Racer

by Katy Evans

  But I cannot let my personal feelings for him take over. This is a fresh start—a new opportunity, and seeing the hope in my father’s eyes is reason enough.

  He climbs into the car. Slides into his seat so that only his shiny helmet and colored visor can be seen. The motor comes to life with a roar. He starts warming it. Roarrrrr, roarrrr, roarrrr.

  The vibrations make even my body feel the buzz.

  I watch as Kelsey, number 38, literally storms through the track—in the most perfect line you could ask for. Usually it’s hard to stay on the line … for new drivers.

  This guy … he’s—good.

  So

  fucking

  Good!

  I’m tongue-tied after his first few laps as he pulls back into pits and straight into the team garage. He leaps out of the car and pulls off his helmet, and I take it from his hands as he walks around the car towards Adrian, who’s head of the mechanics.

  “She’s heavy on the curve. Lighten the downforce.”

  “If we lighten the downforce she’ll be flying, you won’t be able to control her,” Adrian says.

  Racer restlessly pulls off his Nomex down to his waist, and grabs the water I hand him. He just waits, as if he expects them to do it.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he goes back to look at the car with a look of concentration on his face.

  My eyes travel along the back of his neck, the way his hair is standing up a little messy—not only because he just took off the helmet, but it simply seems like that dark hair is always perky.

  I can make out the darker points of his nipples under the white shirt, and his hard chest muscles.

  I try not to notice his muscular shoulders, his narrow hips, accentuated by the waistband of the Nomex suit, and I’m not sure anything this blazing hot has ever been in my eyesight before him.

  I realize that my brothers are arguing, and he’s still there, waiting …

  As tall as my brothers, but very defined and with a presence that makes you pause and stare and have trouble to stop yourself from staring.

  After they work on the changes for over an hour, he suits back up, slides on his helmet, eases into the car, and roars back onto the track.

  A thousand knots are in my stomach. He does one lap. A second lap, even faster. I can’t look away now. He hasn’t lost control, and Kelsey feels completely at ease in his hands. Hell he makes it look easy, even though I know it’s hard as fuck.

  “Time!” my father barks.

  “One minute twenty-six point nine,” Drake says with the chronometer in his hand, eyes wide.

  Behind us, Clay speaks to him on the headset. “Keep it up. A millisecond from the fastest lap.”

  When he finally pulls back into pits and gets out, my brothers are speechless, the three of them staring at him sort of with godlike reverence.

  Drake is the first to speak. “Welcome to HW Racing.” Drake shakes his hand and looks at me, and smiles.

  I smile back, and when my eyes slide to Racer, I realize he’s pulled off his helmet and holds it dangling at his side and is looking at me with a proud, male look in his eyes.

  I start to flush.

  “You killed it. I don’t think we’ve ever seen a rookie go this fast in a new car, in a new-to-him track,” Clay says.

  He tucks his helmet under his arm, fists his hand and smashes it into his palm. “I knew it.”

  “How did you know it?” I ask.

  He smiles at me as his dimple appears. “Because I’m here to stay, crasher.”

  I feel my toes curl a little under his smile as he storms to the motorhome, and I realize that Drake and Clay are both staring at me while Adrian gets busy with the motor fixes.

  “Lainie, he’s an illegal street racer, okay. Don’t get too attached to him, you hear?” Drake starts to ramble. “Not personally, and not because he’s in our team. The moment the other teams catch onto him, they’ll be offering more money than we could ever compete against.”

  “Don’t say that, Drake.”

  “I’m being realistic.”

  “You’re being a pessimist and I’m too happy today to come down from my party in heaven. Cut me a break. This is good. We had a good day.”

  “Lainie …”

  I watch Racer come over from the motorhome, taking the steps down two at a time, running his hands over his sweaty head. I leap to my feet and feel a little unsteady because my heart leaps a little too. “You thirsty?”

  He just nods and grabs the bottle I pull out of the cooler, taking less than a minute to down it all. He gasps as he finishes it, exhales and looks at me. His nostrils flaring. “Car felt good.”

  I nod, breathless. “You looked pretty good out there.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nod fast. “Yeah.”

  And I realize all my three brothers are staring, frowning. I look away and head to the motorhome, aware of Racer following me inside, where it’s a little less windy and we can get out of the sun.

  “Your brothers wanted me to do better?” He drops down on one of the couches, and he’s frowning. Clearly puzzled.

  “No, they’re thrilled with qualifying.”

  He raises his brows as if he’s confused about their way of showing it.

  “Really. They love it. They don’t know that you’re here to stay.”

  He pulls his Nomex out of his arms and lets it drop at his waist, and the white shirt under his suit is plastered to his chest so much I see his small brown nipples. I pull my eyes up, gulping when I realize he asked me a question. “Where do they think I’m going?” he asked.

  “They don’t want me spending time with you.”

  He laughs at that, then looks at me quietly, his blue eyes twinkling.

  “Because they don’t feel you’re a good influence and want us to keep things professional at all times.”

  He reaches out to touch a strand of hair with one finger. “What’s wrong with having a little fun?” he asks, his voice a little guttural as he looks down at me intently.

