Racer

by Katy Evans

  It’s all about easy clutch release.

  I’ve got it nailed, and I’m speeding up, holding position as I head up to 230 mph on the straight. The seat shudders beneath me. The wheel fights back at me as I take a fast turn.

  Guess this is where I thank my dad for teaching me to exercise.

  My core is engaged, my every muscle engaged, my heart pumping, lungs working as I catch up with number 8.

  I wait to pass—biding my time.

  “Easy,” I hear on the mic.

  It’s Clay.

  “You’re P3 holding steady, catching up on P2,” the voice says.

  I push the pedal, waiting for the chance to overtake him, then take a slow turn and head to the next.

  The voice says, “Trailing .10 seconds after P2 and gaining.”

  We head into the straightaway, and I’m at full speed. I use his draft to get closer. You need to be careful when you get too close or you can understeer—the car gets jacked up with the other car’s draft and doesn’t want to turn.

  We head to a fast turn and head into a heavy braking zone, and I don’t brake when #8 starts braking.

  I keep my foot on the accelerator—outbraking him at the last instant, braking harder and later. Within a second, I pass him.

  He steers awkwardly into the curve, nipping the back of my car as he does. I’m off into the straightaway, hearing something clink.

  “Second …!” I hear.

  #8 is eating my dirty air as I shift gears.

  The gears on an F1 are on the wheel. The wheel is for more than steering; it’s the car’s goddamned brain. I upshift with my right hand, downshift with my left, and even check the status of the track; any yellow or red flags appear as flashing lights on the wheel as I steer.

  The track is clear, and I’m chasing after Clark. Number fucking 9 is on my radar and I’m catching up.

  “You’re P2. P3 coming up behind you fast,” Clay says.

  I feel his nose nip the back of my car. I hold her steady, outbraking him again, and leaving him behind.

  The white flag appears, and I know the checkered one is coming.

  I catch up to #9, but don’t have enough time to overtake him.

  I try anyway, my nose basically a hair away from his ass.

  “Don’t risk it, Tate,” Clay says, as if he’s reading my mind.

  I grit my jaw and decide to listen—a P2 is better than getting pulled off the track at the last lap.

  My body’s so wired from the adrenaline, I’m high. When I get down, I want to fucking kiss her.

  I’ve got about every brain cell honed in on the expression on her face she’ll be wearing. Every brain cell is honed in on wanting to kiss her, long and hard, wanting her to tell me I’m the best fucking driver in the world.

  She’s reluctant to yield to me, to admit to wanting me, to me being exactly what she’s been waiting for, but I’ll be patient. Dad always said I was impatient as fuck, but that one day I’d find something that would make me realize just how much I wanted to be patient for.

  Her name’s Lana fucking future Tate.

  Lana

  I could barely watch. But I could hear every time 38 drove past how Racer was shifting, accelerating.

  Brap, brap, brap, braaaaap, like hard, fast, wicked slaps on the motor as he effortlessly switched gears.

  The adrenaline is so high in my body my legs are trembling.

  “P2! Fucking shit me right now!” Clayton and Adrian are whooting.

  “Kelsey’s never gone this fast.”

  “Jesus,” Drake curses in disbelief.

  My dad is pulling me into a hug, and I pull free as Racer pulls in.

  The car gets weighed, and then he gets weighed. I know we can get disqualified if the car and driver weigh less than expected.

  When Racer hops on the scale, I take note of his weight and notice he’s lost 8 lbs of body water in sweat (something we’d thankfully calculated when adding the proper weights to the car). I hurry to bring him a bottle of plain water, Gatorades in different flavors, and my favorite coconut water, tucking them all in my arms so that he gets to pick.

  Once he’s cleared, he leaps off the scale, seething with energy as he pulls off his helmet and marches away, tossing the helmet back into his car seat.

  I don’t know what’s going on but he starts right for the motorhome, and I have to chase after him.

  “Racer?”

  I follow him up the motorhome steps, and I stop the door from slamming shut so I can enter behind him.

  “Racer!”

  The door shuts behind me.

  He spins around and pulls me flat against his hard-as-fuck body. One second, I am standing inside the steps of the motorhome, and the next, I’m in the air, pressed against his warm, sweaty body as his lips crush down on mine.

  I hear a splat as the bottle hits the ground. Our mouths are moving in synchrony, and I desperately hang onto my heart as his tongue flicks over mine—wet. Slow.

  He’s kissing me.

  Hard.

  And he kisses so good that I can only struggle to breathe right as his hand slides down to grab my butt and pull me a little closer to him, where he sets another kiss, this one a peck on the lips, on me.

  He eases back, and all I know is my world is blue, the most electric gorgeous blue. There’s no words to how I feel when he looks down at me like that, his gaze brilliant blue and fired up, his lips slightly curving to show his dimple. His whole body feels electric, and his eyes seem the most electric of all as he looks down at my lips, then at me with the most mischievous smile in the world.

  “Why—why did you do that,” I whisper, first breathless, then a little panicked and mad.

