Racer

by Katy Evans

  I laugh. Blushing. OMG is he asking me to do him? Is that his name? No way, it can’t be. “It’s not my to-do list. I’m looking for a driver,” I say.

  “I know the best driver in the world. Actually.”

  “Really.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’d like to meet him. Then see him drive to see if I agree.”

  “You’ll agree, all right.” He stares at me. He looks very cocky right now, lips curved. “Tell you what. If you agree he’s the best driver in the world, you fix my car,” he then says.

  “And if I don’t?” I dare.

  “I’ll get you a brand new one.”

  “Oh wow, that confident of you.”

  He just smirks, those damn gorgeous eyes twinkling again.

  I laugh, my tiredness evaporating. “So who’s Racer. Is that you? Or is it this driver?”

  His smile fades, and his eyes drink in my whole face again. When he speaks, his voice is lower. Husky. “Come to dinner with me, and we’ll talk about it all you want.”

  Oh god. Is he staring at my mouth?

  Am I staring at his mouth?

  “I can’t. Well, I suppose I could but … I’m here on work. I don’t have time for dinner. Even if I’m starved.”

  There’s a change in his expression as he regards me in unnerving silence, then he gruffs out, “I’ll be right back.”

  I watch him head down the stands, a part of me hating to watch him leave, knowing I’ll probably never see him again. I don’t know why he has this effect on me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been around my brothers and father too long. Maybe I really do need to get laid before going back.

  The blue-eyed hottie appears about ten minutes later, and he’s carrying the best-looking hotdog I’ve ever seen, a bucket of fries, and a bottled water.

  For a moment I gape at the food as he extends it over, his eyebrows low over those brilliant eyes as he smiles down at me, saying nothing.

  “I …”

  Usually I’m the one bringing food and drinks to everyone. I’m so unused to it I don’t even know what to say.

  When he keeps his arm out, I force myself to take it.

  My fingers brush over his, and a current shoots down my spine.

  I try to hide my reaction by bringing the food to my lap and lifting the hotdog immediately to my mouth. I take a large bite, then realize he’s settling down next to me, watching me.

  “Thank you,” I say, gulping it down.

  “You’re welcome.” His eyes twinkle again as he shifts his thigh, his body lean and big and yet remarkably agile in the easy, stealth-like way he moves. “You said you hadn’t eaten or slept. It was either this or a pillow,” he says, his eyes glinting amusedly.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

  “Let me pay you.” I reach into my wallet, the hotdog in one hand as I try to open up my wallet with the other. “How much was it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I get free food here,” he says.

  I think he’s joking, because his eyes are doing that wicked thing they do, but I’m not sure because he’s not smiling.

  Relenting because I really need to watch my expenses during this trip and he looks stubborn enough that I’m pretty sure arguing won’t work, I slowly eat it, aware of him watching the track as I do. I hear his father and girlfriend walk down the steps. “We’re heading home,” his dad says.

  The guy keeps his eyes on me, absently nodding as he looks at me thoughtfully.

  I see his dad frown at him, and his girlfriend also seems confused as they shuffle out.

  “Your girlfriend seemed concerned that you’re sitting here,” I say, once they leave.

  He chuckles a low, rich sound, shakes his head. “Don’t you know? I’ve got no driving manners, but I’m not wishing me on anyone.” He grins when I only stare. “I’ve got no girlfriend.” He leans over, brushes a little piece of bread out of my lipstick. “But you’re pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  I glance at the track, the food almost stuck in my throat as he lifts his thumb and licks off the piece of bread from his skin.

  Oh my god.

  I just came—almost.

  There’s a silence. His eyes so blue I feel like they’re an angel’s eyes, or a devil’s in disguise.

  “I don’t have one either.”

  “You don’t have a girlfriend?” There’s a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his lips that I find irresistible.