  “It’s not the fun they’re worried about, it’s you and I having fun. Together.”

  He grins, I’m laughing, can’t believe I said that.

  Heat spreads over me when his eyes fall to my chest, and I see him checking out my breasts before pulling up his gaze, his lips curving sardonically at the corners—a dimple popping out in a half-apologetic, half-not-apologetic smile.

  I pull in a long breath, breathing in his scent and wondering why I find it addictive, why it makes things inside of me ball up with wanting. Wanting to smell him from up close, to taste him, feel him, touch all of his male-scented body.

  There’s a rap on the door before it swings open.

  “Tate. We’re working fast on it and we can fit in another session.”

  I see the heat in his eyes before he comes to his feet. I follow him outside, and there it is, that heat in his eyes as our eyes lock before he lowers his helmet, lowers his visor, and he’s back out again.

  I feel my cheeks burn and am aware of my brothers still fucking staring.

  I hum softly, as if there’s nothing going on, and go take a seat next to my dad as he holds his chronometer.

  Okay so obviously my brothers are concerned about Racer, and maybe I’ve been staring too much. I really need to work on that.

  And maybe it wasn’t that good an idea to commission me to keep the guy out of trouble, because I clearly have no control over the guy and he’s as wild as they come, but I can’t help a kick of my heart every time I see him around the track.

  I can’t help but feel myself perspire when I hear his voice around the tent, I can’t seem to stop feeling the little hairs on my arms rise at attention when I feel him nearby. I can’t help but feel my stomach knot up as he climbs the car, and I can’t help but feel extra nervous when he’s out there on the track, zooming past us in a car that—as of two days ago—he’d never driven before.

  The fastest vehicles in the w
orld.

  That evening, after a successful test, my brothers stay working on the car, and while Dad heads to his room to rest, I linger downstairs with Racer, giving him a tour of the hotel facilities.

  I step outside to show him the pool—it’s vacant at this hour, since it’s actually close to midnight—when I see his whole face just light up with devilish interest.

  “I wouldn’t mind taking a dip in that blue-as-shit pool,” he gruffs out.

  He looks really virile in his racing suit—but in jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, his hair in organized chaos like he always wears it, he looks terribly raw and masculine. And when his eyes slide to me, my whole stomach turns to knots.

  “I wouldn’t mind a dip in that blue-as-shit pool with you. Lana.”

  His gaze is riveted on my face, then runs over my body slowly. It stops on the creamy skin of my midriff exposed by my top, and I have to suck in a breath.

  I have to fight the overwhelming need to scoot closer to him.

  He smiles, his dimple showing; I tug my top a little nervously.

  He steps closer and pulls up his shirt and before I know it, he’s bare-chested as fuck. Bare-chested as fuck and flipping open his jean button.

  “What are you doing?”

  Racer lifts his head. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You’re taking your clothes off.”

  “That’s what people do when they want to cool off.” He starts to lower his zipper.

  “I’m going inside,” I croak out as I hastily turn around to do just that.

  His strong arm snatches out to grab my elbow and turn me around. “Cool off with me.”

  He takes my chin.

  And Racer looks at me with those blue eyes that seem to peer into my very soul and I can’t help but squirm inside.

  “I’m not that hot,” I protest.

  “You’re very hot,” he contradicts on a devilish purr, his eyes acquiring a spark that’s just wicked. “But you’re very wound up too, Lainie.” He tsks softly, his eyes twinkling. “What are we going to do about it?”

  I reach for my jeans and pull them off, the words “turn away” somehow getting stuck in my throat when I reach for my T-shirt.

  He just stands there, looking at me. Not looking at me like a pervert. Just … as a guy. As a very big, dark-haired, hot young man.

  And feeling reckless, I pull my T-shirt over my head, and his eyes coast my whole body in underwear in one clean, very thorough swoop.

  Hating that my nipples respond almost instantly, I purse my lips and walk, in panties and bra, toward the pool, aware of every freaking move of my butt, and quickly racing to the edge and leaping in the air, I wrap my arms around my folded legs and plunge like a ball into the water.

  When I surface after my splash, I see only Racer in a perfect-position dive cutting into the water in a perfect, rather Olympian way, and surfacing—his hair wet as he slicks it back and looks at me—only a few feet away. “Stylish way to go in the pool,” he says in reference to me, the pool lights revealing only a tan.

  And the fact that he’s completely naked in the pool.

  I’m blushing, wading in the water as he starts moving under the water. Coming closer and closer. I don’t know why knowing Racer is naked and swimming toward me makes him more dangerous than JAWS swimming closer. Because this shark, I want him to take a bite out of me, and I really cannot afford my father to lose the only talented driver he’s ever had. It would be a recipe for disaster.

  I also like my guys a little less knowledgeable of sex, like maybe I am, a little less hot or I’d be crazy jealous every time he went out, and I’ve been around racers too long to know that the assortment of women surrounding these men is too numerous, and even trying to compete with that would be exhausting.

  I don’t have the energy for that. All the energy I have is to focus on us winning.

  “Relax. I’m not going to sink you,” he purrs.

  “I don’t think you’ll sink me,” I whisper, feeling out of air.

