me and broke into a smile.
“Well, well,” he said. “Fancy running into you again.”
James
I was caught off guard while doing my pre-race amble around the garages, saying hello to all the other racers, wishing them luck and so on, when I strolled into the Repsol team’s space just as they fired up Dani Pedrosa’s bike. A corporate-suit lady standing too close to the Honda got knocked sideways by the shockwaves. It would’ve been comical if it wasn’t so dangerous. This cute little girl with a clipboard tried to save her, pulling her away in time, but accidentally pushe
d her so she fell over the generator for the tire warmers.
I was just close enough to step forward and grab her around the waist. Donald from Dunlop called for a chair, and I sat her in it. I caught her and lowered her down and recognized the smell. Even amongst the rubber, gasoline, leather, and oil in the garage, I smelled Summer. That fresh, sweet scent from last night, like newly gathered cotton candy.
She’d taken a hit, and it took a second for her to come back to herself. Her eyes opened, and she saw me crouched before her. She shook her head to clear it, then a small smile appeared on her lips.
“Que paso, James?” Marc asked, having come over to check out the commotion.
“It’s all good, Marc,” I told him.
“Are you well, senorita?” he asked Summer. I love little Marc, but he’s wasting the Latin Lothario act on her.
“I’m fine, thank you,” replied Summer. “Wait, you’re Marc Márquez, aren’t you?”
“Si.”
“Can you take Sam,” Summer pointed at the young girl, who had retrieved her clipboard from the dirty floor, “and show her where to get me some water?”
I smiled as young Sam could barely contain her excitement at being led away by Marc. She mouthed a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to Summer as they headed off on their mission.
“Aren’t you the matchmaker?” I teased Summer after they were out of earshot. I stood up, and she looked a little confused by my race leathers and boots.
“You’re a racer?” she asked.
“I am.”
“But…you’re so big.”
I smirked and was glad no one else was listening to our conversation. “And that’s why I’m not one of the title contenders.” I smiled.
Donald came over. “I see you’ve met James Spence, one of the privateer riders,” he said. I liked Donald well enough, but there was no profit for him in schmoozing me or riders like me that don’t have big factory contracts. “Are you okay, Summer?”
“Yes, thanks, Donald. I wish everyone would stop worrying over me,” she replied.
“How do you know each other?” I asked.
Before Summer could say anything, Donald piped up, “Summer’s going to be handling the PR for Dunlop’s Motorcycling Concerns.”
So much for us keeping it anonymous. I wanted to get her alone for just a few minutes, but it didn’t happen. She was taken away through the other garages, even though Sam and Marc hadn’t returned yet with the glass of water, and I had to head back to my garage because it was thirty minutes to race time.
***
The last few minutes before a race were always tense. Always. Lined up on the grid, helmet on, a pretty girl keeping the sun off of me with her umbrella, camera crews and reporters from various countries wandering up and down the grid. Keith was right—staring at Blake’s ass as he sat on his bike in front of me got very old, very fast. I tried to distract myself by looking at Suzi’s delicious butt as she stood next to him, keeping the heat off him, and that was better. But the more I looked, the more I thought about Summer again. My brain was completely occupied by her. I thought I’d never see her again, yet she had been on the track today. My heart had leaped when I’d realized who I was holding, and my mind had raced with the possibilities of us enjoying each other again.
Now, though, sitting on the grid, I was thinking about all the ways it could go wrong. The awkwardness that would inevitably ensue when we realized we have nothing in common, no matter how many times we fucked. I should probably forget about any kind of repeat performance with Summer.
I got off my bike and walked up to Blake.
“What the fuck do you want, Spence?” he snapped at me. He was really taking this rivalry too far.
“I need a word,” I told him, “with Suzi.”
His face fell as I turned my back on him. “Missed you last night, sexy,” I whispered to Suzi. Obviously I didn’t, because I was with Summer. I was just trying to screw with Blake.
“Missed you too, baby,” she purred back.
I could hear a grumbling behind me. “Why don’t you piss off, mate?” Blake barked as the klaxon announced to prepare for the parade lap. “Some of us are here to race, not pick up girls.”
“It’s not like you wouldn’t if you could, would you?” I teased him, “It’s just a shame you’re so ugly. Gotta go.” I winked at Suzi. She blew me an air kiss as I dashed back to my ride.
“I’ll fucking get you!” I thought I heard Blake wail behind me as Ray started up my motor.