  I laugh. “No! I don’t have time for a girlfriend. I had … well, I had a boyfriend but …” I shake my head, look down at the hotdog on my lap. “I don’t mean to go through that again.”

  After David nobody has touched me. I suppose that’s why my knees feel weak, why my cheeks burn as his finger brushes my hair, and why staring into his eyes makes me breathless.

  I suppose I didn’t expect … that face.

  I mean.

  Who in the world could expect that face staring back?

  Chiseled to perfection. Perfect nose, high cheekbones, hard jaw, glinting narrowed eyes, straight eyebrows, and fringed among the darkest lashes I’ve ever seen, those electric blue eyes.

  I almost choke out, after I swallow my most recent bite of the hotdog. “Do I have more food on my lipstick? Your staring is making me nervous.”

  His soft chuckle seems more amused than apologetic as he shakes his head. “You know what they say about people who wear their emotions on their sleeves.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wear yours in your eyes.”

  My eyes widen. He peers down at me intently, a smile on his lips.

  “Really? How am I feeling now?” I laugh at that, feeling flustered as I clutch my hotdog.

  “Now? Or before you asked?”

  “Now.”

  “You’re happy.”

  “Really?” I say, and I do feel carefree, happy, and a little flirty too.

  “It’s the hotdog,” he says, though I can tell by the mischief in his gaze he’s not buying that.

  “Oh. For sure. You have no idea how long it’s been since I had one,” I say, biting into it again, a big bite to prove my point.

  His smile widens for a second, and then it fades, and we sit in silence, watching the track as the cars zoom past.

  I feel self-conscious now.

  About my stupid, expression-filled eyes.

  “Are you traveling on your own?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “How long are you staying here?” he asks again, sounding intensely curious.

  “Not long,” I breathe, unsettled by his implacable gaze. “You? Do you live here?”

  “I do. Not my family. They’re visiting.” He smiles lightly, one dimple appearing.

  “Oh.”

  Just then, he leans forward, taking the idle hotdog from my hand and lifting it to my mouth.

  I open my mouth to protest and he inches it closer, and I end up taking a bite. My stomach tightens as he lowers it, watching me eat it, his eyes really blue, really observant and unnerving, and really, really close.

  “What about him,” I ask, pointing at the guy currently out on the track.

  “Awkward on turn four,” he says, sparing him a second’s glance.

  I pay attention, and realize he’s right, he loses speed on turn four.

  “Is it true you know the best driver in the world?”

  I know I sound dubious, but I know there’s no such thing. All of them have qualities and flaws, all of them depend on the car, the weather, hell their lucky stars.

  His eyes darken. He nods.

  His body is delicious, I need to fight my eyes to keep them from dropping down to his thick thighs in those black jeans, and his shirt hugging those muscles.

  “Will you introduce me.”

  He reaches out and takes my pen again, scribbling a street address on the back of my list. As he bends down to write, I stare at his profile and at his mouth, and I wonder what that mouth would look like after bei
ng kissed by me. After kissing me.

  He lifts his head and catches me staring, and looks at my lips too. I snap out of it and smile as I take the paper he extends out. “Nine p.m. tonight. Be there,” he says, almost a warning in his tone.

  I notice he wrote another word after Racer too. It says Tate.

  I gather my things, and say, “You better not be a serial killer,” warningly too.

  “Not yet. But this guy … you should stay away from him.” He shoots me a meaningful look, and I shiver all over.

  I walk away and hurry to my car, not knowing what the hell I’m doing. I wasted the Indy drivers’ practice session ogling this guy, and now I’ve literally still got no driver, only an address, and the word Racer on my “to-do” list.

  And though I should be worried about this situation, I’m smiling as I pull my car out, my whole body feeling oddly untired now. Maybe it’s the prospect of him being right. Maybe it’s the prospect of him being there.

  I shouldn’t even want him to be right because I’d owe him a very expensive car fix. But a part of me still wants him to be.

