Racer (Real Book 7)

Lana

I toss and turn all night.

I hate him.

I love him.

He’s taken all my memories of David and replaced them with him. All my love and put his face on it, his stamp on it, now when I think of David … a dimple appears on his cheeks, his soft brown eyes turn bright blue and vivid, and his light brown hair becomes wild and spiky and black.

I sent him a text in the middle of the night—

I’m sorry I just need some space to think. Lana

And it hurt that he answered immediately with a curt OK, because it only confirmed the fact that he wasn’t sleeping either.

I’m in a bit of a tired and highly wired state the next morning when I spot him at our tent at the side of the track, looking sharp as ever in his black racing suit, with the U.S. flag stitched at his belt, and his new sponsor logos plastered all across his muscular arms and chest—and he looks like everything I will ever possibly want, and like nothing I could have ever imagined myself having, and I don’t know whether I want to pull him to the motorhome to tell him that he’s right, that he’s right and I’m a big ol’ coward, or I don’t know if I want to run away.

I don’t run away though.

I sort of drink him in as he sits at a table with the mechanics and laughs at something Adrian says, and then I see him turn his head to spot me, fold his legs as he pulls them off the table, and come to his feet as he snatches up two coffees from nearby and brings them over.

My heart thuds a thousand and one times. “Good morning.” His voice is husky.

“Good morning.”

He hands me a cup of coffee, and I laugh and extend his too. “I brought you one too.”

“We’ll just keep bringing each other coffee until one of us gets it.”

“You get it first.”

“No. You do.” He tweaks my nose and winks. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” I say, breathless.

“I’ve been racing for quite a few Grand Prix, and I still haven’t gotten you to admit I’m the best driver in the world. It won’t do.” He shakes his head. “My mustang is back in St. Pete, waiting to get fixed.”

“You banged it up and I’m sure it’s fixed already.”

“We had a deal,” he says. “Are you backing out on me?”

“No. Are you?”

“I never back out on anything,” he says, giving me a look that says I’m his, that he’ll be patient, that he’ll wait.

I want to talk to him, but we’re placing amazing in the championship points, fighting for second place with the Clark’s second driver, and it’s already going beyond my and my family’s wildest dreams.

I don’t want to bring my personal things here and dump them all in the track, so I hold back and try my best to keep everyone comfortable—and the team performing at their best.

So I just clear my throat and say, “You have six interviews after quali.”

“I’m on it.”

He looks at me for a second, a look that’s secretive and frustrated and determined and melts my bones, and then I watch him with a pang of longing as he go gets ready to drive like the blue-eyed devil that he is.

He has a great qualifying session, coming in P3, so that’s where he’ll start the race.

I hurry to where he stands by the press, bringing his sponsors cap.

“You forgot this!” I say breathlessly as I reach out and put it on his head, and the cameras seem to love to notice the way he stared at me for an extra second.

“You and your team seem to get along pretty well, Racer, do you think that has anything to do with your marvelous performance so far this year?”

“Lana’s my lucky charm,” he says, and I’m turning the color of a chili pepper as I walk way, glancing back only to see him continue on with his next interviews—and that’s when I notice he’s tapping his fingers at his sides.

My stare lingers on those strong, long, restless fingers for a beat more before I chide myself for obsessing on him and everything about him and walk away.

Ever since Racer got P1 I’ve noticed all the other drivers (except Clark) are hounding him, asking him to hang out, to go out for drinks, etc. I swear it’s like everyone is seeing Racer as their own ticket to the podium. As if befriending him will somehow get some of his luck to rub off on them.

Racing is a superstitious sport. Pre-race rituals and lucky charms are a norm. Because everyone knows that to win, you not only need a good car and an insane amount of talent, you need the universe to smile upon you.

So far, Racer has not only shown he has incredible talent, a lot of guts, and a strong car, but he’s also shown to be the angels’ golden boy.

It seems Racer finally caved in to their advances. I overheard him agree to hit up a party at Jay’s, one of the drivers, place. Considering Jay races for one of the top three teams and enjoys a salary in the eight digits, he’s got a penthouse in a prestigious London neighborhood, including a top-floor pool and terrace overlooking the city—and apparently there’ll be DJs, a dance floor, and lots of girls and booze.

