Racer

by Katy Evans

  Something personal.

  Something just for me and not just racing.

  Dad asked me once if I was sure that this was my dream, that it wasn’t his.

  I told him I was.

  But how much of it being my dream is actually because it’s my family’s and how much of it is mine?

  My chest constricts when I think about Dad. My family means the world to me. If I had one prayer it would be that I would always have them by my side. We were all hurt by my mom leaving us, but it only brought us closer, it only made us value each other more. I value my dad more than anything. He’s my hero. He’s taught me to work, to have a dream, have a goal, he’s taught me generosity, and he’s taught me how to overcome. He weathers this in silence, never once telling me anything or complaining. I worry, because he’s sick and I don’t want him to keep it all bottled up. He’s seemed a little more worn out this week, and a part of me believes the excitement—the mere possibility—of winning is all that keeps him well for now.

  I don’t want to talk about this with him on quali day, so I try to play it cool. “Racer, they’re requesting an interview after practice …”

  His eyes slide to mine as he pulls off his T-shirt and slips into his undershirt, and I feel a little breathless at the glimpse of bare chest. “Where?” he asks.

  “I … well right here at the tent is fine.”

  He nods, his lips curving a little as he seems to notice me get flustered. I see those blue eyes sort of scan over me—making me acutely conscious of my clothes, my half ponytail, and down to which underwear I decided to wear today. I’ve never been one for frilly underwear. I’m practical, cotton ones do just fine. But a part of me sometimes wants to own something sexier, something a guy like him would go for.

  “Did you eat something?” I ask as he heads to the room in the back to change fully into his black racing suit.

  He nods as he disappears, and comes back suited up with his Nomex. All gorgeous and ready to race. From the duffel, he pulls out his gloves, boots, socks, then sets them aside and comes over, cupping my face. “Been thinking of you.”

  “Huh,” I breathe, sort of panicking because the touch makes me feel so hot, so warm, so wanton. I haven’t felt like this for a guy in years. Not since David. And maybe not even then. David was my best friend. This guy … I don’t know even half of the things I wish I knew about him. I know he’s physical, that he races, that he’s reckless, that his dad was a famous fighter, that he has a mom and a sister, and the sexiest dimple, and the most toe-curling stare. But I want to know more … I feel like I should know more if he’s to be working with us.

  If he’s to be doing … these things to me.

  He’s got an arrogant, sort of harshly handsome face. The eyes with a gleam that makes you feel as if he wants to eat you up alive. And when his lone dimple pops out, I want to take a thousand and one mental pictures—as if for some reason a part of me needs to memorize everything about this man. This boy. This sexy, twenty-two-year-old blue-eyed boy that makes my pulse race and my heart whack crazily in my breast.

  I feel naked as he drinks me in, slowly, at first. As if there’s no rush, and he has all the time he wants to look at me.

  His hands are at his side, and I watch his fingers slowly, one by one, start to curl into his palms as he pulls in a deep, ragged breath.

  “How about we pick up where we left off in St. Pete if I get P1 in qualifying.” He smiles a little at that.

  I remember his kisses and shake inside. “How about you stop flirting and get to work,” I breathe.

  He laughs softly, his eyes twinkling. “Stop crashing my car, Lana,” he growls playfully, tugging my cap down over my head. “You look cute in this,” he adds.

  “You look hideous in your racing suit,” I call as he heads out.

  I realize my nipples are up at attention and frown down as I run my palms over them to calm them as I head to the side of the track, flustered because I’m not used to fielding advances. Usually my brothers are enough to help the drivers and mechanics stay away, and it’s true that it makes me uncomfortable to feel the way Racer looks at me. But at the same time, I’ve never liked a feeling so much in my life.

  It’s as if everything I do, I want him to see me do it … while at the same time, every time I do it, I want to hide from his probing eyes.

  It’s such a confusing feeling that I don’t know how to act around him.