  I arrive at my hotel room and settle down before taking a bath to change for tonight, and I call the concierge for a complimentary Wi-Fi code and decide to type in

  Racer Tate into the Google search bar.

  I’m fucking mind-blown with the results I get.

  FAMOUS SEATTLE ILLEGAL STREET RACER, RACER TATE, SAID TO BE HEATING UP THE STREETS IN ST. PETERSBURG …

  Lana

  The thing about lying is you never know how to stop. One lie requires another and another and another. I’ve got a flat tire, am on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, heading to what I assume is a street race happening around here, and having to walk the rest of the way there isn’t exactly my idea of smooth sailing.

  My brothers don’t know I’m here. They know I’m scouting for talent. I didn’t tell them I ended up with nothing from Indy today, except I happened to meet the most fucking popular street racer in the whole damn world. He’s a veritable legend in those dark, secret forums I ended up squirming into, where all they talked about was Tate and how he never loses. I should’ve totally shut my computer down and taken my flight straight home. Who in their right mind would put a freaking illegal street racer behind the wheel of a million-dollar Formula One car? My dad’s F1 car?

  But here I am, on my way to the address the man himself wrote down on my page.

  You should stay away from him …

  Why do we do the opposite of what we’re told?

  And why is it true that when it rains, it pours? I got a call from Drake checking in on me and to let me know my dad is in the hospital.

  “But is he all right? Are you sure?” I peer straight ahead at the cars in the distance.

  “Yeah, they said it was dehydration. Hang on. You’re on speaker.”

  “Daddy, please take good care of yourself!”

  “You take better care of me than I do,” I hear my dad’s soft, amused voice on the other end, a little tired. My eyes well.

  “Well yes but I’m doing other things for you, please take good care of yourself for me.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. “Only because you asked nicely and didn’t throw a shoe at me.”

  “See? You’re my favorite dad,” I tease.

  I don’t get a reply. I hear Drake’s voice closer to the speaker and I know I’ve been taken off speaker. “So how’s it going?”

  “I told you to trust me, I said I’d do it and I will,” I say, double checking the tire I just changed to make sure it’s on right.

  “I also said I don’t trust you.”

  “Asshole.” I’m not too mad because the fact that I just changed my own tire is only thanks to my mechanic brothers.

  “Lainie …” He sighs exasperatedly. “Just come back to Australia. We’ll—”

  “I’ll be there in time for the start of the season. With the best driver in the world,” I bluff, hanging up. Oh god. Fuck.

  I glance ahead as car after car drives past me, probably all of them heading to the race. I put the tools back into the trunk of the car and then climb behind the wheel, turning on the car and easing onto the street, pulling into the parking lot straight ahead.

  About two dozen people are already parked here, waiting by a small hill on the sidelines of the parking lot.

  There’s a blue Camaro near what I assume is the start line, and the other slot is empty. I lock my car and head closer to where the people are.

  The crowd is deafening, and it smells like armpits.

  For a second my stomach knots up as I wonder if I’m really this desperate.

  If I’m really out of options.

  On my flight, I did my research. I’ve searched the Daytona serial, the IndyCar, and I even was at the track today, and found nothing to blow my mind.

  Now it seems all I have is watching this race and then going back to my hotel to sulk about how expensive flying across the world back to the US was, as well as coming back with my tail between my legs and proving to my brothers that I’m as useless as they thought I’d be.

  I feel a prick at the thought of coming back empty-handed.

  Which explains why I’m still here.

  What other choice do I have?

  It’s not like I really think I’m going to bring any of these guys back home, though I suppose the little candle of hope burning inside me hasn’t been fully extinguished. Or maybe I’m just not ready to come back home a loser yet. If I’m going to fail at this, I still need one more night to brace myself for the familial humiliation I’d be sure to endure.

  I’m intrigued about Racer Tate. I won’t lie.

