The Race

by Alice Ward

  The cameras recorded it all. People leaned over and whispered to one another, and they all seemed to be wearing smiles that said, Whoa, she’s going to regret this later.

  Too late.

  Even as I raged, the regret began to seep in. My hair was wild, my body covered in sand, my clothes askew, and Locke had blood all over his tech shirt. We looked like we’d been through a war. And hell, I felt like it too. I looked at him, and he didn’t say a word. He just looked sad. Like we’d gone and fucked everything up.

  And we had.

  Shit, we really had.

  This was supposed to be the thing that changed my career, that changed my entire life. It was supposed to make me a NASCAR star. I’d been so focused on that for so long that nothing else had mattered. But ever since I laid eyes on Locke, things had veered in a very different direction. They’d gone totally off course. These past few weeks had been nothing but one big, long fuck-up.

  Because from the moment we’d seen each other in the resort, we’d wanted each other, and the passion we’d ignited wouldn’t be quenched until we’d done what we’d done. It had felt inevitable.

  Now, though, it felt incredibly stupid. Because following that passion had tainted the very thing I’d dreamed of all my life.

  Maybe Brody was right. Maybe I didn’t deserve to be there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Locke

  Walking on a minefield.

  That was what the following days felt like.

  I dropped her off at her apartment after the fiasco on the beach, and I didn’t see her for days afterward. It made sense to lie low, hope that whatever ripples we’d caused would eventually smooth themselves out.

  But the damage was done.

  The following afternoon, I’d just gotten back into the office after a jaunt around the parkour course I’d built out in the back of headquarters when Laura saw me passing by her office and snapped her fingers at me.

  I walked in, wiping my sweaty brow with the bottom of my tech shirt for lack of a towel. “What?”

  She was on the phone with a client, using her professional voice. She cradled the receiver against her shoulder and pushed her cell phone across to me, a look on her face that said, what the hell did you do now, big brother?

  The second I stared at the screen, I knew I was in trouble.

  A woman from Channel 6 News was talking next to a video screen that had a picture of a crashed race car and the words, Off Track?

  I unmuted it mid-story as the anchor continued, “… the beach erupted into chaos as young Emma James, who recently signed to drive for UnCaged Fitness, got into a bloody brawl with her brother, former race car driver Brody James.”

  I rubbed away the heat creeping up the back of my neck. Bloody? The only blood was the gash I’d gotten on my head when I’d smacked it on the bottom of the pier.

  “Also there was Locke Cage, owner of UnCaged Fitness. Witnesses said that the fight may have been incited by an alleged romantic relationship between Cage and his new acquisition.”

  Holy shit.

  “So what, brother?” Laura said as she hung up the phone, her eyes sweeping over the bandage on my forehead. It had bled like a mother, but it was small and barely noticeable now. “Did you seriously get laid out by a one-armed man?”

  I peeled off the bandage, noted that the pad was dry of blood, and tossed it in the trash. “No.”

  She stared at me expectantly, wanting to hear the rest of the story. “Well?”

  I’d thought about it a lot last night, and in the end, decided on the best course of action for Emma and for me — deny, deny, deny, until the bitter end.

  “What do you want me to say? It’s bullshit,” I said as the camera cut to wobbly footage of the beach outside the training center. The video was of Emma storming up the beach, Brody on her heels. In the background, me. I stared as it paused mid-frame, focused on Emma, her eyes wild and her face twisted in disgust.

  It wasn’t flattering. The only saving grace was that there was no earlier footage of Emma and I fucking like rabbits under the pier. Anyone could have seen that. What a fucking chance we’d taken.

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “So? First, this public outburst violates her contract in so many ways, I don’t even want to think about it,” she said, shaking her head in horror at the face on her phone’s screen. “Secondly, is what the brother said true? Are you in a romantic relationship with—”

  “Of course not.” I rationalized the lie by convincing myself that sex, once, did not equal a romantic relationship.

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe me. “Then why does Brody James think so?” she asked, pointing at my forehead. “And how did you get that? Geez, brother, you look like hell. Like you’ve been through a war.”

  “Look. I’ll admit that Emma and I have been in close quarters, and we have a lot in common, so I’m sure that’s where he got the idea that Emma and I are in a relationship. He’s being protective of her, which is admirable.” I touched my forehead. “This? I missed a landing during parkour yesterday. That’s all.”

  She snickered. “You? Miss a landing? Please.”

  I relaxed. Crisis averted. “Hey, I’m human.”

  “Obviously, since you look like hell,” she dug in. “Something is up with you.”

  I frowned at her. Truth was, I’d spent most of my time thinking about how impossible the situation with Emma was. Brody finding us there had only solidified it. People would never understand us being together. And was there even an us? This wasn’t a relationship, it was just sex, satisfying a need, like all the other women I’d ever been with.

  Then why did it feel like something more?

  Why, even now, did I wish I could have her in my bed, making love to her again and again, all night long?

  Impossible. That’s what I’d thought, time and time again, to the point of near madness.

  But it didn’t stop those thoughts from constantly invading.

  I turned on my heel to leave. I needed to get out. I needed another workout. More parkour. It always cleared my head, made me feel better.

