by Ada Winter
Copyright 2016 by Ada Winter. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodies in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission request, email to [email protected].
http://www.adawinter.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely incidental.
Edited by: Sara Long
Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Epilogue
Chapter 1
CELIA
“Hi Tracy, I made it. I saw your brother earlier. Give me a call or text when you get here.” End call.
I feel eyes observing me from behind. I quickly spin around to reveal a man wearing a fireproof suit. He is leaning against a wire-mesh fence, his arms folded against his chest, staring right at my ass.
“Do you see something you like?” I ask sarcastically. As he raises his eyes to make contact with me, I think my knees will buckle and give out.
“As a matter of fact I do.” His tousled thick black hair and stunning, rusty brown eyes － the color of wild honey － make me feel like a bowl of Jell-O. The intensity of his gaze seems to cut to my very core. He continues. “What are you doing after the race…or, should I say, after I win?”
Seriously? He is either the most cocky, or else over-confident, man I have ever met. I can’t decide which.
“You may win the race, but you’ll lose out with me.” Touché. His expression didn’t falter.
“I’ll just have to be persistent, then. I’m good at that. You’ll give in eventually.”
Eventually? This guy isn’t going to go away easily, but if I am being honest, I’m not sure that’s what I want him to do anyway. “Don’t you have a race to win?” His smile slackens and his tone becomes a touch more serious.
“You’re right. That’s what I came here for – to win. But that doesn’t mean I can’t add ‘getting you into my bed’ to my day’s agenda.”
I have to give the guy credit, he is persistent. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a friend to meet.”
“Okay. I’ll find you after the race.”
And with that, he flashes his beautiful smile and saunters off. I have to admit that I give his ass a good long look as he walks away from me and I like what I see.
I make my way up the hill to the race track’s viewing area. There are no grandstands here, and the best spot to view the race is from up on a hill overlooking the famous Limerock s-curve. Along the side of the hill is a small paved area with a sign that reads, Skip Barber Racing School. It has an area that looks like a mini-racetrack where cars are driving in reverse, doing power slides, and weaving through cones. Crazy.
Off in the distance, I can see all the cars lined up, nine rows deep with two cars to a row. Tracy’s brother Tom is positioned in the fourth row on the inside. He is driving a yellow Porsche 924 with the number 114 emblazoned on its side on a blue magnet. I don’t know a lot about cars, but I know many of these were Porsche’s, Alfa Romeos, and a variety of other small sports cars. Some look to be over 50 years old, judging by the style.
“Celia!” Tracy approaches carrying two foldable chairs. They are slung over her shoulder with uncomfortable-looking canvas straps and she is transporting a cooler in the other hand. My guess is there is enough Pinot Grigio in there to make for a fine afternoon.
“What the heck, Tracy! I’m here for you and you’re 30 minutes late!”
“I know, I know,” she says. She pulls out two wine glasses and holds them up for me as an offering, and when she smiles that toothy grin of hers, I can’t stay mad at her.
I gesture towards the track. “There’s your brother in the middle. You see him?” She nods. “Some creep…well, an extremely good-looking creep, was staring at my ass just before you got here. He was gorgeous, but I could tell he was a player. I basically told him to buzz off, but it didn’t seem to register with him.”
“I wouldn’t mind a gorgeous creep looking at my ass…lighten up!” She laughs.
We are interrupted by a voice bellowing out over the loudspeaker. “Gentleman, start your engines!”
“What kind of sexist crap is that? What if a woman decided to race?” Tracy was fired up.
The deafening roar of the car engines rumbling to life drowned out all other sounds.
I shake my head and smile, wondering to myself which car the creepy gorgeous guy is driving? If I had to guess, it would be a flashy-colored one, red or yellow.
Wait a minute! I chastise myself. He’s a creep. Why are you even thinking about him?
Chapter 2
LANE
Fifth row, just where I like it. Not too many guys in front of me so I’ll have room to move. I wonder if they know I already have this race won. My need for speed is unmatched. When I was a kid, I used to bet money that I could beat the other kids down Lonergan’s Hill on my bike. When they were putting on their brakes, I pedaled hard. They were all afraid, but I loved it.
The only thing I like more than fast cars is fast women. I can’t get enough. I’m an ass man for sure, and I sure liked what I saw a few minutes ago.
