Racer

I crave it.

I hadn’t realized how much I craved something like this.

Something personal.

Something just for me and not just racing.

Dad asked me once if I was sure that this was my dream, that it wasn’t his.

I told him I was.

But how much of it being my dream is actually because it’s my family’s and how much of it is mine?

My chest constricts when I think about Dad. My family means the world to me. If I had one prayer it would be that I would always have them by my side. We were all hurt by my mom leaving us, but it only brought us closer, it only made us value each other more. I value my dad more than anything. He’s my hero. He’s taught me to work, to have a dream, have a goal, he’s taught me generosity, and he’s taught me how to overcome. He weathers this in silence, never once telling me anything or complaining. I worry, because he’s sick and I don’t want him to keep it all bottled up. He’s seemed a little more worn out this week, and a part of me believes the excitement—the mere possibility—of winning is all that keeps him well for now.

I don’t want to talk about this with him on quali day, so I try to play it cool. “Racer, they’re requesting an interview after practice …”

His eyes slide to mine as he pulls off his T-shirt and slips into his undershirt, and I feel a little breathless at the glimpse of bare chest. “Where?” he asks.

“I … well right here at the tent is fine.”

He nods, his lips curving a little as he seems to notice me get flustered. I see those blue eyes sort of scan over me—making me acutely conscious of my clothes, my half ponytail, and down to which underwear I decided to wear today. I’ve never been one for frilly underwear. I’m practical, cotton ones do just fine. But a part of me sometimes wants to own something sexier, something a guy like him would go for.

“Did you eat something?” I ask as he heads to the room in the back to change fully into his black racing suit.

He nods as he disappears, and comes back suited up with his Nomex. All gorgeous and ready to race. From the duffel, he pulls out his gloves, boots, socks, then sets them aside and comes over, cupping my face. “Been thinking of you.”

“Huh,” I breathe, sort of panicking because the touch makes me feel so hot, so warm, so wanton. I haven’t felt like this for a guy in years. Not since David. And maybe not even then. David was my best friend. This guy … I don’t know even half of the things I wish I knew about him. I know he’s physical, that he races, that he’s reckless, that his dad was a famous fighter, that he has a mom and a sister, and the sexiest dimple, and the most toe-curling stare. But I want to know more … I feel like I should know more if he’s to be working with us.

If he’s to be doing … these things to me.

He’s got an arrogant, sort of harshly handsome face. The eyes with a gleam that makes you feel as if he wants to eat you up alive. And when his lone dimple pops out, I want to take a thousand and one mental pictures—as if for some reason a part of me needs to memorize everything about this man. This boy. This sexy, twenty-two-year-old blue-eyed boy that makes my pulse race and my heart whack crazily in my breast.

I feel naked as he drinks me in, slowly, at first. As if there’s no rush, and he has all the time he wants to look at me.

His hands are at his side, and I watch his fingers slowly, one by one, start to curl into his palms as he pulls in a deep, ragged breath.

“How about we pick up where we left off in St. Pete if I get P1 in qualifying.” He smiles a little at that.

I remember his kisses and shake inside. “How about you stop flirting and get to work,” I breathe.

He laughs softly, his eyes twinkling. “Stop crashing my car, Lana,” he growls playfully, tugging my cap down over my head. “You look cute in this,” he adds.

“You look hideous in your racing suit,” I call as he heads out.

I realize my nipples are up at attention and frown down as I run my palms over them to calm them as I head to the side of the track, flustered because I’m not used to fielding advances. Usually my brothers are enough to help the drivers and mechanics stay away, and it’s true that it makes me uncomfortable to feel the way Racer looks at me. But at the same time, I’ve never liked a feeling so much in my life.

It’s as if everything I do, I want him to see me do it … while at the same time, every time I do it, I want to hide from his probing eyes.

It’s such a confusing feeling that I don’t know how to act around him.

I’m trying my best to pretend he’s one of my brothers. Just a guy. I’m used to the testosterone. But the testosterone of this guy affects me differently. Well, it affects me. Period.

I sit and stand and move here pretending he’s one of my brothers, but he doesn’t smell like my brothers. He smells really male, really clean and warm and nice. He doesn’t feel like my brothers. He’s a little taller than the other drivers, a little bigger than them and my brothers, and a little more athletic and muscular. Well, he’s actually pretty ripped. He could be a boxer, that kind of body with great upper arms and every part of his body cut.

I have always preferred sex when I know the guy, or at least am dating him. I’ve thought it seems more meaningful but at the end of the day, I’ve only slept with one guy my whole life. So who am I kidding to think that knowing each other makes sex better? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe hot sexy sex with the most delicious guy you’ve ever met is just the ticket.