  “Where are you going?” she called after me.

  “Out to the course for a workout,” I mumbled, heading into the hallway.

  “Didn’t you just come from—”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe before that, you can find our acquisition?” she asked, making me stop in my tracks.

  I whirled and peered through the door of her office. “What?”

  “I’ve been texting her since yesterday. She’s MIA. Bruce hasn’t seen her at the training center either.” She shook her head. “And we’d better find her fast because I just booked the two hours’ worth of training time at the speedway for her, bright and early tomorrow. At six.”

  Shit. I pulled out my phone, my finger hovering over her number. But then I stopped.

  One thing I’d been good at doing was not texting her. I always had Laura do it, to at least give the illusion of propriety. I didn’t want to start because once I began, I knew there was little to stop me from saying what was really on my mind, which was how much I wanted her. She’d been spiraling down before the storm on the beach, and all the ensuing chaos probably hadn’t done her any favors.

  For all I knew, she could be in freefall now.

  I stopped in the middle of the hallway when I saw a figure farther down, stalking toward my office. Dark hair wild around her head, wearing cutoff shorts that bared her tan legs. She was trying to walk with purpose but kept stopping to hug the wall.

  Emma.

  I rushed up to her, checking to make sure no one had seen her. “Hey,” I said, taking her by the arm.

  The second I got up close, I was hit with the scent of alcohol that was so powerful, it nearly made me drunk too.

  She yanked her arm away, but I managed to get her into my office and close the door before anyone could see her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Quitting.”
/>   She looked up at me and smiled lazily. Her eyes were so bloodshot I could barely see the whites.

  I leaned back against my desk and crossed my arms. “No, you’re not.”

  “Oh, yes, I am,” she argued louder, and I got hit by another powerful wall of alcohol.

  “Like hell you are,” I growled. “Hell, what have you been drinking?”

  She poked me in the chest. “Your fault for keeping a fully-stocked bar in the apartment.”

  I’d known nothing about that. But I guessed when I asked for a condo with all the amenities, alcohol qualified. It didn’t matter. We had more important things to discuss. “Look. We’ve booked time for you on the speedway tomorrow morning. You’ve got the qualifier this weekend.”

  She let out a long laugh, crazy, uncontrolled, and too loud. There was only a paper-thin wall separating my office from Laura’s — whenever she got particularly excited about a deal, I could hear her celebration. I put a hand over Emma’s mouth, but she tore it away with both hands. “Then unbook it. I don’t let any boy, especially a pretty boy, tell me what to do.”

  “So you let Brody tell you? You let those reporters tell you?”

  Her easy smile dissolved. She put both hands on my chest and tried to shove me hard, but she missed and ended up falling into me. She laughed as I caught her in my arms. Looking up at me with those big brown eyes, now bleary, she walked a finger up my chest.

  She whispered, low and throaty, “We can pick up where we left off on the beach. No sand this time.”

  I shook my head, even as my cock throbbed at the suggestion, all-in from the get-go. I lifted her off me, but she started to waver on her own, so I kept my hands on her shoulders, steadying her. “How much did you have to drink?”

  “A. Lot,” she announced proudly. “I feel phenomenal. And… horny.”

  She reached for the string of my gym shorts and started to delve a hand in the waistband. I nudged her away. “Emma…”

  The smile dissolved again. “Don’t Emma me!”

  She pushed at me and tried to get away when I reached out. I grabbed her, holding her there. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You know you have your first race this weekend? The Daytona qualifier?”

  “I don’t have anything!” she shouted back at me. “It’s over. I quit. I’m done. I’m going back to Arizona because I can’t take the pressure. Do you understand?”

  “No,” I said calmly. I strode to my office door, locking it as she tried to escape. Then, as she protested, hammering my back and kicking me, trying to wriggle free, I lifted her up and took her to the bathroom. I opened the shower stall door, turned the water on full blast, and deposited her, clothes and all, on the tile floor.

  She didn’t even complain. She just sat there, leaning against the glass enclosure, her legs out in front of her, chin to chest, watching the water go down the drain. I’d never seen another human look so forlorn. It was like all her fight and life was pouring down that drain too.

  I knelt outside the shower. She wore only one flip-flop, and I reached over and unhooked the shoe from her toe before tossing it into my office with the one she’d kicked off. “Come on. Stand up. You need to sober up.”

  It took a while before she obeyed me. She slowly lifted herself to her feet. Her clothes were drenched now, her white tank top doing nothing to hide her gorgeous breasts. I averted my eyes to stop my cock from getting too excited and helped pull it up and over her head. All the while, she trembled like a caught rabbit, ready to make a run for it.

  I was already halfway wet, so I kicked off my running shoes and stepped inside with her, closing the shower door behind me. I unbuttoned the jean shorts and slid them down over her hips, slid her panties down too. It wasn’t until she was naked that she finally spoke. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking care of you,” I said, pushing the wet, matted hair from her face. “Just let me.”

  She shook her head mournfully, but it didn’t stop me. I took the shampoo and squeezed some into my palm, then began to massage it into her scalp.

