Racer

by Katy Evans

  “You’re arrogant and self-centered.”

  “You’ve seen nothing, baby. Come on. Do it.”

  I hesitate.

  He smiles, grabs my ass, lifts me, sets me on the hood of my car in the hotel parking lot, devours my mouth visually with his eyes as he leans over and brushes my mouth with his, and then proceeds to devour it with his mouth too. “I wanted to let you take it easy, do it your way. So you don’t. We do it my way now,” he rasps menacingly, locking his mouth with mine again.

  He kisses me for a whole minute.

  Hotly.

  Perfectly.

  Completely.

  I like his way better but I’ll never admit it out loud.

  His smile fades as he eases back to let us catch our breaths; his eyes shadow darkly as his gaze trails my face slowly, almost in amusement but also with something really sober there too. “Fuck, you turn me on.” His eyes gleam brilliant as he helps me down, takes my hand, and leads me toward the lobby.

  He laughs to himself and shakes his head. “You had to be staying in this hotel, didn’t you?” he asks me with a small frown.

  I frown, not understanding what he’s saying.

  He clenches my hand in his and leads me toward the revolving doors. And I can feel the gut he put in his driving in the way he’s commanding me, in the certainty of his stride and the way he holds my hand as if it’s his to hold.

  He leads us to the elevator bank when out of the corner of my eye I see the young girl who was with him at the IndyCar track.

  She runs over from the end of the lobby while her father—his father—follows more calmly.

  “I thought you’d meet us after dinner with her!” she says, eyes wide.

  Racer looks down at her, his eyes sliding to his father, and then back at her.

  “We ran late.” He looks at me, and I realize his family maybe doesn’t know about the illegal race tonight. He told his family he was … having dinner with me?

  “Iris, this is Lana. Dad. Lana, my sister and my dad,” Racer says in an exasperated tone, as if he knows there’s no getting around it.

  “Nice to meet you.” I smile at his sister and then his handsome dad. “We’re done though,” I quickly add, smiling as I pry my hand free of Racer’s hold.

  This was insane—what I was about to do.

  Seeing his family look at him in concern, and me in interest (as if they want to know who I am to him) only makes me remember my own.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I tell Racer, and I can see the shadows in his eyes as I step into the elevator alone and hold his gaze as the elevator door closes.

  His angry

  Lust-filled

  Possessive

  Gaze.

  I lean back on the elevator mirror and exhale.

  “Fuck,” I groan.

  I was about to go to bed with the guy and then what? I didn’t come here for a fling, I came here for a driver, and Tate is a damn good one too.

  I pull out my key and head to my room, then shut myself inside and pace the shit out of the carpet.

  Focus, Lana! I scold myself, trying to calm down my body.

  After a few minutes, I feel more sane and go through what I found.

  Racer Tate. He reportedly started street-racing when he was eighteen … his talent blew everyone out of the water. But he was difficult, and he didn’t play well with others. Off the track, he got in a fight with one of his competitors when he took Racer out on the first curve. Racer didn’t like it. It was all over the news—he was arrested—his parents intervened—he moved from Seattle to St. Petersburg and “cleaned” his act. Until he was spotted racing and the rumors began.

  Apparently he now travels the country, looking for races, and keeping some home races very tight and secretive.

  All I know is that this guy is not just a star, he’s a comet, someone with rare talent that is near impossible to find. Sometimes there are drivers that when you watch them drive, you know they are destined for greatness. This guy is one of them. Sometimes, some people just have it, and it hangs over them like a bright light that makes everyone else stop and take notice.

  But does he have it to shine in F1?

  He’s ballsy. A little bit of extra ball, but that makes a good driver, and he’s so damn smart and fast. If he did this with a mustang … but am I really thinking of putting this guy behind the wheel of one of my father’s cars?

  Yes. Yes I am.

  But for a hot little second I wonder if I’m thinking with my brain or with whatever’s tingling between my legs.

