Racer

by Katy Evans

I hear the siren well before the cop car lights flash red and blue in my rearview mirror.

  I’m a damn idiot thinking I’d get away with it this time.

  Exhaling with a growl, I pull over to the side of the road on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Turn down the music, then drum my fingers as I watch through the rearview mirror as the cop straightens his belt and walks over. Fucker, get over here already.

  The guy probably knows I’m in a hurry (hint: I was going 29 mph above the speed limit) and is taking his goddamn time. Rankled and intent in rankling him back, I take my time too as he stands out the window. Then, after a while, I slowly click the button and lower the window. I suppose a smirk’s not the way to greet a cop but I can’t fucking help it when he stops me every damn time my wheels are spotted around here.

  “License and registration, Tate,” he says.

  “You already know I’ve got both.”

  “Yeah well I want to see them again.”

  “For the twelfth time? Must look pretty in my license picture.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Tate,” he growls.

  I pull my hands from the steering wheel, reach into the glove compartment, then my wallet, and hand them over.

  “You up to mischief again, Tate?”

  “Not especially.” I grin.

  He does the same dance we always do—checks the paperwork, clucks as he shakes his head.

  I pull out a hundred-dollar bill, place it between my index and middle finger, and shove it out the window. “You might want to catch a beer for the next half hour. In fact, make it an hour. Invite a few buddies. On me.”

  “Man … you’re really pushing it.” He pockets the money. “Don’t be so eager to go to the grave.”

  “Nah. I’m immortal.” I grin.

  He laughs, then shoots me a scowl and walks away. I fire up the car and screech away, switching gears as I speed off the narrow road, hitting it hard as I glance at the time. Two minutes to the race, still a couple miles to go.

  I push on faster—never wanting to be in a race like I want to race this one. Because she’s fucking there. I can feel it in my bones, and I want her to know who the fuck the best driver in the world is.

  Fucking me.

  I pull into the parking lot where the crowd of usuals snap up at attention when they watch my car pull in.

  They squeal and wave.

  Preston’s car is already lined up—ready.

  I park mine and leap out through the window.

  Adrenaline courses in my veins.

  I crave this shit. It’s in my DNA, in my very damn bones. I need it like air. I need it like I need a heart.

  “Tate?”

  I scan the crowd for her. Fucking couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wanted her here as hard as I wanted to race. Where the fuck is she?

  I hear Henley approach.

  “Tate? You ready?”

  I spot Preston across the street, surrounded with girls, drinking.

  “That’s gonna be his third,” Henley says to me.

  I keep my eyes out for her, and suddenly I see a speck of light brown hair and green eyes.

  She’s gaping at me.

  I kinda like it.

  Female hands are on my abdomen, stroking. Wanting. Purring in my ear.

  “A little tension release before the race, Tate?” one of the girls whispers.

  I feel my lips hike up at the corners. Yeah, I don’t reply. My mind is on racing now.

  But my eyes …

  My eyes are on her.

  Honey hair, light-green eyes, a fucking wet dream. My muscles tight, I’m ready. But I can’t keep from walking over, my heart pounding as I envision claiming her as my prize, feeling her melt beneath me, tasting her mouth beneath mine, letting her show me all the favorite places of her body while my mouth shows them all some TLC, Racer-style.

  “What is this? Role-play today? School teacher slut—” I hear some asshole say.

  “She’s not a whore,” I growl, angry, shoving my way to her as she watches me, wide-eyed, in both interest and concern.

  I warned her to stay away; she should’ve. But she’s here now, and I’m so ready to blow her fucking mind off, I can already taste her on my lips. Feel her with my goddamn hands.

  “You ready for the race of your life, Alana?” I ask, my voice gruff.

  I’ve got a hard-on, and it’s for her.

  My dick swells with speed, yeah I get hard when I race, but it’s never swelled like this before.

  She narrows her eyes as she thinks about it.

  “You’re late,” she says with that princess-like, bossy tone that somehow turns me on.

  I just smile and make her watch me head to my car.

