Racer

by Katy Evans

  He kisses me and fondles my face with his fingers, his tongue tasting and taking everything while his hands simply hold my face in place—my body lax and breathless, toe-curling, tingling in every pore—as Racer’s tongue moves and takes. And takes. And takes.

  “One day soon, I’m going to fuck you bareback, and there won’t ever need to be anything between us again,” he rumbles, pulling off his tee and unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. “Touch me, Lana.” He plants my hands on his chest and I run my fingers over those rippling muscles.

  “Racer.”

  “Under my jeans,” he commands, shoving one of my hands under his boxers. Where he is hot as hell. Hard as steel. I slide my fingers up his hard cock, and he groans and nuzzles my nose with his, breathing hard. “Are you playing me, Alana?” he asks quietly, pulling back to look down at me—so gorgeous that the sight of him, messy hair and bare chest and blue eyes above me cause my saliva glands to flood.

  “No,” I breathlessly admit.

  “I’m trying to be real with you. Level with me, Lana,” he husks out as he grabs my arms and guides them around him, my fingers locking at his nape.

  “I’m scared okay.” I take his head and pull him down so that he kisses me, helping him shove his jeans and boxers down to his hips and then lower.

  His erection pops out, and I’m burning and clutching everywhere for him.

  “You think you can’t ever care for me?” He watches me curiously, blue eyes male and intimate as he rolls on a condom.

  “No! It’s …”

  “Let me love you.” He presses his forehead to mine, his rough whisper making my heart squeeze. “Love me back, baby.” He cups my face in one hand and asks it reverently, as if he doesn’t deserve to ask but is still asking, and then I curl my legs around him and Racer impales me without even a moment’s hesitation.

  He fills and stretches my walls so much I feel like exploding. I gasp and groan, letting him fill me even deeper as he drives in again.

  Our mouths fuse and suddenly our hands cannot get enough of feeling each other, our tongues tasting each other. We move together on the grass, his thrusts sure and expert and also possessive. My body arches up like a bow, silently asking for more, my hands clawing at his back, my body wanting just to get closer, to get all of him.

  I cannot get enough of him or his kisses, his hot tongue and warm hands.

  Especially his eyes. That drink me in as if he cannot get enough of me.

  I’m overcome by the passion, the lust, the way he moves in me as if he’s known my body in another life. Oh god …

  And he moves, so RIGHT …

  so fast … hard … so raw …

  his mouth everywhere … hands everywhere … this fucking boy everywhere …

  Hands on my hips gripping me as we go off, coming together,

  looking into each other’s eyes as we do.

  I’m left gaping up at him after. At this sex fiend.

  Will it always be like this?

  I’m dazed and smiling happily as I catch my breath, and Racer is smirking, looking down at my rumpled form with satisfaction as he treks his eyes along my features and presses a kiss to my nose.

  “Why do you like me on the headset,” I breathe as he remains inside me, looking at me as if he wants to do it again.

  “I feel like you’re there with me.” He looks down at me, his eyes a little dark and vivid with intensity. “I like racing, because it’s a very independent sport, there’s only you and the car when it comes down to it. I like the feeling of being alone.” His sharp blue gaze seems to dig right into me as his cock begins to thicken again. “Never wanted anyone to share that until I met you. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  He grins at me, starting to move inside me, starting to kiss me and heat me back up, and he’s irresistible, the grin, the boy, all of it.

  Racer

  My dad once said I could feel it coming when I felt myself swing, like a pendulum, from one side to the other.

  I’m the freaking embodiment of a pendulum right now.

  We flew to Italy; during the flight I hunkered down with my music, trying to get my damn focus back.

  Thoughts keep racing in my head nonstop now—preventing sleep. Preventing any peace of mind. It’s been two hours since I dropped her off at her room, and I’m blue as fuck.

  It’s been building up, the mood swings, first, the high on my power and my strength, the high of fucking claiming her as mine.

  And now the damn low is coming.

  The monsters telling me, I’m an asshole. That she has enough worries with her dad, enough pain having lost the boy she loved, enough pain for me to bring mine on.

  And yet I can’t fucking keep away.

  Those damn eyes call to me like a siren song, every piece of her magnetizes me.

  I fucking crave her like air.

  I’ve been piling up the championship points. I’m currently second place between the two Clark drivers, and I need another first to knock my prime competition out of P1. I can’t fucking afford to go dark now.

  Exhaling, I pull out my rope and jump on it, something my father does to calm himself down when he’s “speedy,” as my mom calls it.

  Jumping rope doesn’t help. From manic I’m swinging now to depression, replacing the former urge to go to her room and wake her up, steal her away into the damned sunset, take her to church and fucking marry her, to now wanting to disappear from her life and save her from me.

  FUCK.

  I rummage through my duffel, stare at my pills, wondering if I should take them. Makes me slower. Makes my thinking slower. Makes me feel dead.

  And I know, sure as fuck, that it won’t help to take my damn pills now. I’m immersed in this shit now—it’ll have to be something jammed up my veins to balance me out.

  Tell her you’re having trouble …

  No. Fuck, that’s not what I want.