  Before I know it, I call the concierge and say my friend Racer Tate’s family is staying here and I need to return his cell phone. They give me the room number, and nervously, I dial. Hoping he’ll be there.

  His sister’s voice answers.

  “Yea?”

  “Is … Racer available?”

  She groans and I hear her march across the room and whisper out in a hiss, “One of your damn groupies.”

  “Why the fuck did you say I was here, Jesus,” he growls in complaint, picking up the phone. “Yeah?” He sounds exasperated.

  “Racer?”

  There’s a silence.

  “Where are you?” he husks out.

  “I … um …”

  “Give me your room number,” he growls quietly into the receiver.

  “No. If I give it to you, you’ll spend the night, and that can’t happen. I’ve had time to … collect myself.” I exhale.

  Silence. Then, “It’ll take me one second to uncollect you, Lana.”

  Oh god. This man will be the total explosion of my ovaries.

  “That’s why I won’t tell you and even if you found out, I’m not opening the bolt so don’t even try,” I warn, still feeling hot inside and unable to quench the way my hormones respond to his voice on the other end of the line.

  “I want to talk to you seriously,” I add. “There’s a … I’ve been in town before. I knew someone who lived here. Would you meet me at the museum of Seth Rothschild tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll be there,” he growls.

  Lana

  I tossed and flipped around in bed like a worm, unable to find sleep. I guzzle down two cups of coffee as I shower and dress the next morning, nervous about what I’m going to do.

  Slipping into a pair of jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, I pull my hair back in a ponytail and reach for my purse. There, beneath it, is my IndyCar drivers list. I pick it up and read the name he wrote on it.

  Racer

  Tate

  I exhale, fold it in four, and tuck it into my bag.

  Am I really doing this?

  I march out of the room and take the elevator downstairs, keeping my eye out for his family. But they’re nowhere in sight.

  Racer Tate may be a very hot, very male guy, but my personal crazy reactions for him don’t need to get in the way of business.

  In fact I won’t let them.

  My dad, his dream, comes above it all. It has for a long time, and the more time passes, the more important it becomes.

  I drive with this new determination to the Seth Rothschild Hall. It’s a small museum that was made for one of our pilots. It sells F1 memorabilia, and offers coffee and “cars”—which means everyone can bring their cars into the parking lot on Saturdays for what feels like an adult show-and-tell.

  There’s a gazillion cars parked there, but no red, banged-up mustang.

  I’m hurrying inside and hoping to head to the ladies’ room to be sure I look my best when I spot a tall, dark-haired guy inside the main hall display. He’s looking at a trophy. The trophy Seth won for us, a long time ago.

  He lifts his head towards me as if there’s some sort of built-in alarm inside of him to alert him that I’d arrived.

  I’d arrived and was standing a few feet away, staring at him.

  Our eyes meet—and his eyes slide from mine toward the wall behind the trophy, where a photograph of HW Racing Team hangs. Framed in black oak, my fat
her, brothers, Seth, and I stand with his trophy. All of us smiling. I was about eighteen then … it was our first year racing, and the first smile I’d felt on my face since David died.

  I watch the expression on Racer’s face as he seems to register what he’s seeing, and then one of his eyebrows starts to rise, ever so slowly, as his gaze slides to lock on mine.

  I approach with a very fast-pounding heart, and all the nerves in the whole goddamned world.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  My flesh pebbles.

  It’s his damn voice.

  I can’t help it.

  I feel myself tremble inside, when I start to wonder; what if he’s not interested? What if he’s not the one we need?

  My fingers feel quivery as I point to the image, and then trophy case. My voice is surprisingly level, as firm as I can make it.

  “That’s my dad, that’s our team, and that’s the last trophy we’ve ever won since we started racing. Third place in the last race of the season. My family’s dream is to win the Formula One championship, and you’re the only one who can help us achieve this.”