  I’m testosterone-laden and as pumped as it gets every time I begin, and I’m high on my own power when I end.

  I’m going to fuck her like she’s never been fucked tonight.

  Soundlessly I walk to my mustang. It’s nicked by her, and I suppose that’s why she got off with it. Because it’ll have a thousand more nicks by the time I’m done tonight. And because she looked tired, tired, beat-up, and about as lovely as a bird with a broken wing.

  Dozens of footsteps hurry behind me as I reach my mustang.

  “Holy shit!” the girls cry.

  “Bring your camera,” the guys say.

  Yeah, they’re pumped about it.

  Because I’m good. Because nobody is as good.

  I grab the door, climb in and take the seat, waiting for it to fuel me, fill the void that keeps growing in me no matter what I do—pissing me the fuck off. Nothing satiates me, nothing fills me, it’s the curse of being a Tate—one I inherited from my father.

  But I’ve got this.

  And suddenly, I’m wired up because tonight, I’m going to have her.

  Preston fires up next, and we let the engines steam.

  I eye my car not only because she’s beautiful, but because of what she can do.

  She’s all red body, black seats. Four hundred horsepower. (I did some modifications to take her to this level.) A beauty. She’s raring to go.

  I shift, pull up an inch closer to the starting line—line up next to him.

  I feel him glancing at me, I glance back, giving him my best eat-shit smile. Ten … the count begins.

  Nine…

  Eight…

  Seven…

  Six…

  Five…

  Four…

  THREE…

  TWO…

  ONE!!

  The squeal of tires on asphalt. Pedal to the metal, the seat vibrating beneath me as I step it. Easy first—and she’s purring. Shifting gears, I head down the narrow road, and pick up speed, my foot down harder as I shift again.

  We’re neck to neck.

  I’m hitting 100 mph. 120 mph. 150 mph.

  We’re fucking fast now. Trees flying past my window. Preston bumping up against my side. I swerve lightly and lock our wheels together. Shove him off the road. Destabilized, I swerve and straighten with a screech. He loses seconds.

  Up ahead, there are headlights, like beady white eyes coming at me.

  I keep my feet on the pedal, swerving right as the truck passes, dust piling up in a cloud behind me. My heart is racing a thousand miles an hour, and I want it to race even more.

  Preston comes up, attempting a pass. He gyrates and bumps me to the side, sending me spinning.

  “Fucker.” I let go of the wheel, let her spin before I grab her back in my hold and recover control.

  I’m fucking pissed now.

  I pull up behind him and kiss his bumper. We meet eyes through his rearview mirror, and I smile menacingly, pressing the last way into the pedal to kiss the fucker harder.

  He swerves—I swerve the other way and pass him until he’s eating my dirty air. I push harder to get away so he can’t use my draft, my eyes up ahead, where I pull up the parking brake and spin to turn.

  I release it and speed back to the parking lot, my mind on that f
inish line—and on fucking sexy crash-into-my-cherry-mustang Alana waiting in the crowd.

  Is she like my fans who watch me? Whose pussies get wet from the excitement? Whose nipples turn hard as fuck by the time I climb out of the car and give them a glance?

  My cock is thick again. It’s been acting up since I met her, and it’s only been intensifying with each second she breathes even in my zip code.

  Yeah my dad is a man who goes after what he wants. You can say I’m cut of the same cloth.

  I want her beneath me tonight.

  I screech to a halt. I turn her off, then ease out of the car, breathing hard. I hear the shuffle of feet as girls scramble to get closer, meanwhile the guys shove their way forward too, including Henley.

  “Insane, you’re a ridiculous beast!!” Henley yells.

  I raise my arm and slap his hand. He also places my bets, and the wad of cash he shoves into my hand is 30,000-dollars thick.

  Yeah it feels good to stuff that money in my back pocket, but not even winning feels as good as the drive.

  The moment I hit that pedal, I’m alive.

  And tonight I feel drunk with it.