  I’m trying my best to pretend he’s one of my brothers. Just a guy. I’m used to the testosterone. But the testosterone of this guy affects me differently. Well, it affects me. Period.

  I sit and stand and move here pretending he’s one of my brothers, but he doesn’t smell like my brothers. He smells really male, really clean and warm and nice. He doesn’t feel like my brothers. He’s a little taller than the other drivers, a little bigger than them and my brothers, and a little more athletic and muscular. Well, he’s actually pretty ripped. He could be a boxer, that kind of body with great upper arms and every part of his body cut.

  I have always preferred sex when I know the guy, or at least am dating him. I’ve thought it seems more meaningful but at the end of the day, I’ve only slept with one guy my whole life. So who am I kidding to think that knowing each other makes sex better? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe hot sexy sex with the most delicious guy you’ve ever met is just the ticket.

  Except he won’t be a stranger for long.

  He’s on my team.

  But I can’t help wonder that it might make me forget how much I miss David. I know it’s been long and I need to put myself out there, and maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe instead of trying to find a replacement of a relationship that meant so much to me, I should look for the opposite. I should not look for a replacement, simply embrace single Lana and sleep with whoever I want, live the single life proudly, knowing I’m the girl that has already found love and will always cherish it.

  I don’t think anyone can ever compete with what I had with David. We knew each other since we were kids. He protected me, cared for me, he loved me. Sometimes I miss him so much my chest hurts, and I press my hand to it to try to quell the pain.

  I try to forget it as I suck on a bottle of water and tip my cap down to shield me from the sun. I’ve already got too many freckles and I don’t want anymore.

  “The Clarks are really strong this year,” Dad mutters as I come stand next to him, a warning.

  “Are they not any year?” I roll my eyes.

  “Is Clark himself still after your bones?” Drake asks from behind us.

  “No!” I cry, glaring at him past my shoulder. “He just wants info. I’m not going to give it to him.” I frown, then I turn around and wade my way to pits as I watch the drivers head to their cars.

  Racer and I make eye contact as he polishes his visor and as my brothers and the team get the car ready.

  I keep bringing drinks to everyone, even offer one to Racer, which he declines with a look into my eyes and a shake of his head.

  It makes me blush, for some reason, but I keep trying to help in any way I can. I suppose I need the activity to help calm my own nerves.

  Once he’s got his helmet on, and his visor lowered and is settled and strapped down in the car, I leave pits as the motors turn on.

  Brrrmmmm!!!!!

  I can’t bear to watch. First time in the track for qualifying. First time in a Formula One car. This could be painful. I can’t watch.

  I head over to take a seat next to my dad. My dad pats my hand. “Trust your gut.”

  “My gut is knotted right now.”

  He laughs.

  I see the laughter reach all the way into his eyes and I ease.

  “Clayton’s on the radio with him?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tell me when it’s over.”

  I hear the wheels spinning—the car roars out of pits, and I am not sure I’ve ever heard Kelsey sound so angry and so fired-up.

  I inhale, and then hear my dad inh
ale too. Before he says, looking at his chronometer, “Decent as fuck time.”

  I open my eyes and look at Dad. I’m seeing something I recognize as hope in his eyes, and it makes my stomach knot up even more—this time with something similar to excitement.

  I turn my head and watch as Kelsey speeds like a demon on Red Bull down the track.

  “He’s a natural, Lainie baby,” Dad whispers, looking at me with pride.

  “He’s so good, Dad,” I admit, something in my heart swelling in ways that it doesn’t even swell when I get complimented myself. “On my way to the US I kept praying for me to find someone like Seth. I didn’t—I found someone better. He was too rare to leave alone.”

  People really have no idea how difficult it is to drive at 225 mph with a shit ton of G force pushing back at you. You need to be extremely fit to endure that for hours.

  After the cars circle around and their times are adjusted and their cars are adjusted, qualifying is wrapped up with Clark in first, the Clark’s second driver in second,

  “AND RACER TATE IS THIRD,” the announcers are saying. “QUALIFYING FOR P3, a great great comeback for HW Racing this year.”