But there was more to her than a fine ass. Her hair was the color of an auburn sky on a sizzling summer night, and her eyes, they were like two precious emeralds that sparkled when she was annoyed. I wonder what her name is? She didn’t give in easily like most of them do. Something happened there. It was pure, unadulterated chemistry. I felt something, but I’m not sure what it was. It wa
s more than physical, though.
Over the radio comes, “You got me Lane?” It’s my buddy Bo who is spotting for me up on the hill. He had never done this for me before today.
“Loud and clear.”
He continues. “Watch out for the dark blue number 60 right on your tail. That’s Jim Boville and he’s a contender.” There’s a pause, and then, “So what’s your strategy?”
I laugh. “Same as it always is. Drive fast as hell until everyone’s behind me, then take it home to victory.”
“C’mon Lane, you’ve got to have a plan.” Bo still wasn’t getting it. “Remember Lonergan Hill, Bo?”
“Yeah, of course, Lane.”
I grip the steering wheel tightly and rev the engine. I search for her in the crowd. Nowhere. “Did anyone ever beat me?”
Short hesitation. “Nope.”
“That’s because I have no fear. Everyone else feels at least a tinge of something, but I feel nothing. There is me, this car, and the finish line. I drive faster than anyone else and I get there first. That’s my strategy.”
Bo answers. “Well, alright.”
“Can you do me a favor? There’s a hot piece of ass I met just before the race and she gave me a stiffy that I’m still getting over. She has red hair and green eyes and she’s wearing white skin-tight pants with a form-fitting, lace-up-the-front shirt. Can you spot her?”
“Are you fucking shitting me? You’re two minutes from a race and you want me to find a woman for you?”
“You are my spotter, aren’t you? Spot her for me, brother.”
Bo, cursing under his breath, lifts his binoculars and starts looking around. He scans the hill from right to left and then he sees her. “I can see what you mean, Lane. She’s about 50 yards away from me right above the s-curve.”
“Walk over there and tell her I’m dedicating this race to her. Tell her Lane in car number 22 is going to win this race, and afterwards I’m going to take her home. She’ll know it’s me.”
Chapter 3
CELIA
The sun is just peeking around the white puffy clouds, and as I am studying them, wine in hand attempting to see what forms I can see, a man with a headset and binoculars blots it out. He is tall with a brown bushy mustache and traffic cop sunglasses. Looking right at me he says, “Lane Astor in red number 22 said he’s going to win this race for you and then he’s going to take you home to celebrate.”
What an arrogant jerk. I look at Tracy and just shake my head in disbelief. Despite my reaction, I do admire his confidence.
“You tell him that he may well win this race, but hell will freeze over before I go home with him.” The instant I say it, I feel regret. Not because it isn’t what I’m feeling. I do feel annoyed, but I also feel something else. It is a slight tingling that travels through me before I know what is happening.
The man’s eyes drop from me as he starts to walk away. I see him say something into the headset and then he stops, looks over his shoulder at me, and then turns around and starts heading back towards me. As he does, he removes the headset and hands it to me.
You’ve got to be kidding me. He nods to me to take the headset and listen.
I put the headset on and I can hear his voice. “Hi there, angel! I was just thinking about you. Were you thinking about me?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, once you meet me, I’m a bit hard to forget. I figure you’re probably curious and can’t get me off your mind. Am I wrong?”
“You sure are full of yourself.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about you non-stop since we met. I’ll see you in victory lane, angel!”
I remove the headset and hand it back to the man in the cop sunglasses. He is wearing as dumbfounded of a look on his face as I’m sure I am wearing on mine. He slowly walks away.
Tracy looks over at me and says, “So? What did he say?” I could tell by her expression that while she is curious, she knows I’m annoyed. But there is something else besides being annoyed. I feel it for a brief moment. It’s excitement.
Maybe I am being too harsh. He is damn good looking. I wonder what his body looks like under that fire suit?
“Celia? Hellloooo….” I must have been standing there in a trance judging by her voice. “He said he’s been thinking about me nonstop and he’s convinced he’ll win the race. He wants to take me home with him after.”
“Ohhh…lover!” Tracy has a different way than me.
I was a bit more skeptical, as I’d been burned too many times in the past by smooth-talking hunks. “Cut it out, Tracy. He’s just another player looking to make another notch in his bed post.”
Yet I felt there was more to it than that. I wonder if there was any chance he did, too.
