by Karen Botha
It’s only when the waiter comes to collect our final round of dirty crockery that he asks, “How was that, sir, did you enjoy it?”
And then he speaks up. “It was beautifully prepared, but it was not really my taste. I would have been happier with a steak and chips.” He delivers the bad news to the waiter with such sweetness within his warm smile.
“Oh, really sir, I’m so sorry you didn’t enjoy it. You should have asked, we could have prepared something special for you.”
Now he says!
“Oh, well, we’ll put that down to experience then shall we?” I hold his hand.
He gives me his first genuine grin since the start of the evening. “Yup!”
“You still hungry?” I ask.
“Yup, but the thought was lovely. Thank you.” He squeezes my hand and I melt.
Kyle
Poor El tried so hard to give me a special evening and it just didn’t work out. However, it was still a night to remember. One for him to remember that my taste isn’t as elegant as his.
On the way back to the hotel, he’s been messing on his phone before asking the driver to pull over and wait. His security detail also pulls over behind us and, Dan, the larger of the two, opens the door for Elliott who hops out.
“Give me a few minutes.” He jogs inside an American pizza joint, materializing seconds later with a deep dish pepperoni he must have been ordering when he was on his phone.
“I couldn’t have you starving now could I?” He hands me the box and leans over the back seat to kiss my cheek.
The cardboard is hot underneath and I can barely contain the saliva which forms in my mouth at the thought of the stringy cheese.
“Thank you. I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder. That is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.” And it is. It’s a tender moment created out of nothing but love.
When we get back to the hotel, I’ve all but finished my pizza except a few stray crusts rattling round the otherwise empty box. I dump it in a trash can in the lobby as the elevator doors close on our way up to the penthouse.
“This makes a beautiful change to the trailer. It’s nice having to wait in luxury for it to arrive,” I say.
“Yeah, it really is like being on holiday. You have no idea how much of a treat this is for me, too. I love having you around, Kyle. You make everything better.”
The room is trying too hard to be elegant and ends up being tacky. It’s beautiful and luxurious, and all those things that you aspire to have when you can’t afford them. The interior is designed to remind you that this isn't your home, that you're away and you should embrace the luxury of having time away from the run of the mill. Everything glitters against the deepest mahogany.
And that's when the full length mirror catches my eye. Its gilt frame sparkles in the dark room. Hung against the wall at the head of the bed, it gives you a double sided view of the grand queen-size bed.
I'm not passing this opportunity up and without further ado, manhandle Elliott so he's standing before it.
He’s taken aback and stumbles as I maneuver him. “What are you doing?”
“Turn around.” My voice has taken on the husky tone of someone who has sex in mind.
And then he understands. “Someone is feeling frisky.”
“I sure am. This way I get to see you from the front and the back at the same time.” I sidle up behind him and nestle my mouth into the crook of his neck. He tips his head, eyes still fixed on the mirror, following my hands as they loosen his belt and leave his shorts to drop to the floor.
As usual, he is devoid of any underwear and I’ve never been more thankful as his solid length stands proud, hard and ready for me after just my slightest physical contact. I run my impatient hands up the underside of his shirt, watching my touch affect his expression. His mouth slackens allowing his full lips to part slightly as his head rests back on my shoulder.
Our breathing matches, a simultaneous in and out. Our reflection rises and falls in the mirror, one unified body.
Slipping his shirt over his head, my hands wrap around his torso again, running gently over his flesh. His nerves tingle under my touch and I hear and see his sharp intake of breath in the silent room. My shaking fingers leave a trail of raised bumps on his skin as they pass over every inch of his nakedness.
His ripped ab muscles contract as I tease him. His thick cock kicks out, begging for me to grip him. I trail the back of one nail over its length, from the head, wrapping two fingers round his base and kneading a gentle pulse before releasing him again. I allow the tip of my index finger to enjoy the silkiness of his precum, circling around before placing that same finger in my mouth. We both watch, transfixed, as I taste his excitement.
My cock stiffens, probing against his back and he reaches his hands behind, massaging my hardness through my clothes.
Elliott
This man knows how to treat a guy. As we stand in that mirror watching pleasure manifest in each of our faces, my hand cups his crotch and we both view my own length jab forward in response to touching his excitement.
There’s nowhere to hide, no secrets. Each involuntary tick is noted by the other. Sensitivities are heightened, the thrill of slow movements extended to the max as every detail counts.
I stand to the side, my back still to him to watch as he undresses. The sound of the fabric crumpling on the floor, the look on his face as he struggles to kick his shoes free and the way his thigh flexes with the movement.
I stroke my throbbing cock in my hot palm, a slow motion expression of my hunger for this man. My two fingers meet above my bulging head, closing my foreskin tight over my hidden delights before releasing and pulling it low again.
He’s finally naked and back joining me with a tube in his hand from which he squeezes out a silky liquid into his palm. He rubs them together as though washing and the simple anticipation has me almost coming right there and then such is the tension which beats between our two bodies.