  According to the comments of dozens and dozens of fans, he’s the best street racer anyone has ever seen. He shies from nothing. He’s one with the machine, as if the machine were a part of him. So here I am, sitting here, waiting for an illegal street race. Two minutes to the race, and he’s nowhere in sight.

  Wow. What a dick.

  “I get to fuck him tonight,” one woman breathes excitedly behind me.

  “What do you mean?” her friend asks.

  “The guys asked me to show him the winner’s treatment.”

  Wow. So apparently he’s a bit of a manwhore too.

  My stomach clutches.

  The crowd cheers.

  His competitor motions to his car, a shiny black thing with fire drawn on it and everything.

  Then points at the vacant space, and turns his thumb down.

  People cheer even more and that seems to make the guy get a little upset, shaking his head.

  I stand to leave. Really I shouldn’t even be here, near here.

  There’s silence as a cherry mustang comes into view.

  “Ohmigod, it’s him,” I hear someone whisper as the mustang roars into the parking lot and screeches to a halt right at the starting line.

  My heart stops, and I sit back down.

  And there he is.

  The guy leaps out of the car through his open window, and one guy greets him with a slap of the back. He’s changed into blue jeans. He’s got a ton of muscles, those jeans, and a long-sleeved white shirt.

  Racer rakes a hand through his mussed-up, just-woke-up black hair, grinning, and then his eyes start to scan the crowd of people.

  I have an urge to hide—but somehow don’t act fast enough and before I know it, his blue eyes find me in the crowd.

  He just stares, his hands idle at his sides.

  He looks very interested to see me here, and as he stares at me, he narrows his eyes and his lips curve ever so slightly as if he’s pleased to see me here.

  They’re all saying his name. “Racer.”

  The girls’ fingers are glorying over his chest and I clench my hands at my sides, not liking it and I don’t know why. I wonder what he’d do if I told him who I am.

  He doesn’t really look like he wants any of them. But their neediness vexes me. I’m jet-lagged and impatien
t and a little bit jealous that these women seem to have no trouble reaching out to touch him.

  He jams his hands into his pockets, and he looks at me subtly between dark lashes, so subtly I can’t believe how overwhelmed I am by feeling his eyes on me.

  Doubt creeps in as I wonder if this guy is really what I need. I’m gonna need to watch his diet; he’s all muscle but he won’t be able to add an ounce of muscle if I want him to fit in our Kelsey.

  He starts shoving his way for me.

  I tug my shirt a little, feeling undressed, needing a reminder that there’s actually a pretty decent amount of fabric covering me.

  His intense eyes drop down my stomach, and a bevy of butterflies go off there. This is so not appropriate, Lana …

  The testosterone around him is so off the charts that if we’d been in a closed space, we’d all grow muscles.

  He starts smiling as he approaches.

  “What is this? Role-play today? School teacher slut—” someone is saying about my cropped top and long skirt.

  “She’s not a whore,” he breathes, angry.

  He comes to stop before me, frowning because of the comment, but his eyes devour me.

  Flat out devour me with a single look.

  I take a hesitant step forward.

  “You ready for the race of your life, Alana?” he asks. So gruff, so male.

  His eyes … I feel the urge to look away, but I can’t, as if his eyes just trapped mine. The color is a swirl of blue and grey and specks of black, but mostly blue, mostly electrifying blue. I’m still as uncomfortable as I was a nanosecond ago. It’s just an eye-connection, nothing really. I glance away, and he eases back, and so do I. He’s leaning back, watching me.

  “You’re late,” is all I can say, already feeling as if I won’t stand for tardiness if he works on my team.

  He stares at me wordlessly, then smiles in amusement and heads to his car, giving me a look before he climbs inside and slams the door shut.

  My breath is all but gone, and so is obviously my mind, because I react really strangely to this guy, and he’s a manwhore and a law breaker, and here I am. Still. Hearing him fire up his car and wondering what he’s doing to fire up something in me.

  Racer

  5 minutes ago…