  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  I shrug.

  “What do you want me to do?” He grins devilishly, his gaze sparkling.

  “I want you to …” Kiss me again. Touch me. Finish what we started. It’s all so crazy I scramble for an answer. “… get me something to snack on.”

  He lifts his brows, then scans around. “Think the coffee shop is open. Be right back.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “No you weren’t—stay put now.” He eases out of the pool, and my mouth drops when I look at his perfect male ass. A perfect male ass with a tattoo on his butt with an RT on it. Oh my god. He scours around the pool for one of the towels they offer the bathers during the day and wraps it around his waist, then he comes back with two coffee cups, and a muffin for me.

  “I can’t believe you brought me a muffin and coffee. Thank you,” I say.

  I hear him whip off his towel and slowly lower himself back into the pool, and every atom in my body seems to electrify just by sharing the water with him.

  “Feels like you’re always feeding me.”

  “Purely selfish reasons. I get hard watching your mouth do anything at all.”

  I nearly choke.

  “Racer!”

  He chuckles, his eyes dark and glowing in the moonlight, reflecting the pool lights in those baby blues.

  “How did you feel in the track today?” I ask as I eat.

  “I felt good. I’m fired up.” He smiles, and though he doesn’t say much more, I can tell he’s fired up, the energy around him is so strong and vibrant, like a hum of an incoming storm.

  “So the Clarks are the reigning champions. They’ve got the best cars, best sponsors, best budget, best driver,” I explain.

  He raises his brows over the best driver comment, and I laugh. “Best after you,” I tease.

  He chuckles.

  After taking coffee and wading in the pool for a while discussing the other teams, we head up to our rooms. “Goodnight,” I say, and Racer reaches out to slide his hand on my nape, lean down, and press his lips to my temple. “Invite me in,” he breathes, taking an inhale and growling softly before he presses a kiss to my temple.

  “I … I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, but you’re in my team, and I have to keep you out of trouble.”

  He clenches his jaw but nods his head, “Fair enough,” he says, glancing at my lips before letting me go.

  He walks to his door, cracking his neck restlessly.

  I head inside and take a shower. I slide into bed, somehow acutely aware of the sounds in the room next to mine. There’s a lot of noise, as if he’s doing exercise. I wish I could blame that on my inability to fall asleep, but it’s a faint sound, and really nothing compared to the chaos Racer has left in my body. He hasn’t touched me today. He hasn’t kissed me. He’s not even in the room with me. But he sure makes a lot of noise in my body.

  Lana

  It’s qualifying day, the first official day to start off the season. The Formula One Grand Prix championship consists of approximately 20-plus drivers, all of them competing every few weeks for a total of 20 Grand Prix races. Each race earns them points for the championship, and to be serious contenders this year, we must try to end up in the top five in every race. That hasn’t happened to us in forever. Not since Seth won third place in the championship in our debut year. Plus to even try to finish in the top five of each race, we need a good qualifying, which is why today matters quite a bit.

  Also, today matters because we have never done something like this before.

  I scan the track another time, hoping to see Racer. Disappointment washes over me when I can’t spot him. I check the time, then ask Clay, “Have you heard from Drake?”

  “No.”

  “What if Racer doesn’t show up?” I ask.

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  I exhale. “Right. Thanks.”

  There’s a dip in my stomach when I s
uddenly see a dark figure walking forward—next to Drake.

  Racer Tate.

  In all his glory.

  I know everyone in the track is staring at him. He’s not only the novelty, but I think the guys can tell that he’s someone to watch. His presence, the way he carries himself, the way he walks, sort of lazy—like a wild cat who knows he’s the king of the jungle and doesn’t need to strut. His T-shirt clings to his chest and arm muscles. His gorgeous blue eyes blaze bright as he looks at me standing across the tent, sort of gaping at him. His dimple appears as he slowly begins to smile. “Lainie.”

  “Racer.” I nod, blinking and inhaling to try to calm down the rioting in my body.

  There’s a tingle in my tummy when he smiles, and we smile at each other for a hot second.

  He squints up at the sunlight, then down at me and playfully tugs my cap down a little.

  “That’s not gentlemanly to do,” I say, shoving him playfully although it’s as impossible as shoving a wall and expecting it to move. It doesn’t.

  “I’m not a gentleman.” His eyes gleam as he reaches out to cup my buttocks slightly, looking down at me.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I’m surprised that he noticed anything wrong. Oh god. Did my makeup not cover the circles under my eyes?

  I try to keep my voice level. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I look at you.” He tips my chin back and studies my face.

  Sometimes I wonder if I have wanted someone to ask. So that when I say my usual answer, “I’m okay,” they would know that it’s not true, that I’m not okay.

  He pulls me into the motorhome.

  I follow, nervous.

  He’s scowling deeply. “Did you stay awake at night?” he asks as he pulls out his gear.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  His stare is nerve-wrackingly intense, and I’m at a loss as to how to explain, because—although Racer makes me nervous, he also makes me calm deep where it hurts, his presence both soothing and exciting at the same time.

  I crave it.

  I hadn’t realized how much I craved something like this.