by Katy Evans
“Let her get to know you. And then she can decide what the ‘right’ thing is,” Dad says.
I exhale, standing up as I look at Mom and Iris. “I need to pack.” My eyes focus on my sister’s. “Come to one of my races?”
“I don’t know if I can watch.”
I scowl but rumple her hair. “Wuss.”
“Bully.”
She stands and hugs me goodbye, and I hug her back, not saying anymore. Iris always tells me I’m emotionally unavailable. I’m just not used to expressing shit. I always tell her that she should already know. So with a smile, a hug, and a don’t get into trouble look, I go and kiss my mother, tell her I love her, and hear her whisper, “Come home in one piece.”
I nod, and my dad walks with me outside.
“Take care of Iris for me.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“I fucking mean it,” he growls.
I clench my jaw. I exhale, unclenching my fingers. I nod.
He part grabs, part slaps my jaw. “Good.”
He smiles at me, and I can see the pride in his eyes, the pride and the damn concern that appeared from the moment I was diagnosed with bipolar 1.
I push that out of my mind as I fire up my Cherokee, pull out, and head to my apartment to pack.
I’ll be working with her. Touching her is not a good idea. But I don’t know that I could do that. Fucking want to do that. I can still feel her warmth in my fucking hands. Taste her in my mouth. Remembering makes me hard as iron.
There’s something inside of me screaming her name. Something like I’ve known her my whole life. Something the moment I locked eyes on her that whispered, you’re going to marry this chick. This girl is going to own you, and you’re going to own her, and that’s that.
Lana
“There must be some mistake. I didn’t buy us first class tickets. Our team—”
“I’ve got it. I’ll take it from my salary.” He grins as we’re handed our tickets at the airport.
“You won’t have much left.”
I tuck my ticket into my bag and cross one arm across my chest in an effort to calm down my overreactive nipples. I don’t have big breasts, but I have nipples that seem to act like twin dicks on guys. Ugh.
“Actually I will,” he growls softly, “because I’m going to win this thing.”
I let out a surprised laugh as we take our tickets and head to the security checkpoint. “Cocky much?”
This guy is like the Muhammad Ali of car racing; he says he’s the shit and from what I’ve seen so far, he’s got enough to back it up. But F1 cars drive differently. I’ve seen too many drivers be unable to handle the car, the way it drives.
He helps me take my laptop out of my bag, then seems to stare at my feet as I put my shoes on the bin. I forgot to wear socks and was wearing my sandals, and my toes are rather small and pink-painted.
He smiles to himself as if he finds them amusing and motions for me to pass through the X-ray scanner first. I watch as he follows, raising his arms while some lucky female officer is probably seeing what he looks like underneath his clothes, and I shake my head at my own lusty thoughts.
Gosh. My brain really needs to stop that.
The boarding gate is full. I head over to stand by the window when he asks a woman if someone is taking the seat beside her, where she has her bag. She grins at him, flustered. He lifts his head and winks. “Come here, Lana.”
I swallow nervously and because I don’t want to argue, I take a seat, keeping my eyes on him as he stands by the window and checks his phone.
“Your boyfriend?” the woman beside me asks with an I’m-swooning look on her face.
“No.” I feel myself flush because for some reason the thought alone makes me heated, and I pretend to be busy with my own phone for a while.
Forty minutes later, we finally board the plane, and I’m short enough that I have trouble raising my carry-on. Racer grabs it from my hand and slides my bag over my shoulder, and slides them both next to his backpack.
Sending him a wary look because I’m not used to anyone doing anything for me, I drop down on my seat, strapping my seatbelt as he lowers his body to the seat beside mine.
He’s so wide-shouldered that our shoulders are about a hair from touching. I feel the panicked sensation that I should move away, but I don’t—it would be too obvious.
It feels a bit overwhelming to sit this close to him—next to him without remembering that his hands sort of touched me only yesterday. That his lips sort of mischievously tasted mine and I liked it so much.
We’re offered refreshments. I decline, he orders an apple juice.
“So when we arrive, I’ll introduce you to the team, get you set up—then we need to get your seat fitted. You’ll need a physical, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
He just looks at me for a moment.
When he looks into my eyes, I feel like he’s dissecting me, as if he’s reading into me—as if these stupid expressive eyes he claims I have have some sort of silent language for him.
“Also if you would stop doing that, I would appreciate it.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re staring, Tate. You’re unnerving me.” I swallow, laughing when he smiles in confusion. “My dad …” I shake my head. I’m not here to be his friend, really. “I just want to prove to him I can be reliable to bring in the talent. Don’t make me look bad.” I frown.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Thank you.”
I exhale as we take off.
His hand is on the armrest as he pulls out his phone, plugs in his earbuds, and listens to music. I wonder what he’s listening to. I wait for the seatbelt button to turn off, then ease out of my seat and feel a little self-conscious about my butt sort of being in his face as I step out and search my bag for my own earbuds. I can’t seem to find them.
I sit back down. He raises his eyebrows. “No earbuds?”