It was a fun race. I liked the track, and I managed to avoid Blake locking his brakes and crashing at the hairpin in front of the Dunlop hospitality garage. I nearly crashed straight after, like a lovestruck idiot, thinking about whether Summer sat in there watching me or not.
Crowds gathered in the pits to see the top riders take their places and receive their trophies. Little Marc won. I actually scored a point for fifteenth place, and was on a pretty good high from that. Blake was unhurt from his little get-off, which made it the second time I’d beaten him this season. But as I watched Marc, Ducati’s Andrea Dovizioso, and the legendary Valentino Rossi on their podium spraying champagne across the eager fans below, I didn’t see Summer anywhere. Disappointed, I retired to my trailer to shower and change into some real clothes before I tried to figure out what the team wanted to do tonight.
The rock band Cheap Trick was playing the main arena after the race, which could be fun. Keith and Ray wanted to go, and Nick and Other James had never heard of them but were willing to tag along. I wanted to go to the Dunlop after-party, obviously, but I couldn’t interest them in it.
I took the team to the show, got them backstage so they could watch from the wings, then snuck away to the Dunlop suites. And there she was. As I headed out of the auditorium, I crossed under the tall tower and saw Summer stepping into a red Mustang convertible. She hadn’t seen me, so I jogged up to the car and talked to her through the open roof.
“So it was you?” I snapped. She jumped a little.
“Was me what?” she demanded. She had her hand on her heart, as I'd frightened her. Man, that amazing hair, those beautifully defined cheekbones. I felt like she grew more beautiful every time I saw her.
“It was you that cut me off this morning,” I said. “I nearly got sideswiped by a hot girl in a red Mustang spinning her wheels on the grass by the track entrance.”
“Sorry about that.” She smiled demurely, teasing me.
“Are you leaving?” I asked her.
“Yeah, I’m done with Donald,” she replied. She had those big sunglasses on, so I couldn’t quite tell where she was looking. But I felt like she was smiling at me. “He’s started on the scotch again, and I’m not interested in a repeat of last night.”
“I don’t know.” I gave her an exaggerated grin. “There was quite a lot of last night I would love to repeat.”
She smiled. Surprisingly, she seemed a touch bashful and turned away. Maybe she felt more for me than she was letting on?
“We agreed, I thought, that there would be no complications, no ties, and no apologies. That’s why I didn’t kiss you. I thought we were on the same page.”
“We were,” I explained, “but there was nothing in what you just said that means we can’t get a drink right now.”
She laughed at that. “That’s true enough.” I persuaded her to come back inside with me for a drink. She was guarded and adamant that she didn’t want to commit, but she seemed to like me, or at least the sex we’d had. I didn’t want to commit either. I didn’t. I definitely didn’t. I just couldn’t get her out of my head, and I couldn’t stop the feeling—the longing—to be with her again.
Summer
James opened the door for me and we headed back into the hospitality suite. In the half-light, I could make out waiters carrying trays between round, white-topped tables. I grabbed a couple of scotches from one as he passed and handed a glass to James, then sat down at a free table. He sat in the chair next to me, turning it t
o face me.
“Cards on the table,” he said with a smile. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I don’t care what you say; last night was probably the most amazing night of my life, and I think you are the most beautiful, sensual, sensational creature it has been my pleasure to…pleasure.”
That was quite a little speech. I could feel my face warming up and my pussy moistening. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too much. “I’m flattered,” I began, staring past him. “And believe me, last night was fantastic for me, too. But I don’t want to see you again. I mean, I do, but I don’t want a relationship. I’m not good at them. I don’t want to commit, and that always hurts the man I’m with, regardless of how much he says he wants the same thing in the beginning.” I looked at him—his sexy smile, his kind eyes, his strong jawline. “I like you. I do. Which is why I don’t want to hurt you.”
He took a sip from his drink and recoiled at the taste. It was not a good scotch. “I know what you’re saying,” he said, putting his glass down on the table with a slow, deliberate movement. “I promise I feel the same way. I’ve never been able to commit to a relationship either. But I’m a few years older than you, so I’ve had much more practice at not committing. I think I can handle a little more.”
A loud “Ha!” popped out of my mouth. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard a line like that, only for the guy to whine six months later that I won’t move in?” I actually sounded quite resentful. In my mind, I looked like my mother during a screaming match with my father. He must have made her so angry and so miserable at the same time. “And,” I continued, talking over whatever he was about to say, “like I could commit to a juvenile racer anyway, someone who earns his living driving around and around in circles, then parties the rest of the time, fucking anyone who’ll agree to have him.”