  Racer leans back on his heels, crossing his arms and frowning as he listens. Today he’s wearing shorts which display his muscled legs and calves, a form-fitting Under Armour T-shirt on his muscular chest, and his hair looks extra messed-up and is standing up cutely on the top of his gorgeous head.

  “I’m not going to lie. Our team is on its last legs, but this is my father’s dream, and so it’s mine too, and you’re the only guy that can get us this—make us win again.”

  Racer is silent.

  “Street cars and F1 are a whole other beast,” he gruffs out, looking slightly bemused.

  “I know. But I’d love for you to test, and if it goes well …”

  “When’s this test?” he cuts me off.

  “Yesterday.” I grin. “Now. As soon as possible. The season starts in two days.”

  He looks at me, then laughs softly as he pushes off the wall and we start walking again. “Fucking F1?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re talking about F1.”

  “Yes.” I laugh, feeling giddy because of the way his blue eyes start to glint.

  His lips curve mischievously, and he drags a hand across his face before he turns sober. “When do we leave?”

  Oh god. He said yes?

  He looks thirsty for it; his gaze feral all of a sudden. Competitive.

  “Tonight? Can you make it?”

  “I’ll make it,” he assures.

  I smile and reach out, embracing him. He wraps his arms around me too and I feel him inhale along the back of my ear before we step away—my heart beating fast.

  He’s seriously god’s handiwork. The natural selection process of evolution couldn’t be enough to produce something like him. He’s illegal.

  His only law is breaking the law, and a flicker of insecurity slithers inside me. Do I have the ability to control a guy like him?

  Drake, Clay, and Adrian … all three of my brothers together plotting in some way or another against me have never made me as nervous as this guy on his own.

  The last thing I want is get involved with a driver. I cannot keep feeling like this around him.

  “It won’t be a problem with your family—”

  “I’ll handle my family.” He chuckles over my worry and reaches out and grabs my face, smiling down at me. “You’re too gorgeous for your own good.” He brushes my mouth with his, causing my whole body to awaken and to tingle, his eyes twinkling, and he walks away. “Send me the flight information and I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “Good but if we can keep this professional I’d be really—grateful.”

  He stops walking and turns, looking at me.

  I close the distance between us, breathless. “Last night we almost went too far.”

  “I’m not letting you get away.” He looks uncompromising. Determined.

  I wring my hands. “This is more complicated than I thought.”

  He looks at my face, and I lick my lips, lean over, and kiss his cheek. I found him. He’s the one driver I’ve chosen to believe in, to bring into our fold and try out, and this cannot happen, especially with my family around.

  I ease back, but it’s like something unleashes, and he growls, takes my hands and pulls me up, pinning me against him.

  “Are we in agreement …” he says, his eyes starting to twinkle as his lips curve mischievously.

  “Agreement of what?” I breathe.

  He’s got a big ego, I can tell.

  “I’m the best driver in the world.”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “You don’t want to fix my car, that’s the only reason you won’t admit it.”

  “No. I’m not in agreement. I haven’t seen much.”

  He’s breathing hard, smells freshly showered and feels so warm as I try to pry myself free and we head outside, walking side by side.

  “What do you get when you win your street races.”

  “I get laid.”

  “Oh. You got laid.”

  He shakes his head. “My prize walked away on me last night.”

  “Oh really? I wasn’t your prize. Obviously you had a real prize somewhere and she must feel very rejected.”

  “She’s paid to feel happy no matter I fuck her or not.”

  My smile fades, and I clear my throat and decide this is too intimate. Feeling jealous over him is not the thing. He’s not mine; I’m not his. We’re nothing to each other but business partners now. “Okay so. We leave tonight. I’ll get us tickets.”

  He narrows his eyes, as if confused that I shut down so fast. “I said I’ll be there and I will. I don’t lie.”

  He tightens his jaw and it looks square as he flexes a muscle in the back, looking frustrated as I simply nod and add,

  “Racer. Tomorrow this never happened. What almost happened between us—never happened.”