Holding my hands out, he crushes another pool between my palms and I watch as I copy his move, our eyes then locking in the reflection.
I reach back and clasp my palm against him as he gyrates against my dark crevice. His hands have returned to my front, grabbing the base of my dick between them and sliding them along my throbbing length. It's like being inside him, while his hot flesh jabs against my rear sending sparks from my groin to my palpitating heart before flooding my brain until I can't think straight. My head snaps back against his shoulder, pressing down, allowing him the space to work behind me as my hips buck into his grasp.
The moment is overpowering. I lean against him harder, my skull pressing deeper into his shoulder, my hips thrusting faster into his hands.
His face changes, but this time his expression doesn't match mine which is overflowing with lust.
Kyle’s eyes scrunch, but it’s his mouth which captures me as it contorts at an angle across his face, a small, gap penetrating the middle of his lips.
“Are you OK?” I stand bolt upright and as soon as I do, the pain on his face clears, but his hand shoots down to rub his hip. He hops on the other foot.
“Sure, carry on.” He reaches for me. “Come here.”
“You were in pain. What’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it, Kyle. Why are you hurting?”
He pauses, kneading his hip again. “Just leave it, El.”
“I will not. What is wrong with you?” My voice is starting to raise. I’m getting antsy.
“My hip just clicked out; it’s nothing to worry about, it does it sometimes after the accident.” His eyes dip to the floor and I know this is more of an issue than he’s allowed me to see.
“What’s going on?” I ask again.
“It’s just been a bit cranky after the accident that’s all. It’s fine. I work through it and it clears.”
Now I have two hats on. The concerned boyfriend hat w
hich cares that the love of my life is in pain, and also still guilty because it was me who caused that pain originally and now from making out in the mirror.
My second hat though is more serious, and it's time sensitive considering he’s going to be a critical member of my race team in a few days. Every second counts in that situation and I can’t have someone on my side who isn’t one hundred percent fit. And he knows it which is probably why he's hidden this from me.
A ball of frustration lands in the pit of my stomach and it churns. Around and around, splashing waves of hurt mixed with confusion and a little anger at being deceived.
His eyes focus on his discarded shoes as he slumps down on to the edge of the mattress. “It’s not a big deal, Elliott. It comes and goes.”
“But what if it comes in the middle of a pit stop? Will your performance be restricted?”
“It won’t.”
I know how much he wants this job and I can’t be the one responsible for him losing it. I hit him with the car. I was the one who smashed him up and caused this in the first place. Now, do I have to be the one to end his career before it’s really started? My decision is made.
I must love this guy because I give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ll keep my mouth shut.
Kyle
It’s race day and the shooting pains from the other night have barely subsided since. Until then, I'd been doing well. The pain had been nearly non-existent, only resurfacing at longer and longer intervals. I'm not sure what happened though. Perhaps it was the weight of Elliott pressing down while we made out at an odd angle, but something well and truly clicked out of alignment and I've been quietly worrying about it since.
Of course the pressure is on. The championship title is still not won and Elliott is starting from third on a track on which it's notoriously difficult to pass.
If he can’t get into the lead before the first bend, then we’ll need to adapt our strategy during the race to undercut the other team, organizing our pit stops to save time and bring Elliott back out on the track ahead of the competition. The pressure on the pit crew is well and truly on. This is not the day for my hip to let us both down.
I pray the lights go out. I really pray for him to take the start he wants. He perhaps wants it too much because he's slow, being overtaken on two sides as his back wheels spin. He veers wide, pushing another car wide and loses one more place as he struggles for control.
“This is not going well,” Ryan mutters to no one.
We continue to watch the monitors.
Laps continue to be dealt down, but still Elliott doesn’t make up a place. If the race finishes as the cars are stacked now, he’ll lose his lead on the championship.
The strategists are on the board, discussing timings. “You need to make up two seconds,” Chase delivers into his headset.
Whoa, two seconds. Shaving mere hundreds of seconds off times to win is a big ask, but Elliott places his lead boot to the floor and his beast takes off closing the gap between him and the car in front.
“What about the tires, are they OK with me running so close?” I hear.
“Yep, the stats look fine. Do they feel OK to you?”
“Yeah, how much now?”
One lap is down and he’s already made up half a second. “Keep going like that and you’ll be in with a shot,” Chase confirms.
After four laps, Elliott’s tires will be melting as he’s right up the backside of his first rival.
“Box, box,” Chase instructs Elliott to leave the track and head into the pit lane where he slows.
Grabbing my tire, I’ve no time to worry about my hip now. My adrenaline is pumping so hard I won’t feel a thing until later, anyway. I bend down on the mark and Elliott pulls up dead on his spot.
I focus, seeing nothing but the space where my tire needs to hang and aiming for exactly the right spot. I hit it perfectly and the wheel nuts go on.