Flustered because of his intent blue gaze, I motion to the flight attendant. “Can I purchase some earbuds?”
“I’ll bring them right away.”
He pulls off one of his earbuds and hands it over. “Here.”
“No, really …”
He reaches out to put one on my ear, and an unfamiliar song is playing. He grins and it’s irresistible, a part of me seems to be sinking, deep, deep, DEEP into his eyes as he smiles and watches me.
“What’s that song called?”
“Believer. Imagine Dragons.”
“I like it. You can learn a lot about a person based on the songs he or she listens to.”
“So what’s on your playlist?” he asks.
I shrug. “Normal stuff. A few oldies but goodies.”
“Let’s have a look.” He peers at my phone screen and sees my song; Elastic Heart by Sia. “Fucking love this song.” He taps my phone screen with a smile of approval.
“Ohmigod, me too!” I say, and he just looks at me, Believer still blasting in my ear.
“Have you ever heard this one?” I search for my favorite song of the moment—Favorite Record by Fall Out Boy—connect the earbuds to my phone rather than his, and play it. We just sit there, listening.
He’s staring at my profile, drinking me in. He reaches out and brushes his thumb along my ear. “Do you do that on purpose?”
“What?”
“Stare at me like that.”
“How am I staring at you?”
I start feeling a little breathless.
He stares at me like a predator—quiet. Waiting.
Every inch of my body seems to buzz with the nearness—the total awareness—of every inch of his body, close enough to touch.
“Is this how we’re going to play it?” he asks me then.
“Huh?”
“This.” He motions to him and me. “Is this how we’re going to play it?”
I swallow thickly and nod. Lowering my earbud as he pries his off too, waiting for my a
nswer. “What happened in St. Pete stays in St. Pete,” I say. “We’re going to be working closely together. And I really … think it’s best if we don’t complicate things.”
“I like them complicated.”
“I don’t.” I scowl because of his sexy grin. “Masochist,” I accuse.
“Crasher.”
I gasp. “I kissed your car with mine, you crashed your own car …”
He leans over fast and pecks my lips again.
Fast and without any advance notice.
I hear a soft moan leave me; and it makes me frown and it makes him grin devilishly.
“Stop doing that.”
“Close your eyes then,” he says meaningfully.
“What?”
“Your eyes make me do shit. I’m under a spell.” That lone dimple appears.
Damn him, that dimple is going to be the end of me.
I frown. “I’m not going to argue until I sleep for a while,” I say, and he lifts the armrest between our seats and slides his arm around me, pressing my cheek to his chest as he runs his thumbs over my eyelids, making me close my eyes.
I’m stiff for a second. He snuggles his head against the top of my head. “You smell good,” he rasps.
“You smell different than my brothers.”
“Could be because I’m not your brother.” His voice rumbles under my ear.
I clutch his shirt in my fist and raise my head to look at him, and for a moment I just want this whole plane to vanish, our clothes to vanish, everything to vanish but him.
“I’m sort of your boss, Racer. You can’t play games with me,” I whisper, instead of frowning, I sound pleading.
His smile fades and he leans a little more forward, his voice a deep whisper, “I’m going to be your man. You better not play games with me,” he says.
I can’t breathe.
He leans his head, and ever so slowly, ever so exquisitely, his lips run side to side across mine.
I gasp, motionless, and shiver when his tongue slides out to lick inside of me. Just one lick, and he eases back, smiling.
I somehow stare, and he smiles, and somehow for the next seven hours until we’re woken up with breakfast, I sort of sleep with my cheek sort of against his chest, and his arm sort of around me, and I should’ve eased away, but for the first time in days, I can actually take a breath to really start to wonder about my dad and how he’s doing, and feeling his arm around me makes me stop worrying about everything at all.
Except that arm. Around me.
How delicious it feels.
How possessive it is.
And maybe how it shouldn’t be there, and yet it is.
Did I turn into a slut overnight?
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m sure it’s the jet lag and it’ll all turn to rights once I’m back with my family and back at work.
We get a cab at the airport, and Drake meets us at the hotel lobby. I feel guilty that I’ve been kissing and touching this stranger—our driver. I feel afraid that my brothers will notice and I’ll never live my sluttiness down.
I want to put some space between me and Racer as we walk down the airport aisles but at the same time I see the women passing by look at him, and I don’t like it.
I stay where I am.
Drake hugs me, and I SEE Racer turn his head and stare, his eyes a little dark.
“This is my brother, Drake. Drake, this is Racer …”
Racer’s posture eases, and he shakes his hand. “Tate,” he finishes.
“How is Daddy?”
“Good. Waiting for you two,” Drake says as he hands Racer a room key.
We step into the elevators, and I meet Racer’s gaze as we head up to my dad’s floor.
“My dad wants to meet you.”
I smile, but inside, I’m praying that this goes well.
We step off the elevator and Drake slides Dad’s room key into the slot before he lets us in. “Dad, they’re here.”
At the end of the room, my dad is in a large single chair by the corner. His face lights up when he sees me, and I notice that his eyes immediately drift away, to take in the large, dark-haired guy beside me.