  He grins and hikes up one eyebrow, then just says, “Understood.” He nods, and I watch him head toward a black Jeep Cherokee, and I assume his mustang is getting fixed after the thousand kisses he gave it during his street race.

  He’ll be driving Kelsey, I think mournfully, praying he doesn’t leave those sorts of marks on her too. We have no money for that—no room for error.

  God, please let me be right about him.

  Racer

  “You weren’t at the gym today.”

  First thing my dad says when I meet them for lunch at a restaurant by the gym I usually visit.

  “No.” I meet his irritated gaze. I’m like a carbon copy of the guy, except he’s got two dimples, and I’ve got one. He’s also hard for fighting. I’m hard for cars. Not that he knows what I still do with my cars.

  Leaning over to kiss my mom on the cheek and rumple my eighteen-year-old sister’s hair, I glance at my mom while she sips her tea. “Tell Dad to cut me some slack, huh?”

  “Cut your son some slack, Remy.”

  He grins and leans back in his seat. “I will when he stops being a pussy.”

  “I like speed, all right. Wasn’t that the point of you giving me this lame-ass name.”

  My mom gasps. “Your name is beautiful. It’s unique.”

  My dad shoots me a glare. “What did you want us to call you? John?”

  “Tate. Just Tate.”

  He smirks. “Baby, tell John here that I expect my son to train daily. No excuses.” He levels me a look. “Take something serious for once.”

  “I pulled weights this morning and ran 7 miles before you even woke up. That would make most of my friends’ fathers ecstatic.”

  “What would make me ecstatic is for you to fight a fight. Fight a fight, and I’ll get you your dream car.”

  I raise my brows. “You don’t mean that. A white Aventador?”

  He nods.

  My cock gets thick thinking about it.

  “Bribery?” my mom asks, raising her brows.

  “It work
s.” I can hear the grin in his voice.

  I grin too.

  Iris groans and sets down her napkin. “I need to go to the restroom.”

  “I’ll go with you,” my mom says.

  My dad regards me for a moment.

  “I know that look,” he says, after a long while.

  “What?”

  “There’s a woman in your life, not a girl.”

  I sip the glass of water the waitress sets before me, aware of Dad watching me. “She’s the one.”

  Dad looks at me, laughs softly.

  “Don’t fucking laugh about this.”

  “It’s amusing.”

  “The fuck it is.” I scowl, then grin and chuckle, shaking my head. “I just met her and I know it sounds crazy but I know it somewhere here.” I punch my gut.

  “When I met your mom, I knew from where I stood in the ring. No such thing as too soon to know.”

  I drag a hand along the back of my neck. “Right thing to do would be to stay away. But I’m not going to. She just offered me a try on an F1 car.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” I hold his incredulous stare. “I want you to be okay with me racing F1.”

  Iris and my mother return to their seats, and I can tell from the look in Mom’s eyes that she heard me crystal clear.

  “You know I don’t want you racing,” Dad says.

  “You want me fighting; I don’t want to do that.” I lean back and drape an arm along the back of my chair, eyeing him in silence. “Her name is Lana, she’s with HW Racing Team.”

  “That team still exists?”

  “Barely, from what she says.”

  “Racer …” Mom interjects. “You’ll be away from home, with nobody you know, putting your life on the line—”

  “I’m going.”

  My mom’s eyes widen.

  “You going because you want to race, or you want the girl?” Dad asks.

  “Both. I’m racing; and I want the girl.” I look at him. “Tell me it can happen for me like it did for you. That I can find someone to get me. To take me, as is.”

  Iris blinks at that, just staring at me. “Did I miss something?” she asks out loud, but I keep staring at my dad until he replies.

  “I wish nothing more.”

  I exhale. “This is the girl. The one I’m going to marry. The one whose life I’m going to completely ruin.” I chuckle, he laughs, then we both fall sober.