  I nudged her. “Turn around.”

  She did as I commanded, like a rag doll. I worked the lather into her hair as she stood wavering on her feet. She didn’t say a word but did let out a small sigh which I interpreted as pleasure. Then I guided her under the spray and rinsed her hair clean.

  When I was done, I took a washcloth and started to run it gently over her back, pressing in so that I massaged the muscles as I went, hoping it would help her further relax.

  Without warning, she dropped her face in her hands and sobbed. “Don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t. Brody was right. I don’t deserve any of this.”

  I wanted to take her right there against the wall of the shower. I could so easily take my pants down, lift her up until I entered her inch-by-inch, giving her just what she’d wanted when she came to my office. But I couldn’t do it now. Not when she was this fragile. She needed to see how special she was, how much she deserved everything.

  So instead, I settled for feeling her wet skin under my fingertips. I leaned over and very gently kissed her shoulder. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

  She hung her head and let me work the soapy lather into her limbs. Her body was tense, so I cast the washcloth aside and massaged the tight muscles of her neck and back. Once she stopped crying, I cut the water, took a fluffy towel and wrapped it around her. “Out you go.”

  She turned back to me, a look of confusion on her face. Maybe she had been expecting me to take her right then. Because hell, all the rest of the times I’d had the opportunity, I hadn’t been able to resist. This time, it had taken all my restraint, but I’d done it.

  I wanted more than just Emma’s body. I wanted all of her, the fiery woman who could level me just as easily with that smart mouth of hers as she could with her touch.

  Once she was dry, she sat on the sofa in my robe, hair in the towel as I fed her mug after mug of coffee. I pretended to work on the proposal for the Shred Like a Girl campaign featuring an up-and-coming surfer from Hawaii, though most of the time, my eyes kept wandering from my laptop to Emma. An hour or two later, the color had come into her cheeks, and she looked more like her regular self.

  Ten minutes after that, she heaved a big sigh. “I really wasn’t that drunk.”

  I chuckled softly as I skimmed my hands over the keyboard. “Sure, you weren’t.”

  She looked at me and frowned, and I could see that spirit, that fight in her, even before she opened her mouth. It was nice to have it back.

  “I wasn’t,” she insisted, standing, then padding over to the window where I’d set her clothes out to dry in the sunlight.

  She picked up her panties, then very demurely, so as not to give me a free show, started to slide into them, glaring at me as I watched her as if I hadn’t already seen everything underneath.

  I powered off my laptop and leaned back. “You need to get into the simulator again,” I said. “What’s the farthest you’ve gone?”

  She opened her mouth like she was going to say something smart. I thought it would be something to the tune of, Fuck you, I’m quitting, remember? Then she just answered, “Four hundred.”

  I nodded as she turned away from me, shrugging off her robe, so all I could see was her sculpted back. “And even that was poor, Bruce said.”

  She threw on her shirt and whirled around at me, and yes, the fire was back. “If you knew the answer, why’d you ask?” She pulled her hair out of her tank top and raked her hands through it angrily. “Where I come from, only little boys play games like that.”

  I snapped the lid of my laptop shut and shrugged, conceding. It was after six, and the building had all but cleared out. “Want to get out of here?”

  “I plan to,” she said, heading for the door as she stepped into her still-damp shorts.

  “With me.”

  She tapped her finger on her chin, thinking. “Let me see. With most men I know, I’d think that invitation meant a
free ticket to the back seat of their truck. In Locke Cage’s mind, why do I think it means I’m gonna end up at the simulator?”

  I laughed. “I actually had something else in mind.”

  She came up close to the desk and laid her palms on it, leaning forward with mock interest. “Do tell, Mr. Cage.”

  “We’ll have to stop at the training center first. You need workout clothes,” I said, standing and pocketing my phone.

  “I’m shocked,” she said, not sounding that way.

  I peeked my head out into the hallway. Laura’s office door was closed. As usual, she’d stay here late, burning the midnight oil. The rest of the hallways were empty, doors closed, offices dark. We made it outside without seeing another soul and went across to the training center and into our respective locker rooms. When I saw her again, she was wearing a bra top, workout shorts, and running shoes.

  “Is this appropriate for your brand of foreplay, Mr. Cage?” she asked me with a wink.

  I nodded, raking my eyes over her phenomenal body. The past few weeks had definitely toned her, though she hadn’t needed much help to begin with. Then I motioned her outside.

  We went around back, to the grassy field where the course started. “Are you going to let me in on what we’re doing?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Parkour.”

  “Park-what?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s French. You’ve never heard of it?”

  “Obviously. Is it some kind of kinky sex thing?” She studied one of the bars that were the first obstacle in the course.

  “No. What? Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Because I know the French. Menage. Budoir. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir.” She shrugged. “They’re all about sex.”

  I laughed at how badly she’d just trashed the beautiful language. “Okay. No. Not this. Parkour is a discipline of movement that came from military obstacle course training. It’s about getting from point A to point B in the most efficient way possible.”

  “Makes sense I never heard of it then,” she said, blushing. “The only obstacles we got out in the desert of Arizona are scrub brush and a few rattlesnakes.”