  He moves his hand to cup my skull, pressing them a little harder before he eases back. It takes me seconds, maybe a minute, to register the feel of his warm lips, to calm down the fire that suddenly exploded inside of me at the touch of his lips.

  I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling fast. “You know I have three brothers, and a father, who happens to be your boss. What the fuck.”

  “So.”

  “So you can’t go around doing that.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.” He inhales me and growls, leaning close again. “I just want to fucking kiss you right now.”

  “Don’t kiss me here,” I protest. “Not on the track.”

  “Where,” he grinds out impatiently.

  “Somewhere else,” I breathe, stepping away before my brothers can see.

  Did I just say somewhere else?

  Like I want it to happen, just not here?

  Judging by the look in his eyes when I glance past my shoulders, I think we both know I did.

  We head to dinner that night, to celebrate.

  My brothers are looking at him and me all night, and it takes all my effort not to crawl under the tablecloth. I focus on my meal and am happy to see my dad’s appetite is well and solid as they talk cars and strategy at the dinner table. Racer seems keen on hearing suggestions from the team, and I try to keep my attention on anything but him.

  But I marvel over that internal radar of his, something that seems to make him aware of me because every time I lift my eyes to him, they meet his, and he’s looking at me.

  Racer

  I’m all packed for the Shanghai Grand Prix next, and that evening, I call home. I know what Lana’s brothers are concerned about. I’ve got a little sister. I know what I’d do if someone were thinking of her like that. I get that. I respect that. But I can’t shut my mind. Merely sensing that Lana is near I get all worked up.

  “So tell me. If you had to choose something about me you like, what would it be?”

  “I need to think of one thing?”

  I don’t laugh.

  “Who are you trying to impress here? That girl?” Iris asks.

  “Just tell me what you’d like from a guy who’s after you. You like chats, flowers, what?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t plan to get m
arried, I told you so. Nothing works with me.”

  I exhale in frustration. “Iris, focus here. It’s about her.”

  She laughs, then sounds serious. “Wow. Am I seriously getting asked these questions by you? I thought you were going to be a successful car racer, live in a mansion like the one Iron Man has, have a butler, lots of cars, and no wife.”

  “Thanks for the help, little sis.”

  She laughs. “Racer, wait!” I put the phone back on my ear. “Just be real with her.”

  “I don’t think girls want real, I don’t think she can take the real me.”

  “Well you’ll never know until you try. Wait—hang on. Dad says fucking roses. A shit ton. Or just one.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dad’s old times are not our new times. But I might as well try.

  At midnight, I’m knocking on Lana’s door.

  She opens dressed in that blue nightie again, her nipples poking out.

  The fingers of my free hand itch, while I extend out the ones holding the twelve roses in my grip.

  “I got you some flowers.”

  “What for?” She blinks at me and I look down at her, smiling.

  “For your room. Hell, I don’t know. Throw them away if you want.”

  “No! I’m …” She blushes and takes them from my hand, quickly setting them aside.

  I drag my hand across my face. “Sex I’m used to. This is kind of a first.”

  “What’s this.”

  I shrug. Lean against the door.

  “I think about you, Lana. The way you walk, and talk, the way you look at me, the way you stand there, the way you smell, even the way you dress.”

  “It’s nothing special.”

  “Doesn’t look unspecial from here.”

  “Um Racer …”

  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 reach out. “You going to stand there and look gorgeous in that nightie or are you going to let me run my tongue over what’s beneath?” I rasp.

  I touch her lips in a way I want to touch my mouth to hers, and she flushes wild.

  “I … someone can see you here. Come in.”

  She’s blushing beet red, and I walk in, scanning her room, and then her lovely ass and legs as she walks to her room. I shift and move my cock, look down at my palms, rub them together before I rub them down my jeans.

  “You can’t keep coming over here to tell me anything. Here, write down my text.”

  She leans over me to get her phone, and I smell her, her skin inches away. I reach out, put my hands on her waist, and draw her down to my lap. My mouth searches, finds, and fucking seizes her, and I fucking kiss her like I wanted to from the moment I saw her standing there last night.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This,” I murmur, licking into her mouth. I brush her hair back, looking into her pretty eyes, round with shock. If nobody’s ever gone after her like this, I’m fucking glad, but I’m not backing off. I grab the back of her head, press her closer. I need a deeper taste, fucking explore that mouth, warm wet and minty.

  Fill my hands with her ass, shift her so my cock is right up against her opening. She feels damn good and I’m getting worked up.

  “I want this now.”

  She groans, but she’s breathing heavily, her pupils dilated.

  “I want this. You. Me, this. I want this now.”

  “Now now?” she gasps.

  I laugh, let her go and run my hand through my hair, grinning. “Not now now, but now.”

  She shakes her head. “My dad …” She shakes her head. “We can’t. We don’t even know each other.”

  “I want to know more. I want to know everything about you. Physical, mental, the shit that matters to you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me what it is about you.” I run my thumb down her cheek, and to be honest I don’t care what it is. I just know it’s there and I just know it’s her.

  “Trust me, there’s nothing special about me.”

  “There’s so much special I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Please get some sleep, Racer. We have qualifying tomorrow.”

  I lean back and smile. “I’m not tired.”