My stomach roiled thinking of Racer showing up there alone, looking absolutely edible with his bedroom eyes and dark head of hair. I can’t stand the idea of having girls drape themselves over him, offering him the world and more between their legs.

No. That cannot fucking happen.

That evening, I see myself almost as if I were having an out-of-body experience: I see myself stand from the bed, grab my purse and storm out of my room like a mad woman—a bullet aimed straight at Racer Tate’s door.

I’m just going to tell him that there is no way he is going there alone without me because I need to make sure he stays out of trouble and gets back home safe.

Complete bullshit, I know.

But I don’t care. I need to go with him.

I knock on his door and he opens up with a towel draped across his hips and his hair spiky with water droplets hanging on to the end.

I swear my jaw drops an inch.

He is man mixed with animal, muscle mixed with danger, sex mixed with seduction.

“Hey you.” He smirks at me. Taking his sweet time to look me up and down in my black running shorts and Team HW shirt.

“I … I just wanted to ask if you wanted me to send your racing suit to the dry cleaners.”

Racer just frowns.

“Are you still working at this hour?”

“I …” I just look at him.

“I feel like I’m drowning in all this space. I can’t breathe, I can’t eat, I don’t want us to fight anymore,” I plead.

He’s silent for a moment. “I don’t want that either,” he husks out. He props a muscled shoulder on the doorframe and looks at me in silence.

“So,” I breathe.

“So,” he repeats, his deep voice lowering an octave. “Are you going to stand there and make me come get you, or are you going to come here?” he asks.

I don’t know why my heart jumps in excitement because I had been hoping we would make up, but the look in his eyes, as if he’s still a little frustrated by what happened but is more eager to put that moment behind us, gets to me.

I start walking forward, and he watches me the whole time, making my heart leap more and more.

Before I reach him, his hands shoot out, and he reels me over to his hard body, nuzzles my ear and growls, “Are you going to stop putting up walls for me,” he demands.

I nod, breathless.

He smiles a little, looking at my mouth as he steals his hand into my waistband, grabs my butt, and squeezes it as he draws me closer to set a kiss on me that sets my every toe and fingertip on fire—and everything in between.

“Are you mad that I didn’t want to talk about it,” I ask.

“You fucked me up, girl,” he says, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger and looking piercingly into my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re just so much more than I ever bargained for.”

There’s the slightest upward tilt to his lips, and he almost smiles as he draws me closer. I curl my face to his chest.

“I was planning to come get you at nine. There’s a party at Jay’s place in the city. Why don’t you go and slip into something sexy, I’ll stop by in an hour.”

He turns and leaves before I have time to come up with something smart to answer, and I’m left freaking out over what to wear.

I hurry back to my own hotel room, and I tear my suitcase apart looking for something to wear to this posh party. I know the girls the drivers hang out with are always models and gorgeous, and I don’t want to wear anything short of spectacular.

I want something hot but elegant, and classy. I don’t want any of the drivers getting any ideas and it always makes me uncomfortable to have them ogling me. It makes me feel like they don’t take me seriously.

But I also want Racer to see me. I don’t know why it makes me so high—to feel those blue eyes on me.

I stop at a nude silk dress and feel myself smirk. It’s perfect. Backless with a high halter neckline tied with a bow at the back of my neck, leaving two long silk strands hanging down my exposed back. It’s a little bit above the knee, but the material clings to me like a second skin.

Racer, baby, you’re going to die.

I get my hair tools and curl my hair at the tips, then run my hands through them to give my hair a messy bedroom look to go with the silk dress. I don’t travel with a lot of accessories but I add my usual pearl studs to my ears, and am grateful for my single pair of strappy sandals that I use for the important racing events.

I put on blush, mascara, and a bit of liner only on the top eyelid then run some dark rose lipstick over my lips. Just when I’m spraying a bit of perfume on my wrist I hear a knock on the door and I almost trip over my heels going to answer it.

I open and there stands Racer, in black slacks and a white button-down, cuffs rolled up, a small platinum chain I had never seen before glistening on his exposed collarbone. Ugh I can’t take this man. Every time I see him I want to climb him like a tree and wrap my legs around him like vines. I don’t know whether to cuddle him or let him fuck the shit out of me because the look he has on right now tells me he’s thinking of just that.