Chapter 4
CELIA
I pick Lane’s car out in the fifth row. It's a bright red two-seater Alfa Romeo and it looks fast. I don’t know anything about these cars, but Tracy does. She describes how cars from different eras have varying strengths and weaknesses based on the model and year of the car. And then there is the x-factor, the modifications the drivers make to their cars, which can make the difference between finishing first or tenth. She knows enough to feel confident that Lane has one of the better performing cars out there.
The race start-point is on a straight-away on the other side of the hill from where we are sitting, so we walk over there to get a better look. There are two bridges that cross over the racetrack on the front and back ends of the straightaway. One is a pedestrian bridge and the other is reserved for vehicle traffic. It must be amazing to stand on the second bridge and watch the cars speed under you at over 100 miles per hour.
The air is tense as the drivers rev their engines, each looking to get off the line the quickest. The starting lights turn green and they are off like lightning as they enter the first of many right-hand turns. From there, the drivers enter the s-curve right below where we are seated and the only section with a left-hand turn.
Tracy explains and points to the racing cars as we walk back to our seats. “They’re only going about 60 to 65 miles per hour through these turns, but Lane will take them a little faster.”
“Why is that?” It seems like a silly question, but I am curious to hear her answer.
“Because he’s a nut job and drives faster than anyone out here.” I can sense the serious tone to her voice and know she means what she said.
She is right. As the race progresses, I notice something that must have stood out to everyone here. Lane drove on the edge of recklessness. No one, I mean no other driver on that track, drove with more determination than he did.
He made multiple passes on the dangerous s-curve below us, while no other driver even attempted to pass in that section. On the long straightaway toward the finish line, he passed people relentlessly. Not with fancy maneuvers, but with sheer determination to win.
“Everyone else is hitting 120 miles per hour on this straight section, but Lane’s easily hitting 125 to 130 miles per hour. He drives the tires off that thing, doesn’t he?” Tracy glances at me briefly to gauge my reaction before shifting her attention back to the track.
There is something extremely sexy about that. A man who was willing to risk everything to pass the next car to win. Yet there is also something distressing. He is borderline reckless out there, and more than once I saw some of the other drivers making gestures at him indicating they were less than happy with the way he was driving.
One thing is for sure: the smells and sounds of the track are intoxicating. The unmistakable smell of burning rubber, the roar of the engines and the sound of screeching tires was, well…exciting. It spoke to the manliness of the racers, and the amount of testosterone emanating from the track is undeniable.
It was only a few laps before Lane passed every car out there with relative ease. The number 60 car gave him a bit of trouble as they ran a close first and second. “Who drives number 60?” I
am deeply interested now.
“That’s Jim Boville. He’s a bit of a legend here. Older guy, attractive for his age, but a bit past his prime. He’s not as aggressive as Lane and that’s why he’ll lose.”
I don’t respond. My gaze is fixated on Lane and that beautiful red car of his that’s outpacing all the others. What motivates him to drive faster than everyone else? Maybe he’s just that way about everything. He’s certainly cocky in his pursuit of me, although he’d likely call it confidence.
Was it a matter of attitude? Or was it something else? I’ve always been interested in what makes people tick, and I found myself fascinated with this gorgeous, aggressive, cocky man who lives his life fast both on and off the track.
“What are you thinking, Celia? You’re awfully quiet over there.” Tracy eyes me suspiciously. “Thinking about the hot guy in number 22? He said he was dedicating this race to you, and just look at him out there. He’s tearing up the track just for little ole’ you.”
I don’t find that funny. Tracy should know better, although I doubt she’s thinking about the same thing that I am. It’s not her fault.
She refills my glass with some ice cold Pinot Grigio, and I can feel the cold wetness soak my hand. My mind drifts off, to another place and time. When I was young and carefree and had nothing to worry about except for pimples and a bad hair day.
I am snapped back to reality by Tracy’s excited voice. “Holy shit. Boville’s giving him a run!” The midnight blue Porsche 928 comes up on Lane’s right and undercuts him on the exit of the s-turn just below us. Lane is almost a car-length behind entering a section of the course they call the Uphill, for obvious reasons.
We lose sight of the cars but can hear the hum of their engines coming from the direction of the woods, the deep revving loud enough for us to audibly follow their progress as they enter the downhill. The engines are roaring now, and then it happens.
The sound of screeching tires.
This isn’t the normal sound of tires losing traction as they navigate around a turn. It is the sound of a car losing all control. My heart is in my throat. Is that Lane? Is he alright?”