  When Racer pulls into pits and hops on the scale, I take note of his weight and notice he’s lost 10 lbs of body water in sweat. I hurry to bring him a bottle of Gatorade, coconut water, lemonade, or plain water, tucking them all in my arms so that he gets to pick.

  “P3. Not fucking bad!!” I hear my brothers cheer, slapping each other. I hurry over as he climbs out of the car for his interview.

  He grabs the first drink I offer, a Gatorade, and is attacked by the press before we even reach the motorhome.

  “Racer Tate, you’re the year’s only rookie and are taking no prisoners, already you’ve set the internet ablaze with your talent. What’s the difference between racing out on the streets versus a track like this one?” the attractive reporter asks as she puts the microphone up to his lips.

  “I get to hear whispers in my ear,” he grins, and Clayton laughs behind us.

  “Is the horsepower too much …”

  “Not too much. I like the power. It’s the walls I need to watch out for—not a lot of those off the track. Usually trees.”

  Laughter.

  “So when we asked for this interview and how on earth the team at HW Racing found you, Lana told us she found you … by accident, literally …”

  I groan inside as the reporter continues,

  “… Is she a good driver?”

  “We’ll work on that,” Racer says gruffly, his dimple appearing as he winks at me and he takes my elbow with a little crackle in my skin as he leads me away.

  “That’s Racer Tate,” the TV lady says to the camera as we walk away, “live from the F1 track in Australia.”

  “I can’t believe I told them that,” I groan, brushing my fingers over the spot he touched.

  He’s eyeing me speculatively, his blue eyes shining so bright under the sunlight, I can’t look away. “Lucky for you, you now have the best driver in the world at your disposal,” he growls.

  He sounds dehydrated. And mischievous.

  “Ha! I’ll be the judge of that. Plus I’m not sure what you’re implying I do with him.” I shoot him a scowl.

  He laughs, and shakes his head. “Anything you want. Free of charge. Driving lessons. Petting sessions.”

  “Really?” I frown. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe me, Alana.” He stops me, his eyes twinkling as he frowns down at my mouth as if he wants to take a bite out of it and is annoyed that he can’t. His voice lowers. “I’ll stop by tonight for a kiss, for P3.”

  My lungs suddenly feel like rocks in my chest, but I try to sound stern as I say, “You can knock, but that doesn’t mean that door is going to open.” I see his dimple deepen as he watches me walk away, my whole stomach buzzing in a way it has

  never

  in my whole damned life

  buzzed before.

  Racer

  I’m hyped and wired, not one bit tired after the day. P fucking 3.

  I’ll take it.

  Not bad for a first timer. I’m planning to work myself up from there, get to know the car better. The wheels. The turns.

  I’m freshly showered after hitting the hotel gym for an hour, and rather than strip and hit the bed, I’m pulling on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

  Some Clark guy is after her.

  I don’t want anyone touching her. Looking at her. Kissing her.

  I want to kiss her again, deep this time, figure out what she tastes like in every hot spot of hers, draw out more and more of that taste, and add a little moan or two. I’m working myself to a lather over the idea of it, my cock already taking to the idea—fast and hard like I like it—and immediately I clench my jaw because I’m being a selfish prick. No girl should need to live with my bullshit. Hell I even try to spare my mom; she’s got enough with my dad.

  But I head over—needing a look at her.

  I knock on her door.

  She opens in a little pajama that makes my cock thick.

  She blinks.

  “Hey.”

  She exhales, looking at me, and I look at her and see her nipples, want to touch them, suck them, and I can’t snap out of it for a long time. I know she’s worried we work together and I shouldn’t kiss her, but I don’t have any qualms about that.

  I want to take it easy on her, though, so I just stand there and get a whiff of her scent. What is that?

  She’s talking to me.

  My eyes feel heavy as I pull them up from watching her lips speak to looking into her eyes. She’s saying—

  “Racer, please.”

