Racer

I watch him finally charge out as if he’s on steroids, and I drop my hand from the mark. It’s a small mark, really, compared to the chunks he keeps biting off my heart.

Racer

I’m simmering with energy, my dick hard as rock after stopping myself from blowing up inside my warm, wet Lana. I’m ready to prove myself to the Heyworths. To her. It’s me against 22 assholes, all with fast as fuck cars.

It’s hard to pass in this track—twists and turns like a rollercoaster, the moment we get green flag, the track’s got my heart pumping and my lungs working like mad. Every one of my muscles is engaged as I twist and turn, accelerate and brake.

The Clark’s #2 driver tries to push me off the track when I try to pass him, and I spin and take a few seconds to regain control. I pull back onto the track, losing position. My anger mounts, and suddenly I’m shifting gears and charging back after him.

“Car ok?” Clay asks.

“Yeah, I think so but it’s fucked up in the straight.”

“Shit. Use your talent.”

“Hell I am.”

I try to recover my place, and it takes me a full lap to get back behind P2.

I’m biding my time, upshifting as I get closer, aiming my nose cone at the gearbox behind Clark’s #2 driver car.

No one fucks with me—and gets away with it.

I narrow my eyes, my heartbeat slow and steady.

My car rumbles down the straightaway, the wheel shuddering in my hands, the seat vibrating from the power. I stay on point. If the nose hits a moving part, like a wheel, it’ll fly off and I’ll get fucked. And yeah, that’s not the point.

If our wheels lock, we’ll spin and crash. Maybe even flip.

That’s not the point either.

Eyes narrowed as I aim, I aim for the gearbox, outbrake him, and touch my nose to his gearbox and take him out—I watch as dust flies behind him and he spins off the track. Arrivederci, fucker …

I upshift and push forward and watch, through my rearview mirror, as he tries to recover and pass me; his aim fails. His nose touches my wheels, and I flip him. The car flips and flies across the track.

“Holy shit,” I hear on the radio. “You all right?”

“Dandy.”

I smile and approach a heavy braking turn, after P1.

This car’s got a lot of torque—torque is acceleration power, and horsepower is velocity. When you’ve got both of these working for you, you’re flying.

“There’s a yellow flag of caution. Debris on track.”

“Got it.”

A yellow light is flashing at the wheel. We all need to slow down—we cannot pass until we get green again.

We drive around for two laps and green flashes.

I jump the green flag, accelerating to full speed and jumping the start without being too obvious or I get a pit drive-through penalty.

I wait to see if I get away with it, I think I do. I upshift and hear myself growl and narrow my eyes at Clark up ahead.

Oh yeah, I’m coming for you.

Lana

“That move, damn I get hard thinking about it,” Clay laughs.

“Clayton,” I chide.

Drake comes and smacks a kiss on my cheek. “Epic, Lainie baby. He took Clark the fuck out!”

“It was risky,” I say, frowning at Racer.

He shrugs, sipping on a dark coffee after dining by our motorhome at the track.

“What’s up with you and Clark,” Clay asks.

“We’re competitors,” Drake says, “You know that.”

I wait for a moment, and Racer finally speaks, in a growl, “He wants what’s mine.”

My brothers’ brows rise simultaneously, and I expect them to say something but oddly enough, no one says a word. Not even Drake.

Right then, Clark enters the tent.

“Lainie, you got one of those for me?” He reaches out to obnoxiously steal the bottled water I was sipping from.

Before my brothers can blink and in shocking, fluid lightning-fast speed that I’d never seen on a guy before, Racer is on his feet, snatching back the water and stepping in before Clark and me.

“You touch her or anything of hers again, I’m breaking your hand,” I hear him warn in a chillingly cold voice, reaching behind us to put it back on the table before me.

I peer past his body to notice how Clark sort of turns bright red all over as Racer stares him down.

“Try driving with a bad hand. Your career will be over. You’re fucking over,” Racer adds in a cold and menacing tone. I can tell that he means it—and it sends warning little frissons down my spine.

I notice that my brothers’ eyes are wide with a mix of respect, shock, and admiration, but I, on the other hand, am weak in the knees. Something about the way Racer is standing, staring Clark down, the way the entire air seems to burn around him, makes me react.

Nobody’s ever stepped up to me like he does—and while a part of me is thrumming to reach out and kiss him in thank you, another wants to calm down the volcano before it erupts.

I reach out and put my hand on his, and Racer’s shoulders relax slightly, his nostrils flaring as he takes my hand firmly in his grip and leads me down the track.

“What are you doing? If it had been any earlier the TVs could’ve captured that …!” I cry, eyeing his handsome, frowning profile in disbelief. “What? You’re going to get ready to beat everyone who’s a jerk to me?”

“That’s the plan.”

“No, that’s not the plan. The plan is you ignore them. We don’t make a scene.” I smile over the primitive possessive gleam in his eye, but my smile fades to worry. “Are you okay?”