  Lana has been hurt before. And a part of me keeps niggling at me, telling me I’m a bastard for wanting her for me when I’m not good enough for her.

  But deep down, I know I am.

  I know she’s mine.

  I know she was meant for me; that she’s the one for me.

  I’m fucking good enough.

  But when an episode looms it’s hard to believe that I am.

  I wanted freedom in my life, and now all I want is for this girl to love me.

  I grab the stuff for my duffel and shove them in, then stop, clenching my hands.

  I slam my fist into the table. “FUCK!”

  I clench my jaw; my pride sore for having to ask, even my dad. I’m a guy who likes to need no one. I like doing my things, feeling good. Feeling this low and worthless isn’t me. So I know after a whole night, I’m screwed.

  I feel animal.

  I stroke my hand across my hair and dial the only number I dial at times like this.

  “Dad.”

  I can tell he knows it’s on. There’s a silence, and he says, “I’ll get the pilots ready. Be there tonight. Italy. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Son?”

  I pause on the line.

  “Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”

  I just hang up, calculating how far the nearest body of water is, trying to stop thinking of how much I want to tie an anchor on my feet and throw myself in.

  It’s like a switch goes off, and death seems better, just less of a hassle, death is peace, life is misery.

  I growl and grab my keys and head to my rental, drive to the hospital, my phone ringing off the hook.

  It’s the Heyworths.

  I don’t want to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. I power off my phone, driving and turning on the music. Fall Out Boy has another good one, it’s called Jet Pack Blues, where the lady on the road tempts him to come home.

  Lana

  Love me back …

  I shower early in the morning for practice for the Italian Grand Prix, then slip on my jeans
and my team T-shirt. I want to do something pretty with my hair, so I blow-dry it and let it down, then I add some lipstick and look at myself again.

  “Tell him,” I tell myself. Tell him how you feel, I think, and I’m so determined to tell him that I even smile at myself in contentment as I head to the track.

  “Where’s Tate?” Drake asks when I arrive and anxiously scan our tent for the familiar sight of Racer in his Nomex suit.

  “I don’t know.” I start in surprise. “He’s not here?”

  “Not here. Not in his room,” Clay says in obvious worry and puzzlement.

  “What?” I ask, and I grab my cell and dial … only to go directly to voicemail.

  “We’ve already left a dozen messages, don’t even bother,” Clay says, sighing and plopping down on a chair.

  I still dial again. Get voicemail.

  “Hey. It’s Lana. Um, Alana,” I try to make light of it. “Call me?”

  An hour later, I’m with my heart in my throat. Three hours later, there’s a black hole in my life where Racer used to be. All I know is that he’s gone and that my stomach is in knots because I sense, deep down, that he needs me. That he’s proud, that it’ll cost him everything to tell me that he needs me. All I know is that I’m lost without him, and that the last time I remembered this feeling was the day they told me my dad had cancer and was refusing treatment.

  Racer

  I hear him arrive sometime early morning.

  I’m already checked in, getting shit up my veins. The doctor treating me called my doctor in St. Pete, and they’re now giving me the same treatment they did last time to try level me out.

  When I got diagnosed, worst thing was the frustration and guilt my dad battled with. I, on the other hand, battled with the shit-as-fuck feeling of living up to be a complete disappointment. My dad went black—that’s what we call it when he gets triggered, because his eyes, blue like mine, change in color. Weird, I know, but possible. He’s proof of it.

  My mom was worried, but my dad recovered fast. He kept saying, “You don’t have it. You fucking don’t, all right?”

  I didn’t want to say, “Are you fucking deaf?! The doctors just confirmed it.”

  “He’s in denial, he’ll come around, Racer,” Iris said when she came to visit.

  I didn’t reply to that.

  “Do you think I’ll get it someday too?” she asked me, worried.

  “No,” I immediately growled, pressing her to my chest and promising her, “I’ve got it for the both of us, okay? Never think that. You’re perfect.”

  Now my dad steps into the room—quiet, like he always is.

  Our eyes meet, and his jaw tightens.

  We say nothing.

  He pulls up a chair by the bed.

  I lie here on this bed, battling a battle I’m going to probably face a hundred times in my lifetime.

  “It’s your phone. Do you want me to take it.”

  “No. I don’t want her here.”

  My voice is low and rough, and my father digests that for a moment.

  “I had a team to watch out for me when I was off meds. You’re out here on your own, and you shouldn’t be. You don’t have to go this alone. That’s what they’re there for. Don’t go off your meds, Racer.” He regards me in frustration, his voice firm. “Don’t let yourself climb that high and you’ll hopefully prevent ever hitting this low again. You’ve got this, son. I know you do. You’re too stubborn and too proud and too damn special. You have a lot to do—and I can’t wait to fucking watch you do it.”

  I’m silent for a moment.

  “Fuck you,” I say. “Fuck you for giving me this shit.”

  Dad just stares at me as I say the words I’ve always wanted to say out loud.

  He leans forward and levels his gaze on me.

  “I gave you fucking life. It’s up to you to get the rest of what you want. So, what do you want, Racer? Do you want this championship? Do you want the girl? Do you want to get fucking better? Do you want to beat this? John?”

