Race For Love

by Nana Malone

  "You'll pay for that." His father glowered at him.

  "Whatever you say."

  His father offered up a little prayer. "Lord save me from my kids and protect me from my wife." He sighed before he asked, "So what do you say? I know it's not what you want. Or how you wanted to get it, but it's a possibility. At the very least, it keeps your skills fresh till we hear about your appeal."

  Derek didn't know shit about racing cars, but he knew the human body. And it would be temporary, so he could still look for a job. "I'll talk to the guy."

  His father beamed and Derek's gut twisted. Seeing his father's clear and apparent love for him always made him regret that he ever thought the old man would leave him behind.

  "Fantastic. In the mean time, I'll work on the Kallie Wintor project and I'll involve your sister. We'll make sure she remembers, forever, the day she played the Titans."

  Laughing and coughing, Derek shook his head. "Dad, solid movie reference, but we're not the Titans. Would have been funnier if you'd substituted the Donovans."

  "Whatever. If I'm gonna use a Denzel quote, I'm gonna do it how I want."

  "And that's another thing, it's not a Denzel quote. You always insist that it is, but it's a Will Patton quote."

  "Bullshit."

  Derek threw the covers off. "IMDb me, bitch!"

  From somewhere down the hall, his mother's voice was loud and clear, "Derek Donovan, I know you weren't just swearing in my house."

  Fuck. "How did she hear me and not you?"

  His father grinned. "She's been tuning me out for years."

  Derek shoved himself out of bed. His father was right. It might not be exactly what he wanted, but right now some work was better than no work. He had a call to make.

  ***

  Kisima sat as still as possible in her wheelchair not daring to breathe. In her living room, the three men argued about what would be best for her. "She can't stay here," one of them said. "Well, it's not like you can take care of her," said another. "We have to do what's best for her recovery," said the third.

  No one bothered to ask her what she wanted, or what she thought. More importantly, none of them answered the burning questions she had. Like, when would she get her life back? Would the pain dissipate? Would she walk with a limp for the rest of her life? Was she ever getting into a car again? It had been her dream to drive since she was little. Her father had taught her everything about cars. He'd always wanted to be a driver, but he'd never had the opportunity or money. After he'd died, TJ made sure she had the opportunity.

  Forget about the future. What she'd really like to know was what the hell happened in Montreal? She only remembered things before the start of the race and after she woke up in the hospital three days later. Everything else was a glaring blank space she couldn't fill in.

  What was worse, she didn't know if she was to blame for her current situation. To blame for the nightmares. To blame for the pain. To blame for the wheelchair. It was easier to rail against herself than it was to rail against a tire company, or the mechanics. When you were the one at fault, all you did was hate yourself. The looks that everyone gave her, part pity, part confusion, told her what she needed to know. The rest of the world blamed her. She'd confirmed everything everyone else believed, that she wasn't good enough to drive. That she couldn’t hack the pressure.

  She knew TJ, Christian, and Dr. Hoyt meant well, but this constant talking around her, as if she wasn't a person, wasn't an adult, was getting annoying.

  She tried to crane her neck to look at Dr. Hoyt, but the motion sent a sharp streak of pain down her neck and over her shoulder, so she used the guide on the chair like she had been taught. The mechanical whirring sound pissed her off. That little buzzing stood for everything she lost and what more she could stand to lose.

  When she faced them, she sighed. No one had even noticed the effort she put into the small action. They were too busy yelling at each other. Dr. Hoyt was going on about her progress, or lack there of. Her shoulder should have healed, as should have her clavicle, but she was still experiencing pain with movement.

  Although, he was happy to announce that her hip was healing nicely. Oh really? Someone should tell her hip that. Because it hurt like a son of a bitch to put any weight on it. Hence, the damned chair. What the fuck did he know anyway? She felt like her hip had been bolted together with steel rods. Oh wait...someone had bolted it together with steel rods. Several times a day, a nurse would come and help her move around so she didn't get pressure sores sitting or lying down too much. What fun.