“Racer Tate, my father,” I introduce.
“Sir.” They shake hands.
“Illegal street racing,” Dad says.
“I see it as just racing.”
“The law doesn’t.” He eyes him, and though his eyes look tired, there’s a spark of mischief in them. “You ready for tomorrow?”
“Born ready.”
I salivate a little over his confidence, and Drake frowns at me.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Dad says.
“A pleasure to show you. Goodnight, sir.” He nods at Dad, and I leap to my feet from where I’d dropped down at the edge of the bed. “I’ll settle him in—”
“I’ll settle him in,” Drake says. “You get some sleep. And keep him out of trouble and focused on work, Lainie. If he even stays.”
Drake follows Racer out.
Sighing, I head over to sit next to my dad and take his hand. “Are you okay?”
“I am now that my baby’s back.”
I smile and hug him, trying not to think of one day ever not having him to hug. Willing him to be all right because I’m selfish, because he’s my rock and I need him so much.
Racer
“My sister’s off limits,” I hear Lana’s brother say as he follows me to my room.
“So’s mine.” I grin.
He smiles, then narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you’ve got, I don’t think you’ve got much. F1 isn’t like the streets. But my sister went through the trouble recruiting you, so we might as well give you a shot.”
I know what he’s trying to do: intimidate the rookie, make him walk a straight line, draw the line, set the rules.
I break the rules.
I respect no line.
I couldn’t walk a straight line if I tried.
And intimidating me is impossible.
So I tell it like it is: “I don’t see many other guys lined up to take my place.”
He clenches his jaw, then he shoots me a look and bursts out laughing. I can’t help but chuckle too, our postures easing.
“My sister’s got it in her head to save this team—I hope you realize how lucky you got. I expect you out on the track at 7 a.m. Sharp.”
With that, he leaves, and I head into my room, toss my duffel bags into the ground and stare out the window, crack my knuckles. Far away from home. I was fine—racing making me happy. But always fucking restless. Going from city to city, looking for the next high. Dad said I didn’t take anything seriously.
Maybe it’s true.
Anything except racing.
And now her.
I don’t know what it is about her, but from the moment I saw her I wanted to claim, conquer, and own.
Fuck me, worst part is that I’m lying to her. I’ll lie to her whole family. I don’t want her to know.
I want her too much.
I want to race too much.
Be well, motherfucker, I curse myself. It’s been months without an episode. I feel good—I want to be better than good. I want to pretend that’s all behind me. Pull out my meds. I shove them back into the very bottom of my duffel bag.
Lana
I tossed and turned during the night, too excited for today to rest well. I heard noises in the room next to mine, and if I had to guess, I think our new talent didn’t sleep either. I heard his door shut early in the morning (at around 4 a.m.) and the guy hasn’t come back since.
I shower and dress, slipping on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt with our team logo, and I pull my hair back in a ponytail and lather sunblock on my face. I usually don’t do anything else—this is racing, after all. Not modeling. But for some reason I impulsively grab a lip gloss, and swipe it across my lips before I head to the track.
It’s a sunny day, and I can hear the car motors rumbling in the distance.
It’s the last testing day, so it’s not as busy as racing day, which puts some of the pressure off. And yet I’ve never been as nervous as I am now. I just brought a guy into our team. A very talented but a little-too-reckless guy who will be handling millions of dollars that my father invested.
Money we no longer have.
I spot my brothers in our tent. Not good to be anxious I suppose, so I exhale and I kiss my dad on the cheek and head into the motorhome to get him a coffee. I check my texts as I wait for it to brew.
Clark: dinner tonight?
Come on say yes
I’m not planning to answer—he’s last year’s F1 champion and one of our competitors—when the door of the room opens and my breath catches a little bit as Racer appears.
He’s got his racing suit on, down to the waist, the sleeves hanging at his side. On his chest is his white undershirt, covering muscles that are lean and hard.
I swallow. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he says, smiling a little.
His eyes drift to my phone, and I tuck it away.
I pour a cup of coffee, feeling him brush past behind me and out the door.
I exhale, my hands shaking.
I step outside to see my brothers bent over the hood of our repaired car.
“Let him drive Kelsey,” I say.
Drake shakes his head. “She’s too high-strung.”
“What’s the point of bringing in talent if we can’t trust them to drive our best car? Let him drive Kelsey. He can do it.” My eyes find his, and I send him a silent message, you better do it.
He seems amused as he pulls up his Nomex and starts to zip up. Drake curses under his breath and motions for the mechanics, Clay, and Adrian, to help him work on adjusting his seat.
“She’s high-strung and light on the wheels. Can you handle her?”
“Can she handle me?” He winks, then pulls on his helmet, leaving me struggling to counter the effects of his glinting, lightning-blue eyes.
What possessed me to bring in this guy? Promise my brothers I can control him? I can barely look him in the eye for a couple of seconds without feeling like he’s seeing right through me. Past the front I put up. To the little girl that just wants everything to be all right.