His eyes look primal as he stares at my belly, then my breasts, then down to my legs, and up at my face again. I see his hands fist and unfist at his sides and his jaw tick.

“Fuck, are you trying to kill me,” he growls.

I smile and do a little twirl, just to rile him up, and I don’t know what happened to me but when I put on this dress and saw him looking so delectable I decided to throw all caution to the wind.

He’s all I want.

Tonight’s my night off. And so is his.

He comes toward me and wraps his hand around my neck, blue eyes staring intensely at me before dropping down to my chest. He places a kiss right at my cleavage and rubs his nose back and forth, before licking a small path from my cleavage up my neck, and jaw, to my lips.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs.

We get to Jay’s London apartment and the drivers are already there, mingling and drinking with their dates of the night. Some of these women are over six feet tall and dressed in the latest European fashions. Some of the drivers came solo but most of them came with girls in tow.

The moment Jay opens the door, I hear the boys basically clamor to come greet the man I’m standing next to.

“Racer, man, looking good!” They slap him welcome, and Racer tugs me next to him with his hand on mine.

The drivers are trying to shake his hand all at the same time, so I pry my hand free, noticing him frown down at me as Jay leads him in, patting him on the back. “What’s your poison, Tate? Vodka, tequila, whiskey? You look like a whiskey man, let me pour you some …” He trails off and comes back carrying two glasses filled with an amber-colored liquid.

“Nah I don’t drink.”

“Oh, shit, seriously man? Well I mean we have other things to make this night special …”

Oh, shit, really? What are they going to bring him? Girls?

Feeling out of place, because I’ve never really spent any time with the drivers—I suppose partying hard isn’t my thing, and I’ve never been interested in one (until now)—I start making my way to the bathroom and turn back to see Racer caged in by some of the drivers introducing their dates and also pushing for him to have a little drink.

I turn away and get to the bathroom, closing the door behind me and putting my hands on the sink, ducking my head between.

I don’t know why coming here tonight with Racer has me feeling like a charged ball of nerves.

I hear the door open next to me and I turn to tell whoever it is to get the fuck out but I see Racer come in. My mouth stops moving and then snaps shut.

“Racer, I would like a little privacy if that’s okay with—”

I gasp as he shuts me up with his mouth crashing down on mine. He kisses me out of my mind, until all thoughts and nervousness go silent. He starts making out with me, lifting me by the ass to the edge of the sink and wrapping my legs around him so that he’s nestled right between my legs. I can feel him, hard as steel, through his trousers and I moan into his mouth, bringing him closer to me, wrapping my arms around his neck and nestling my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

He kisses down my jaw and I thrum head to toe.

“Aren’t we just the epitome of teenage lust right now,” I murmur as my lungs struggle to work.

“We’re not teenagers and this isn’t lust, baby,” he murmurs back, digging his hands into my ass to bring me closer to him as his mouth works along my jaw and neck.

I hear Redbone by Childish Gambino play in the background, the low pounding melody pulling all my control along with it, and the sultry vocals making me arch my back as I let myself be in the moment. Carried along with it.

His mouth comes back to mine and starts to open mine slowly.

He’s enjoying every second of this, making every kiss feel like the best kiss I’ve ever received until the next one comes, even better than the last.

There’s a knock on the door. “Hey! I need to pee,” I hear someone call from outside.

I struggle to catch my breath as Racer eases back and looks at me wolfishly.

He shakes his head no and starts to slide his hands up my dress, his thumbs caressing my inner thighs.

Fuck, he just made it so much harder for me to want to get out of this room …

I open my legs a little more for him and kiss him harder.

“We didn’t finish last night. I was going to flood your insides with me,” he smirks, his eyes brilliant.

“I … that makes me a little nervous,” And so hot. “But …”

He strokes his thumb down my cheek, and I sense him more intense than usual, his eyes blue but a little darker shade of blue, his smile cocky, territorial, possessive, as he leans down to lick me.

“As much as I want to do that,” he murmurs, seizing the back of my neck to kiss me deeply again and again. “I’m going to wait until you reciprocate before I do.”