  Christian spoke without even looking in her direction. Of the three men, she would think he had her best interests at heart. But his main concern was getting her to move to TJ's house where he could look after her. What he really meant was hover over her. She liked being in her own house. Needed her own space. She wasn't an invalid. At least, she hoped, not for long. And the last thing she needed was to be waited on hand and foot. More importantly, she didn't want to feel beholden to the Daniels family...again. They'd done enough for her.

  Christian wasn't the only one who'd wanted her in the family home. TJ also wanted her home. But he had his own ways of hovering. And, she suspected he also wanted to monitor her recovery and figure out how long it would take before she was in a car again. He stalked over and took notice of her pinched expression. "You okay, kid?"

  He always called her kid. Would he ever see her as an adult? Or would he always see that scared eight-year-old who had lost her parents? "I'm fine."

  His furrowed brow and pursed lip told her he knew she was anything but fine, but his annoying features smoothed out as he bent down to get on her level. Considering he was six foot five, it was a long way down these days. "I mean it, Kisima. Something's got to give. You have to tell me what you're thinking, feeling, how you really are. No more being strong to protect yourself from the pity thing. You have to tell me."

  It hurts to breathe most days. I wake up in excruciating pain because somebody forgot to remind my hips that they're supposed to stay attached to my body during the night. Sometimes I go numb on my whole left side and I worry about having a heart attack. I'm worried I'll never get back into a car again. I'm terrified to leave the house because that involves being in a car. Worst of all I'm worried you won’ love me anymore if I can't drive.

  But she couldn't tell him any of that, at least not without him bringing in a team of shrinks. None of whom could help her get out of the chair and ready to race by the middle of the season. So she said, "You worry too much. I know, I always seem fine. But I'm healing. The shoulder is a mild problem. I'll just need to keep resting and I should be fine. I promise."

  "Okay then, we need to do what we can to get you out of the chair and into a car. Just remember, we still have a plan for you. The plan is still for you to graduate to team driver this year. Even if you missed the races, you still might do well enough to become driver number two permanently." As it was, she'd been stepping in for their second driver on the occasions where he was injured or ill.

  Each racing team, as a general rule, had two drivers. Occasionally, teams would employ a third driver, to give that driver racing experience. That was what TJ was trying to do with her. But her full-time job was test driver. And it was just as important as being a driver. She knew the cars as well as they did. And she was the first line of defense if something was off. But loving her job, and doing it with precision, and to perfection, was not the same as living her dream. She wanted to be driving. But right now, the idea of it terrified her.

  A memory clawed at the back of her skull. And suddenly she was back in her car, smoke and noxious gas filling her lungs as flames licked her skin. The pain radiated from her head down to her shoulder on the left side of her body. Death was coming for her. Just like it had come for her parents.

  The night her father died, she should have died with him. But when they'd struck the median that night, she'd survived. Only to be in a crash that nearly took her life twelve years
later. After the first crash, TJ gave her power by putting her in Go-Karts, where she was in control of the wheel. But she’d been responsible for the Montreal crash. She wasn’t going near another car if she could help it.

  "I'm doing the best I can, TJ." Her father had worked for TJ as his lead engineer, so she's been in and out of the Daniels house since she was a kid. TJ Daniels was practically her uncle. Her mother died when she was very young. So after her father's death, TJ had taken her in, and given her another life.

  Christian stalked to her other side, effectively putting her in the middle...like always. But unlike his father, Christian didn't bring himself down to meet her gaze. "Kisima, I think it's time for you to take the physical therapy seriously. You need to come home so I can help look after you.”

  "Christian, you can't just dictate my life for me. I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions."

  "You're being ridiculous. I have the means to look after you. Why won't you just let me worry and take care of everything for once."

