Racer

“My sister’s off limits,” I hear Lana’s brother say as he follows me to my room.

“So’s mine.” I grin.

He smiles, then narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you’ve got, I don’t think you’ve got much. F1 isn’t like the streets. But my sister went through the trouble recruiting you, so we might as well give you a shot.”

I know what he’s trying to do: intimidate the rookie, make him walk a straight line, draw the line, set the rules.

I break the rules.

I respect no line.

I couldn’t walk a straight line if I tried.

And intimidating me is impossible.

So I tell it like it is: “I don’t see many other guys lined up to take my place.”

He clenches his jaw, then he shoots me a look and bursts out laughing. I can’t help but chuckle too, our postures easing.

“My sister’s got it in her head to save this team—I hope you realize how lucky you got. I expect you out on the track at 7 a.m. Sharp.”

With that, he leaves, and I head into my room, toss my duffel bags into the ground and stare out the window, crack my knuckles. Far away from home. I was fine—racing making me happy. But always fucking restless. Going from city to city, looking for the next high. Dad said I didn’t take anything seriously.

Maybe it’s true.

Anything except racing.

And now her.

I don’t know what it is about her, but from the moment I saw her I wanted to claim, conquer, and own.

Fuck me, worst part is that I’m lying to her. I’ll lie to her whole family. I don’t want her to know.

I want her too much.

I want to race too much.

Be well, motherfucker, I curse myself. It’s been months without an episode. I feel good—I want to be better than good. I want to pretend that’s all behind me. Pull out my meds. I shove them back into the very bottom of my duffel bag.

Lana

I tossed and turned during the night, too excited for today to rest well. I heard noises in the room next to mine, and if I had to guess, I think our new talent didn’t sleep either. I heard his door shut early in the morning (at around 4 a.m.) and the guy hasn’t come back since.

I shower and dress, slipping on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt with our team logo, and I pull my hair back in a ponytail and lather sunblock on my face. I usually don’t do anything else—this is racing, after all. Not modeling. But for some reason I impulsively grab a lip gloss, and swipe it across my lips before I head to the track.

It’s a sunny day, and I can hear the car motors rumbling in the distance.

It’s the last testing day, so it’s not as busy as racing day, which puts some of the pressure off. And yet I’ve never been as nervous as I am now. I just brought a guy into our team. A very talented but a little-too-reckless guy who will be handling millions of dollars that my father invested.

Money we no longer have.

I spot my brothers in our tent. Not good to be anxious I suppose, so I exhale and I kiss my dad on the cheek and head into the motorhome to get him a coffee. I check my texts as I wait for it to brew.

Clark: dinner tonight?

Come on say yes

I’m not planning to answer—he’s last year’s F1 champion and one of our competitors—when the door of the room opens and my breath catches a little bit as Racer appears.

He’s got his racing suit on, down to the waist, the sleeves hanging at his side. On his chest is his white undershirt, covering muscles that are lean and hard.

I swallow. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he says, smiling a little.

His eyes drift to my phone, and I tuck it away.

I pour a cup of coffee, feeling him brush past behind me and out the door.

I exhale, my hands shaking.

I step outside to see my brothers bent over the hood of our repaired car.

“Let him drive Kelsey,” I say.

Drake shakes his head. “She’s too high-strung.”

“What’s the point of bringing in talent if we can’t trust them to drive our best car? Let him drive Kelsey. He can do it.” My eyes find his, and I send him a silent message, you better do it.

He seems amused as he pulls up his Nomex and starts to zip up. Drake curses under his breath and motions for the mechanics, Clay, and Adrian, to help him work on adjusting his seat.

“She’s high-strung and light on the wheels. Can you handle her?”

“Can she handle me?” He winks, then pulls on his helmet, leaving me struggling to counter the effects of his glinting, lightning-blue eyes.

What possessed me to bring in this guy? Promise my brothers I can control him? I can barely look him in the eye for a couple of seconds without feeling like he’s seeing right through me. Past the front I put up. To the little girl that just wants everything to be all right.

But I cannot let my personal feelings for him take over. This is a fresh start—a new opportunity, and seeing the hope in my father’s eyes is reason enough.

He climbs into the car. Slides into his seat so that only his shiny helmet and colored visor can be seen. The motor comes to life with a roar. He starts warming it. Roarrrrr, roarrrr, roarrrr.

The vibrations make even my body feel the buzz.

I watch as Kelsey, number 38, literally storms through the track—in the most perfect line you could ask for. Usually it’s hard to stay on the line … for new drivers.

This guy … he’s—good.

So

fucking

Good!

I’m tongue-tied after his first few laps as he pulls back into pits and straight into the team garage. He leaps out of the car and pulls off his helmet, and I take it from his hands as he walks around the car towards Adrian, who’s head of the mechanics.