  I scan the crowd and look for her—my eyes finding her in the same spot I left her, her mouth gaping wide open. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want to fucking kiss the shit out of that mouth. Tonight my prize is her.

  My eyes stay on her, my gut roiling with hunger. I smile at her; her eyes widen a little bit, and she blinks.

  “We’ve got you a prize … show you what champions …” I’m hearing Henley say.

  I start walking forward, feeling crazed like I’ve never felt crazed in my life, my eyes, hands, mind, even the hot, adrenaline-buzzed blood pumping in my veins, all pumping for her.

  Lana

  I’m still reeling. While people approach him, he cuts a path straight to me, his gaze penetrating and target-like; making me want to bolt.

  His lips do that little upward tilt they do that seems so sexy, and for a second, I feel like I’m lightheaded.

  I gulp, and then feel mad at myself for acting like some idiot as fucking devil-Racer Tate reaches me, throws himself into a seat next to me, and turns to look at me expectantly with the most gorgeous grin on his face.

  I don’t know what to say.

  This guy has left me sort of speechless.

  “So …” I say, staring in the distance at his beat-up mustang, then at him.

  “So …” he says too, in his deep voice, his smile a little more wicked than it was two seconds ago. He glances at my mouth.

  Oh god.

  Why am I licking my lips?

  It only made his eyes narrow and darken.

  I open my mouth to speak, failing to find words. He smells like sweat and soap and shampoo, and I feel my traitorous nipples push up to my top again. Why do they do that when he’s around?

  “This is illegal,” I state.

  His voice is husky from exertion, and his eyes glint with laughter. “That’s why it’s fun.”

  I look away from his eyes, trying to focus and clear my head. He leans over and peers into my face, his face shadowed by the moonlight and his jaw now carrying a little scruff. “Are we in agreement?” he presses.

  “No.” I glare and shake my head, meeting his cocky gaze. “You’re reckless, Racer.”

  “So are you, Alana.”

  “It’s just … Lana.”

  His brows fly up in surprise. “And a bit of a liar too.”

  I purse my lips, still glaring as my gaze goes back to his car. Girls are rubbing against it as if it were him, and I find it disgusting. Why are women always acting so slutty around race car drivers and bad boys?

  “You crashed your car,” I say flippantly.

  “You crashed my car,” he contradicts, amused.

  I laugh, then scowl in his direction. “You crashed it more. I can’t believe you were making such a fuss about me crashing into you when it was just a little kiss—”

  He leans in to peck my lips—fast but firmly. “That’s a kiss.”

  I lose my breath.

  My eyes wide.

  He eases back, lips smiling as he comes to his feet and stretches his hand out to take me by the elbow and help me to my feet.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He starts walking, leading the way.

  “And go where?”

  “Anywhere I can get my hands on you.” He’s serious. His hand is sliding into the back of my neck and I feel tiny as he guides me forward by the nape.

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” I breathe, looking sideways at his profile.

  He smirks, shooting me a sidelong glance. “I know exactly what to do with you.”

  I gulp.

  He studies me with a growing smirk, his eyes fierce and savage as he tugs me closer and closer to him with that hand. He’s guiding me to the parking lot. To my car. “Have your keys?” he asks.

  I nod dumbly and unlock the car.

  He eases me into the back of my car, following me in and shutting the door behind me. Suddenly I can smell sweat and warm guy, all too close to me.

  He pulls me up a little close to his very hard, muscled side, his eyes trekking up my neck, to my jaw. “I wanted to taste you the second I saw you,” he husks out as he runs his big palm down my arm.

  “Why would—”

  He leans his dark head, and his tongue is in my mouth.

  He touches my lips lightly, moving and parting them beneath his, and I’m going to stop him any second now, except oh my fucking god!

  He kisses me for ten seconds, and when we pause for air, I try, I really try, to grab some while I can.

  His eyes are really blue, really dark and really beautiful. He’s looking at me in ways I’ve never been stared at before, his eyes trekking my whole face, and for just a second I want to pretend I’m just a girl. I missed the parties, the make-outs, the guys, and suddenly here is this guy and I feel so drawn to him I’m trembling.