  Because she didn't want to have to count on anyone. "Christian, I appreciate it, I do, really. But I'll be choosing my own trainer. And the ones at the hospital are fine." She'd refused all their efforts to put her in a private facility. They thought it was because she was being stubborn and overly independent. But they didn’t know the half of it. TJ had spent millions on her over the course of the last twelve years and she'd blown it at the first chance. She didn't need to be reminded of her failure by continuing to take his money. Or Christian's either.

  "Fine? You're a Daniels. Fine isn't going to cut it."

  She set her teeth. "I'm not a Daniels. I'm a test driver for Daniels. It's different."

  TJ flinched, but Christian just waved his hands dismissively. "Semantics. And let's be clear, I don't think you're really giving everything you have to this effort. It's like you don't want to recover," Christian said.

  She ground her teeth together. He may have a point about that. After all, the faster she recovered the faster she’d be forced to get into a car. "How would you know? Not like you've been around." The jab was out of her mouth before she could take it back. But it was the truth. He hadn't been there. Every time she could have used the moral support, he'd conveniently been unavailable. It's as if the accident had changed who she was to him.

  Christian kneeled down and took her hand. "Look, I'm sorry about that. But I do work for Gifford racing, so I have responsibilities. I'm here for you always, you know that. More than anything, I want you on your feet."

  TJ added, "We both do. But it's time to get serious."

  "This is ridiculous, Kisima. You're moving into the guesthouse. I can take care of you there."

  The way Christian said that, suggested she wasn't able to do it for herself, like she was a child. "I don't need taking care of."

  "That is enough, the both of you." TJ glared at Christian and her. "Kiss, Christian's right. You're too isolated here. I'm going to propose that you come to the house and stay there until you're better. Then you can come on back home. I'm also going to propose that we get the best trainer money can buy. Someone with experience working with elite athletes. I've already called in a favor from a friend of mine. This guy used to train the New Orleans Jaguars. He comes highly recommended. It's our last shot, Kiss. You have to decide if you want to get better or not."

  Shit. She didn't actually know the answer to that. No, she did. She wanted to be better. Mostly, she didn't want to be in pain anymore. As long as she didn't think about getting into a car, she was fine. Maybe that was all she had to focus on. Just get better. The rest would come later. "Okay, on the trainer. But I'm not making any promises."

  4

  Kisima rolled her wheelchair through the wide hallway. Dark wood paneling surrounded her as did the faint scent of the lemon cleaner the household staff used. For years, she'd been after TJ to modernize the house, lighten it up. Right now, it screamed, “I'm a bachelor, I'm a bachelor.”

  As a kid, she'd always been terrified of this hallway, especially at night. On the walls, photos of Daniels Racing ancestors glared down at her, as if to say she wasn't worthy. Also on those walls sat school pictures of her and Christian from the time they were in elementary school to the time they graduated from high school. Christian had one from university too. She took correspondence classes in the off season. At her current pace, she'd have her degree in another five years or so.

  She knew he was here, her new trainer. The aids had met with him already and were busy tittering about how hot he was. She didn't care if he was hot, she cared if he was good. She wiped her palms on her jeans.

  Why the hell was she so nervous? Because now it's real. You have to go back. You have to do this. She would have to put in the work. It wasn't so much that she was afraid of the pain; she lived in a constant state of it these days.

  But she was afraid of someone else seeing it. Deep down she was terrified of someone else's pity. That was all she saw from Christian and TJ these days. And she was sick of it.

  She stopped her chair when she saw the man in the living room. From this vantage point, she had an excellent view of a spectacular jeans-clad ass. It was so good the jeans should be thanking him for making them look so good. Butterflies fluttered low in her belly and she silently admonished herself. What was she doing ogling this guy? She was here to work. Never mind that it had been so long she barely remembered what sex was like.

  She dragged her focus back to the tall stranger taking up space in TJ's living room.

