Racer

“See? You’re my favorite dad,” I tease.

I don’t get a reply. I hear Drake’s voice closer to the speaker and I know I’ve been taken off speaker. “So how’s it going?”

“I told you to trust me, I said I’d do it and I will,” I say, double checking the tire I just changed to make sure it’s on right.

“I also said I don’t trust you.”

“Asshole.” I’m not too mad because the fact that I just changed my own tire is only thanks to my mechanic brothers.

“Lainie …” He sighs exasperatedly. “Just come back to Australia. We’ll—”

“I’ll be there in time for the start of the season. With the best driver in the world,” I bluff, hanging up. Oh god. Fuck.

I glance ahead as car after car drives past me, probably all of them heading to the race. I put the tools back into the trunk of the car and then climb behind the wheel, turning on the car and easing onto the street, pulling into the parking lot straight ahead.

About two dozen people are already parked here, waiting by a small hill on the sidelines of the parking lot.

There’s a blue Camaro near what I assume is the start line, and the other slot is empty. I lock my car and head closer to where the people are.

The crowd is deafening, and it smells like armpits.

For a second my stomach knots up as I wonder if I’m really this desperate.

If I’m really out of options.

On my flight, I did my research. I’ve searched the Daytona serial, the IndyCar, and I even was at the track today, and found nothing to blow my mind.

Now it seems all I have is watching this race and then going back to my hotel to sulk about how expensive flying across the world back to the US was, as well as coming back with my tail between my legs and proving to my brothers that I’m as useless as they thought I’d be.

I feel a prick at the thought of coming back empty-handed.

Which explains why I’m still here.

What other choice do I have?

It’s not like I really think I’m going to bring any of these guys back home, though I suppose the little candle of hope burning inside me hasn’t been fully extinguished. Or maybe I’m just not ready to come back home a loser yet. If I’m going to fail at this, I still need one more night to brace myself for the familial humiliation I’d be sure to endure.

I’m intrigued about Racer Tate. I won’t lie.

According to the comments of dozens and dozens of fans, he’s the best street racer anyone has ever seen. He shies from nothing. He’s one with the machine, as if the machine were a part of him. So here I am, sitting here, waiting for an illegal street race. Two minutes to the race, and he’s nowhere in sight.

Wow. What a dick.

“I get to fuck him tonight,” one woman breathes excitedly behind me.

“What do you mean?” her friend asks.

“The guys asked me to show him the winner’s treatment.”

Wow. So apparently he’s a bit of a manwhore too.

My stomach clutches.

The crowd cheers.

His competitor motions to his car, a shiny black thing with fire drawn on it and everything.

Then points at the vacant space, and turns his thumb down.

People cheer even more and that seems to make the guy get a little upset, shaking his head.

I stand to leave. Really I shouldn’t even be here, near here.

There’s silence as a cherry mustang comes into view.

“Ohmigod, it’s him,” I hear someone whisper as the mustang roars into the parking lot and screeches to a halt right at the starting line.

My heart stops, and I sit back down.

And there he is.

The guy leaps out of the car through his open window, and one guy greets him with a slap of the back. He’s changed into blue jeans. He’s got a ton of muscles, those jeans, and a long-sleeved white shirt.

Racer rakes a hand through his mussed-up, just-woke-up black hair, grinning, and then his eyes start to scan the crowd of people.

I have an urge to hide—but somehow don’t act fast enough and before I know it, his blue eyes find me in the crowd.

He just stares, his hands idle at his sides.

He looks very interested to see me here, and as he stares at me, he narrows his eyes and his lips curve ever so slightly as if he’s pleased to see me here.

They’re all saying his name. “Racer.”

The girls’ fingers are glorying over his chest and I clench my hands at my sides, not liking it and I don’t know why. I wonder what he’d do if I told him who I am.

He doesn’t really look like he wants any of them. But their neediness vexes me. I’m jet-lagged and impatient and a little bit jealous that these women seem to have no trouble reaching out to touch him.

He jams his hands into his pockets, and he looks at me subtly between dark lashes, so subtly I can’t believe how overwhelmed I am by feeling his eyes on me.

Doubt creeps in as I wonder if this guy is really what I need. I’m gonna need to watch his diet; he’s all muscle but he won’t be able to add an ounce of muscle if I want him to fit in our Kelsey.

He starts shoving his way for me.

I tug my shirt a little, feeling undressed, needing a reminder that there’s actually a pretty decent amount of fabric covering me.

His intense eyes drop down my stomach, and a bevy of butterflies go off there. This is so not appropriate, Lana …

The testosterone around him is so off the charts that if we’d been in a closed space, we’d all grow muscles.

He starts smiling as he approaches.

“What is this? Role-play today? School teacher slut—” someone is saying about my cropped top and long skirt.