Racer (Real Book 7)

Lana

We spend most of our free time together as we visit Malaysia, Singapore, and Japan.

Racer and I have hit every car museum in each of these cities for the past month and a half. He loves telling me the exact specifics of any car—and I always tease him that this is why he hasn’t had a girlfriend before.

I don’t think any girl would get turned on hearing about pipes and carburetors, but he’s lucky that I happen to find it quite like dirty talk.

Not the words, really.

But the way this guy’s voice sounds as he talks about it and the way he gets an emotional hard-on for cars and speed.

Not surprising, since he’s a damn F1 pilot.

Also not surprising that driving around each city has become our thing.

We like taking drives and seeing the sights on our free days, listening to music we both like as we cruise around, thriving on the feeling of being free.

We stop at every place we feel like. And our rule is to always take a drive, at least once a week, with no destination in mind. Once, Racer stopped by a huge three-story mansion by the water, and we parked right across and just stared at it while we talked for hours about our upbringings.

I talked about my mom and never wanting to build a family only to leave it. Racer talked about hoping that, despite his career, he could set roots for his family like the ones his parents gave him when he was a kid.

I even got to drive a couple of times. He’s giving me “lessons” though mostly he just frowns at me when I shift gears too soon and make the car squeal.

“Baby you’re killing this vehicle,” he said with a laugh and a frown.

“I’m trying!” I laughed.

I was surprised he’d even let me drive. He simply handed the keys over and said, “Drive.”

“Where to?” I said excitedly.

“Wherever it takes us.”

I grinned, loving to explore the world with him.

We stop for lunch at any place that calls to us. Racer eats a lot, but very clean, and I’m trying to join in for my wellbeing and to tell my father some health-food tips. I’m trying to exercise more too simply because dating a guy that is so fit that his skin is taut over his muscles to the point you can hardly pinch a tenth of an inch only makes you realize how soft your own body is.

Racer says he likes my softness, so I don’t worry too much when he hits the gym and I end up staying at the hotel to organize the team’s flights and future reservations.

I usually write down my reservation confirmations on a ton of Post-its and hotel pads, and I’ve noticed lately that he’s writing his name on every one just to irk me.

We’re negotiating the movie-watching at nights. He likes series, and I like movies with quick resolutions, so we usually alternate a series episode for a movie for me. I watch Sense 8 with him; he watches The Proposal.

“I’m learning to appreciate the benefits of watching these movies with you, baby,” he confided once after a movie ended and we were in a full-out make-out moment.

“Why,” I asked, breathless.

“You acting all warm and romantic. Soft and eager for me.” He grinned, and I groaned and smacked his chest.

“You’re such a guy!”

“Good thing. Considering you’re into guys.”

“I’m into you,” I whispered, unable to say more because his mouth proved too distracting.

I’m fully living again. Every moment feels meaningful with him, even the silly, meaningless ones of hurrying in the morning to get dressed.

Now I watch him climb the car, ready for the race in Japan, and I just wait for that look he always gives me before igniting—one glance, because his eyes are all I can see through his helmet. Just his eyes, connecting with mine, before that visor slips down, and then the hard rumble of the car igniting before it squeals onto the track.