  Dark, inky hair dusted his collar, lightly curling at the collar. His shoulders, holy hell, they were broad. Clearly, he worked out, but not so much that he looked like some muscle bound meathead. He still had a neck. Judging his height, he was probably around six feet two, maybe taller. He was just a little shorter than TJ. His back equally fascinated her as he studied the trophy wall and her stats. But she mostly focused on how his jeans hung low on his hips, showcasing his tight ass.

  A deep voice startled her out of her reverie. "You should take a picture, it'll last longer. Or you like seeing it all in the flesh?" His voice was low and sexy, but held a note of teasing.

  A flush of heat crept up her neck, making her face flame. The last thing she needed. When he turned slowly, Kiss involuntarily held her breath, almost like her body knew to brace itself for something magic.

  Oh, wow. With a jaw carved out of stone, his beautiful cheekbones were more geared for a runway model than a physical therapist. And his thick, sooty lashes rivaled her own. Jesus Christ, She was supposed to work with this guy? How was she supposed to work with him day in and day out for the next few months? She had twelve weeks until the Abu Dhabi race.

  No way no how. Physical therapy required touching. Lots of...touching. She'd had her fill of too handsome too cocky assholes. Antonio had been one. She knew the type "I won't be needing a picture thanks, I've had enough."

  The corner of his lips tipped into a wry smile and those piercing baby blues of his made it nearly impossible to think. Nearly.

  He studied her in her chair for a moment. "So you're KM Jennings. I'm not sure why, but before I got here, I expected a guy."

  She shrugged. "Kisima, actually. And it was done by design. When I first started, it was to slip me past organizers without too much discrimination. Added bonus was I looked like a boy for ages."

  His gaze slid over her and her skin prickled with heat in response. "Somehow I doubt that. I can see you doing it to keep the announcers from butchering your name.” His voice was softer and flowed over her like melted chocolate.

  “That too. It means spring in Swahili. Mom was Tanzanian.” Stop talking, Kiss. Why had she offered that? He wasn't here to date her. He was here to train her.

  His gaze narrowed for a moment, then he angled his head toward the trophy wall. "That you in Sports Illustrated?"

  Like an idiot, she blushed...again. What the hell was wrong with her? This guy was her supposed new trainer not some cute boy who wanted to buy her
a drink at the club. "Yeah. The story on women in racing."

  He nodded. "So the racing bikini is totally called for."

  She'd regretted that spread from the moment she'd agreed to do it. It certainly didn't help her gain respect. Magazines liked to feature her as their token minority and woman. There were other women. And other black racers. But a black woman, she was a chupacabra.

  Kiss shifted in the chair trying to take some pressure off her hip. "So they call you the miracle worker. Is it true? I mean, why do you patch up broken athletes? You going to have me all patched up and ready to drive in three months?" Her lower back throbbed and all she wanted to do was lie down and stretch properly.

  His eyes widened as he watched her shift in the chair and he crossed his arms. "I don't know about that. I don't really believe in miracles." His frown deepened. "But I guess I like to help people. And athletes are a special breed. Able to do what so few can do."

  "My own personal superhero. I suppose you'll have me call you Clark Kent."

  "If you need to see me as a superhero, feel free. But there won’t be any magic involved. Just plain old hard work. One question though, do you want to tell me what you're still doing in the chair?" His glare was derisive as if she'd done something wrong.

  She tilted her chin up. "Some trainer you are. I assume you've seen my file, so you know I can't really walk right now. This is my ride."

  Everything about him said he didn't believe her. From his crossed arms over that expansive, very impressive chest, to his narrow-eyed gaze, to his pursed lips. "But you don't need it."

  What the hell? "Tell that to my nearly shattered hip, my fractured collar bone, and my dislocated shoulder. I thought you knew what you were doing? Where the hell did TJ find you? The local high school?" Her temper flared even though she knew he had a bit of a point. Her doctors had said she should be at least getting on her feet by now. But she was in too much pain most days and she refused to take the meds. It didn't matter that they would dull the pain to a mild roar so she could at least try to move a little. She wasn't taking them. She knew what they could do and she wasn't going to end up like that.