Elliott takes off in 2.3 seconds.
His scarlet car shoots off and we watch the monitors to see whether our plan worked.
He’s level with the car he’s trying to overtake as he also levels with the track, but the speed limit means when he joins again, he slots back into the position he was in before his stop.
“Shit!” I shout.
“Don’t worry about it,” I hear Chase responding. “His tires are old. Take him when you can; yours are fresh. You’ll get him.”
Elliott
This race is a fucking disaster. I should have known not to let Kyle on the team. He had to be the weak link, and just when pit stops matter the most. I could kick myself, or scream, or both.
As it is, I can’t do any of those things because it’s the last lap and I’m still in fourth place, losing my lead on the title.
As I approach the final bend, and my last-minute hope at redeeming this evening's disaster, I take a risk, dummying an overtake. As the car in front moves over to cover the space he thought I was going to use, I switch the engine settings and zip out to the opposite side of him, hammering down on the pedal and pushing my nose ahead.
I’m still running at full speed into the bend.
I leave it... Leave it... Leave it...
Now!
Brake!
I slam my foot down just as I’m about to turn. My car slows, allowing the nose of the car on my outside to push ahead. But, I have the shorter racing line now if I can just hold on.
My back end skids out pushing my front off the track as my brain ricochets in my helmet. Shit! If I’m too far over the line marking the track boundary, I’ll be disqualified. I check my mirrors.
Looks like I made it. My rubber is still on a fraction of the track.
It's game on. I slam my accelerator down.
But going off the track has dirtied my tires and my grip is restricted. My rear end continues to skid around, losing time until I end up back where I started this lap, and crossing the finish line in fourth.
"Fuck!" I scream down the radio before remembering that these snippets are broadcast on the TV.
“Don’t worry about it. There's still time in the season. And the car held up well.” Chase speaks in my ear.
I don’t reply, I’m too angry with myself. If I’d had faster pitstops, then the outcome would have been different. I allowed myself to put love ahead of professionalism and that's what amateurs do. My result today reflects that.
Pulling up away from the podium, I could punch someone out of pure frustration. But instead I must speak with the journalists who will be begging to discuss that last corner, and no doubt the pitstops.
I disappear into the garage with my helmet still firmly in place and only remove it when I’m safely out of the view of fans or cameras. Switching my safety gear for reflective sunglasses, I see my face in their lenses and I’m reminded of the other night when all of this started. I should have known at that point that Kyle wasn’t fit. I did know, but I chose to ignore it.
Pushing the thought from my mind, I also ignore my desire to be alone and head outside to the media pen where a throng of eager microphones will be shoved under my nose.
“Look after me,” I say to Jessie as I approach her as she waits by the door. “I’m not in the mood.”
She nods, “Come on, let’s get it over with.”
Elliott
It was as bad as I predicted, and there’s a ruckus as soon as I emerge from the exit.
“Here we go,” I mutter to Jessie while simultaneously plastering my media smile across my face.
Jessie beams back with her plastic smile. “It’s OK. I got you.” She steers me over to interview number one and shoves her Dictaphone under my nose.
Of course they ask me how I feel about losing my grip on the championship and I regurgitate the same spiel they get every time this happens to any one of us drivers. How the season isn’t over yet and how we’re just looking from one race to the other. They know it’s bullshit, but they eat it up anyway.
And then we get to it, the pitstops.
“I have some stats for you here,” Idiot interviewer number one states.
I say nothing, maintain my smile, and wait. The best thing to do in these situations is say as little as possible and smile as much as possible. I tip my head to one side to show I’m listening when really I’m waiting for them to get on with this whole fucking nightmare.
“You’ve been spotted out with Kyle Beaumont many times over recent months. Did you know, that in terms of statistics, he’s your fastest mechanic in the pit stops? Today, on every single stop, he was the first to finish. It’s clearly a match made in heaven.”
The blond stops speaking and smiles, nodding to encourage my reply.
He was fastest?
I didn’t lose because of him, or me. It was just factors outside of our control.
“I didn’t know that. I’ve not had the chance to study the figures yet, but that’s great news.” And it is. My shoulders release and I feel ten pounds lighter. My lips split, revealing a full on genuine smile to the general public watching at home.
Blondie nods, “Yes, we thought you’d be pleased. Have you been giving him extra tips?”
The conversation goes on. And so do the interviews. They really go on. But I don’t care anymore. Kyle wasn’t to blame for me losing the race. Neither he nor I could have done any more.
Yes, I need to understand what happened, why my car wouldn’t travel as fast as the others around this circuit, but there’s nothing that either one of us two can be blamed for. It's more likely my lack of speed was down to temperature and air thickness.
And then I realize.
This wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to me in the past. I would still be full on pissed off about losing the race in such a spectacular fashion.
And I am. But its effects pale into insignificance because now, something else is more important than winning.
I already have the winner’s trophy.