  “Stop calling me John.”

  “Stop wanting to be some other guy, Racer. A simple guy. Anyone but you. Own your name. Go fucking get it. Racer. Fucking. Tate. My son. Huh? Or is it John?”

  He slaps my cheek part gently and part not. “Is it John?”

  “Racer Fucking Tate, Dad.”

  “Good. OWN it. Get this thing.”

  He slams his fist into the chair, then stares at me and exhales when I give him nothing. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  “You’re right, not good with words. But I’ll help you get better. I know what you need.”

  Lana

  He didn’t show up at the track, and now it’s evening and I’m at my hotel room, unable to eat or sleep or do anything at all.

  I’m sitting next to my phone, waiting for a call, jumping every time it vibrates as my brothers keep asking “Any news?” on the family chat group.

  I read a third message, from Adrian, and shake my head vehemently.

  “No,” I type, when there’s a knock on the door.

  I leap to my feet and head over, peering through the peephole and my heart leaps when I see a pair of familiar blue eyes.

  I swing the door open, almost gasping Racer’s name when I find myself staring up into his father’s eyes rather than his.

  “Lana.”

  Racer’s dad is at my door. What is he doing in Italy?

  Oh god.

  The walls of my stomach collapse inside of me. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s okay. He’s pulling through.”

  I’m trembling all over as we stare at each other. “I want to see him,” I say.

  “Good.” He regards me for a moment. “He needs you.”

  I’ve never moved so fast. “Let me get my room key.”

  He drives in silence to the hospital, and I’m unnerved by how quiet his dad is until he speaks.

  “He’ll try to push you away. Fair warning.” He shoots me a cautious look.

  “I don’t care. I want to see him,” I say stubbornly. But I want more than that. I want to be there for him. He’s my boy and he needs me, and if he’s too proud to say that he needs me, I don’t care. I’ll be there for him anyway.

  “Coping mechanism.” His dad looks at me. “We’ve been through this before.”

  “He warned me about it,” I admit quietly, staring out the window, only seeing Racer. Racer in his mustang, Racer in Kelsey, in Dolly, Racer in me. Racer everywhere. Racer in this world. Racer in my mind. Racer in my fucking heart.

  “Oh, and he doesn’t know you’re here,” his father adds as we head into the stark white hospital and take the elevator.

  When we step out, I follow him down the hall, my heart beating like it’s about to break out of my chest.

  Or just break … inside my chest.

  He opens the door, and he motions me forward. I peer through the door. The room is pitch black. A monitor is beeping. Racer is in bed, and for a moment I freeze at the sight of his dark mussed hair.

  I hear the light switch, bathing the dark room in light.

  He’s lying face down, with his arm shoved under the pillow along with the IV cables. And still, he looks so masculine, making the bed seem small and stark white compared to that sexy dark hair of his. Those sexy muscles and tanned skin.

  “Racer,” his dad says bluntly.

  Racer seems exasperated as he turns his head towards the door very slowly, as if he doesn’t want to, and his eyes see me, and he freezes.

  His eyes fix on his father, and his voice is craggy and dark. “I told you I didn’t want her here.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

  I hear his dad step out, and I swallow.

  Racer clenches his jaw and drops his face back down, and I see his chest expand on a deep inhale. The usual hum around him is down. I don’t know why it affects me so much. I’m used to seeing him in charge, confident and strong,
so determined—the most determined man I know.

  I lift the sheets and climb in bed with him.

  I can see him trying to be distant as he rolls to his back as if to make room for me, but his arm comes around me as if instinctively.

  I hold my breath, expecting him to say something when I curl at his side.

  He doesn’t.

  He won’t look me in the eye.

  I touch his face. He inhales deeply, still not looking at me. I reach my fingers up his forearms, and they’re so hard, hard as the rest of him. Drivers have very well developed arms, necks, chests, and abs—but the forearms and necks are especially strong. Racer’s are the strongest I’ve ever seen, more ripped than anyone I know.

  I silently cry as I feel him stiff next to me. He doesn’t belong here. This guy belongs at the top of the podium, behind the wheel of a car, in a woman’s bed, in every fantasy, but not here.

  “Don’t shut me out,” I beg.

  I stroke his jaw quietly, and Racer shuts his eyes. He just shuts his eyes. His jaw so tight that a muscle works wildly in the back of it. I can’t help but want to touch him more, crave to kiss him and tell him what I wanted to tell him since so long. What I’ve been so scared to admit.

  But he looks like he’s battling something in silence—as if he doesn’t know if he wants me here or not.

  “Let me take care of you,” I whisper.

  “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

  He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, and keeps his eyes closed.

  The words sting, but he’d warned me that he’d say shit to hurt me, and even this—the worst moment I’ve had with him—is better than not being with him.

  He remains with his jaw clenched, his arm around me. I set a kiss on his jaw. His hand tightens and he shuts his eyes tighter.

  I run my fingers over his jaw.

  Silent.

  My phone is buzzing like crazy. I check the message and it’s Drake.

  We’re gonna start looking for replacement drivers what the fuck is going on.