  “Well tire yourself out!”

  I take her hand before she turns away. “One day soon I’m going to take you out on a drive with me and you’ll never be the same.”

  “Is that why you rented some fancy car?” she says. She seems to realize I never told her this detail, and she blushes. “I overheard you and Clay talking about which one you should rent. Something fast.”

  “For such little ears, they sure seem to work right.”

  She laughs.

  Damn, I want her in my car, the wind in her hair, I want to play some tunes and hear her laugh about them. Reach out to shift gears, and put my hands in her thighs instead.

  “Maybe. If you let me drive.” She smirks.

  “Fat chance. I’m the driver here,” I growl, laughing.

  I fall sober after a moment.

  “I want this now, crasher,” I repeat.

  So, yeah you could say I’m relentless. You could say I’m the sort of guy who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid of anything, not the law, or the rules. I’m my father’s son. I like to go for what I want. Chase my ambitions.

  I want this girl beneath me and that’s that.

  I’m Racer Tate and this girl is mine.

  Lana

  I tried to ignore him as we traveled to Shanghai. My brothers are keeping a watchful eye, and my dad, whose stamina I worry about, is better off concentrating on our goal at hand.

  We traveled for nearly a full day, nonstop, then crashed in our rooms, recovering before setting up our tent at the Shanghai race track.

  Now we’re looking to be in top shape after our best practice session to date.

  “This guy’s fucking insane.”

  Drake laughs, while Racer eases out of the car and pulls off his helmet. His hair is a little wet and rumpled, and as he unzips the top of his Nomex suit and pulls it down to his waist, the white undershirt he’s wearing plasters to his muscular chest like second skin.

  I’m scrambling to bring him something to drink, an assortment of bottles in my hand, when I fall splat on my face. Fuck! Oh my god. The water bottles roll around.

  “Jesus, Lainie,” Clay rants, kicking a bottle back in my direction so that it gently rolls closer to where I lie.

  I’m praying he didn’t see it when I feel him come close and hunch down before me.

  I start to reach out for the drinks.

  Racer takes my face and forces me to look at him, and the center of my universe is suddenly immersed in blue.

  “I can get my own drinks,” he gruffs.

  He’s soaked, his sweat smelling of soap and salt and guy, and something in my chest moves when he then grips me by the elbow and gently rises to his feet, pulling me up with him.

  I am used to being bullied by my brothers, to us fighting a little more than to them being, well, tender to me. Racer’s unexpected concern for me makes me feel vulnerable and weak, and I don’t like it. I pull my arm free and snatch up the water bottles.

  “Okay then, I won’t,” I say, shoving the Gatorade and the coconut water, the ones closest to me, into each of his hands before starting to storm away.

  My brothers are hauling the car up from pits to bring it to our tents, but I know that they didn’t miss a beat of what went down. The three are scowling deeply, a fact that Racer ignores as he just comes to his feet, cracks open a coconut water, and chugs it down, his keen blue eyes watching me—laser into the back of my head, actually—as I head into the motorhome.

  I’m panting when I walk into the motorhome and then just sort of sit there, horribly embarrassed.

  I rub
my face and sigh, warm all over. Then I head into the bathroom, splash water onto my face, and look at myself in the mirror.

  “Just because he seems to do it all right doesn’t mean that he doesn’t fuck up sometimes. You’re human, you fell, you’re fine.”

  I feel a little recovered from my humiliation when I step out of the bathroom and nearly crash into his chest.

  I squeak in surprise, and his arm flies out, his hand grabbing my wrist to catch me from stumbling again.

  “God. Stop doing this to me,” I grumble, snatching my wrist away as I glare.

  He chuckles, sounding puzzled. “Doing the fuck what.”

  “What you’re doing. Unnerving me. I’ve never fallen like that in the track before. Plus for your information, bringing drinks to the team is part of my job!” I part yell. “If I worry a little overmuch it’s because I want this year to be perfect. I want this team to be perfect.”

  I stop myself from saying more, but something about the way he looks at me—as if he can already tell there’s more—prods me on. “My dad is not quite well. And I want him to be unstressed, for everything to be right for once in our racing career.”

  His eyes linger thoughtfully on mine for a moment, and I feel like stuffing something into my face to shut myself up.

  “I mean, he’s doing fine, but … I like to take care of my loved ones,” I ramble, sitting in one of the couches as I start to pick up invisible lint on my T-shirt.

  He takes the opposite seat from mine and he shifts forward. “Your dad’s sick?”

  “I … that’s what they say,” I say.

  He keeps watching me, starting to frown.

  “Who says that?”

  “The doctors,” I admit. “He’s sick.” I drop my gaze at my admission, my throat suddenly very tight. I try to make my voice sound level, but it breaks. “There’s nothing they can do about it. He doesn’t want to spend his last days in a hospital. So …” I bite down on my lip and look away.

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry.”

  It sounds so truthful that I look back at him, his face a little blurry through the tears in my eyes.

  There’s something about the way he looks at me that unnerves me, as if he knows how much it hurts, as if he knows more about me than even I know or maybe anyone on this planet knows.