  I open my mouth to correct her, to tell her to call me just Tate. That’s my preference. I snap it shut. Frown down at her.

  Well shit I kind of like my name coming from her mouth. I kind of like the idea of her saying it when she’s coming.

  I’m fast in all things but not in this. Hell I don’t even know what this is. I reach out. There’s a slight widening of her eyes, and I can see it. Interest. Lust. Whatnot. Whatever you want to call it.

  This girl’s hot for me; her eyes say it so much. And I’m burning like fuel at full speed.

  “You want to try saying it again.” I feel my lips curve into a smile.

  “What? Racer?” she asks, confused.

  “All of it.”

  “Racer … please.”

  “Please what.”

  “I …”

  “Please what.”

  “Please make me look good. No more of this.” She starts shaking her head, and I lean down to peck her lips.

  Like I knew, she knew, I would do.

  “Tell you what, Alana,” I rasp, cupping her face and teasing her with her bullshit name. “Tell me you’re fixing my car because you know I’m the best driver in the world, and I’ll go back to my room.”

  “Tell you what, Racer,” she says, pushing me at arm’s length. “Go get some rest. Keep trying to achieve your dreams. And maybe when you get there, I’ll be close to admitting that.” She grins, and as she starts to close the door, she kisses the tip of two fingers and places them on my jaw.

  I laugh, and scrape a hand down my jaw where she just set the sweetest fucking kiss on me.

  Racer

  I’m fired up. I hit the gym at midnight, worked on my stamina, upper body, killed my legs, worked my arms.

  I snatch up a coffee early morning, get one for Lana, and head out to the track.

  I spot her with her brothers. Her eyes widen when I give her a cup of coffee, and she has a shit ton of coffees on the table beside her. “Oh. I brought you one too.”

  I nod, and eye her as I watch her take mine and drink it in silence before I head to the drivers’ meeting.

  The race director briefs us all on the basics. “This is the situation with the safety car …” he’s saying.

  He indicates which turns have safe havens (in case a car breaks down). �
�The safe havens are indicated with orange cones or turn marks.”

  The Clarks snicker and whisper among themselves.

  What jackasses.

  It’ll be a goddamned pleasure to beat their asses this year.

  After the drivers’ briefing, I head back to the tent to talk strategy with Adrian, Lana’s youngest brother. Aside from the mechanics that make up HW Racing Team, Lana’s family make up the most important roles. Adrian is the race engineer. Clayton’s the driver’s coach, the guy I usually discuss driving skills with and am on the headset with during the races. The eldest, Drake, is the team manager. Lana’s dad is the team owner: a man who loves to live on the track and rarely leaves until the entire team does.

  Adrian and I discuss how many pit stops we’ll do, what tire compounds we’ll be starting out with.

  I feel eerily calm; I’m good at being calm under pressure. There’s something about knowing your life is on the line that clears your head. Heightens your every sense.

  I focus on the strategy and keep my body relaxed, my mind focused.

  Soon, the drivers are called out to pits.

  I approach number 38. Lana’s “Kelsey.”

  It’s an exotic machine, built for speed. Built for racing.

  She’s ready. And so am I.

  I grab my gloves and zip up my racing suit, then ease on my helmet. Before I lower my visor, I let my eyes scan over Lana, who’s been watching me from the side. I let the testosterone she stimulates run over me—and I give her a look that says this one’s for you.

  My dick fills up and stiffens under that adoring look in those expressive eyes of hers.

  That flush on her is just the cherry on top of my Lana Sexy as Fuck Cake.

  By the time I slide into the car, strap down, and ignite the engine, I’ve got a huge hard-on.

  F1 cars are much rawer than normal cars. Louder, faster, with more grip, much harder to drive. It’s harder to freaking win. It’s not a one-on-one race here; I’m racing against sixteen other drivers, all of them hungry. As hungry to win as me.

  We follow the car as we get into positions, and then, it’s green flag—and I get a good solid launch.