  He drags me to his lap, and he’s so hard I’m turning to putty in his hands.

  He leans over. I stutter when he reaches out and takes a strand of my hair, leaning in. To give me …

  The most ferocious kiss I’ve ever been given in my whole life.

  “Who the fuck are you, huh?” He covers my face with one hand, and stares down at me, smiling against my mouth, inhaling hard.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I breathe.

  My wet dream or my worst nightmare?

  He presses his mouth to mine, a little more tenderly, sliding his fingers into my hair. He starts to kiss me again, tonguing me really hungrily, as if he needs me to live.

  I feel myself melt, my whole body respond and vibrate in the most pleasant ways.

  There’s a knock on the window. “Dude. The prize is … ahem. Outside.”

  As we hear a guy speak outside, Racer glances past my shoulders at that someone who knocked, then at me with a curl of his lips. “We’ve got spectators. Want to take this somewhere more quiet?” he asks.

  “Where?” I ask, breathless.

  Horny.

  Out of my goddamned mind.

  “Somewhere I can have my hands on you nonstop,” is all he says.

  I blink, sort of woozy at the idea of it.

  He pulls me close, and plants a soft kiss on me—again our tongues hungrily meeting. My eyes shut as I feel myself float in his hot embrace and demanding mouth, then I open my eyes and stare into those gorgeous blue eyes of his.

  I need this so much I can’t even breathe. But I manage to whisper, “I have a hotel room.”

  His voice is also low, husky with arousal, and his eyes look heavy and half-lowered as he looks at me. “Works for me. I can’t wait to see you in bed, crasher.” He cups the back of my head, nuzzling my face with his nose and jaw before he eases back and looks at me with hot eyes.

  He reaches for the door.

  We step out of the car and he shelters me from the crowd as he takes my keys, ushers
me to the passenger door, then goes around and slides behind the wheel. He ignites the car.

  “You still need to fix my car,” he says warningly, eyes straight ahead as he drives to my hotel, a smile curving his mouth.

  “No, I haven’t agreed you’re the best driver in the world yet.”

  “Best kisser too.”

  “Really.”

  “Baby …” he rolls his eyes.

  “I don’t agree on that either,” I lie, shaking my still-woozy head. He laughs quietly, and then we ride in silence with my mind going a thousand miles a minute wondering if I’m going to regret this. Why am I doing this? My mind still on the cherry-red mustang—and the motherfucking, crazy-ass devil behind the wheel.

  He’s the best street racer I’ve ever seen. My heart is still wanting to leap out of my throat.

  How long has it been since I’ve seen driving like that?

  Have I ever—ever—seen driving like that? Certainly not in the streets. And if this guy—the guy I found on the internet, Racer Tate, can do what he just did with a mustang, I can’t even begin to imagine what he can do with an F1 engine.

  On my flight here I couldn’t sleep for fear I wouldn’t find anyone good enough. Promising enough.

  Now I doubt I’ll get sleep tonight wondering if I’ve found him and whether I have balls enough to actually go get him.

  Street cars aren’t like F1 cars. They drive differently, and while one guy can dominate one kind of car, he can totally fail at another.

  And not only that, but …

  There’s some sort of weird chemistry leaping between us that I can’t deny. Yes, maybe I need to get laid, but maybe working with a guy I’m so attracted to isn’t the best idea.

  He’s so damn good I can’t imagine not asking him to come with us. I’m nervous when he asks for my hotel name and drives me there, and still nervous as he parks my car and comes open the door to my side. I rub my clammy hands together as I step out, aware of his eyes raking me hungrily, top to bottom.

  “Come here.” He reaches out to shut the door behind me and tug me towards him with his free hand. “Come here,” he rasps again, his gaze intense and so hungry he looks down at me like a lion as he reels me in, looking so hungry I’m shaking in my knees. “Come up on your toes and kiss me.”

  “Why,” I breathe.

  A brief smile. “Because I asked you to.”