Racer (Real Book 7)

Lana

It’s qualifying day, the first official day to start off the season. The Formula One Grand Prix championship consists of approximately 20-plus drivers, all of them competing every few weeks for a total of 20 Grand Prix races. Each race earns them points for the championship, and to be serious contenders this year, we must try to end up in the top five in every race. That hasn’t happened to us in forever. Not since Seth won third place in the championship in our debut year. Plus to even try to finish in the top five of each race, we need a good qualifying, which is why today matters quite a bit.

Also, today matters because we have never done something like this before.

I scan the track another time, hoping to see Racer. Disappointment washes over me when I can’t spot him. I check the time, then ask Clay, “Have you heard from Drake?”

“No.”

“What if Racer doesn’t show up?” I ask.

“That would be unfortunate.”

I exhale. “Right. Thanks.”

There’s a dip in my stomach when I suddenly see a dark figure walking forward—next to Drake.

Racer Tate.

In all his glory.

I know everyone in the track is staring at him. He’s not only the novelty, but I think the guys can tell that he’s someone to watch. His presence, the way he carries himself, the way he walks, sort of lazy—like a wild cat who knows he’s the king of the jungle and doesn’t need to strut. His T-shirt clings to his chest and arm muscles. His gorgeous blue eyes blaze bright as he looks at me standing across the tent, sort of gaping at him. His dimple appears as he slowly begins to smile. “Lainie.”

“Racer.” I nod, blinking and inhaling to try to calm down the rioting in my body.

There’s a tingle in my tummy when he smiles, and we smile at each other for a hot second.

He squints up at the sunlight, then down at me and playfully tugs my cap down a little.

“That’s not gentlemanly to do,” I say, shoving him playfully although it’s as impossible as shoving a wall and expecting it to move. It doesn’t.

“I’m not a gentleman.” His eyes gleam as he reaches out to cup my buttocks slightly, looking down at me.

“You okay?” he asks.

I’m surprised that he noticed anything wrong. Oh god. Did my makeup not cover the circles under my eyes?

I try to keep my voice level. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I look at you.” He tips my chin back and studies my face.

Sometimes I wonder if I have wanted someone to ask. So that when I say my usual answer, “I’m okay,” they would know that it’s not true, that I’m not okay.

He pulls me into the motorhome.

I follow, nervous.

He’s scowling deeply. “Did you stay awake at night?” he asks as he pulls out his gear.

“Yes,” I admit.

His stare is nerve-wrackingly intense, and I’m at a loss as to how to explain, because—although Racer makes me nervous, he also makes me calm deep where it hurts, his presence both soothing and exciting at the same time.

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.

Except he won’t be a stranger for long.

He’s on my team.

But I can’t help wonder that it might make me forget how much I miss David. I know it’s been long and I need to put myself out there, and maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe instead of trying to find a replacement of a relationship that meant so much to me, I should look for the opposite. I should not look for a replacement, simply embrace single Lana and sleep with whoever I want, live the single life proudly, knowing I’m the girl that has already found love and will always cherish it.

I don’t think anyone can ever compete with what I had with David. We knew each other since we were kids. He protected me, cared for me, he loved me. Sometimes I miss him so much my chest hurts, and I press my hand to it to try to quell the pain.

I try to forget it as I suck on a bottle of water and tip my cap down to shield me from the sun. I’ve already got too many freckles and I don’t want anymore.

“The Clarks are really strong this year,” Dad mutters as I come stand next to him, a warning.

“Are they not any year?” I roll my eyes.

“Is Clark himself still after your bones?” Drake asks from behind us.

“No!” I cry, glaring at him past my shoulder. “He just wants info. I’m not going to give it to him.” I frown, then I turn around and wade my way to pits as I watch the drivers head to their cars.

Racer and I make eye contact as he polishes his visor and as my brothers and the team get the car ready.

I keep bringing drinks to everyone, even offer one to Racer, which he declines with a look into my eyes and a shake of his head.

It makes me blush, for some reason, but I keep trying to help in any way I can. I suppose I need the activity to help calm my own nerves.

Once he’s got his helmet on, and his visor lowered and is settled and strapped down in the car, I leave pits as the motors turn on.

Brrrmmmm!!!!!

I can’t bear to watch. First time in the track for qualifying. First time in a Formula One car. This could be painful. I can’t watch.

I head over to take a seat next to my dad. My dad pats my hand. “Trust your gut.”

“My gut is knotted right now.”

He laughs.

I see the laughter reach all the way into his eyes and I ease.

“Clayton’s on the radio with him?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me when it’s over.”

I hear the wheels spinning—the car roars out of pits, and I am not sure I’ve ever heard Kelsey sound so angry and so fired-up.

I inhale, and then hear my dad inhale too. Before he says, looking at his chronometer, “Decent as fuck time.”

I open my eyes and look at Dad. I’m seeing something I recognize as hope in his eyes, and it makes my stomach knot up even more—this time with something similar to excitement.

I turn my head and watch as Kelsey speeds like a demon on Red Bull down the track.

“He’s a natural, Lainie baby,” Dad whispers, looking at me with pride.

“He’s so good, Dad,” I admit, something in my heart swelling in ways that it doesn’t even swell when I get complimented myself. “On my way to the US I kept praying for me to find someone like Seth. I didn’t—I found someone better. He was too rare to leave alone.”

People really have no idea how difficult it is to drive at 225 mph with a shit ton of G force pushing back at you. You need to be extremely fit to endure that for hours.

After the cars circle around and their times are adjusted and their cars are adjusted, qualifying is wrapped up with Clark in first, the Clark’s second driver in second,

“AND RACER TATE IS THIRD,” the announcers are saying. “QUALIFYING FOR P3, a great great comeback for HW Racing this year.”

When Racer pulls into pits and hops on the scale, I take note of his weight and notice he’s lost 10 lbs of body water in sweat. I hurry to bring him a bottle of Gatorade, coconut water, lemonade, or plain water, tucking them all in my arms so that he gets to pick.

“P3. Not fucking bad!!” I hear my brothers cheer, slapping each other. I hurry over as he climbs out of the car for his interview.

He grabs the first drink I offer, a Gatorade, and is attacked by the press before we even reach the motorhome.

“Racer Tate, you’re the year’s only rookie and are taking no prisoners, already you’ve set the internet ablaze with your talent. What’s the difference between racing out on the streets versus a track like this one?” the attractive reporter asks as she puts the microphone up to his lips.

“I get to hear whispers in my ear,” he grins, and Clayton laughs behind us.

“Is the horsepower too much …”

“Not too much. I like the power. It’s the walls I need to watch out for—not a lot of those off the track. Usually trees.”

Laughter.

“So when we asked for this interview and how on earth the team at HW Racing found you, Lana told us she found you … by accident, literally …”

I groan inside as the reporter continues,

“… Is she a good driver?”

“We’ll work on that,” Racer says gruffly, his dimple appearing as he winks at me and he takes my elbow with a little crackle in my skin as he leads me away.

“That’s Racer Tate,” the TV lady says to the camera as we walk away, “live from the F1 track in Australia.”

“I can’t believe I told them that,” I groan, brushing my fingers over the spot he touched.

He’s eyeing me speculatively, his blue eyes shining so bright under the sunlight, I can’t look away. “Lucky for you, you now have the best driver in the world at your disposal,” he growls.

He sounds dehydrated. And mischievous.

“Ha! I’ll be the judge of that. Plus I’m not sure what you’re implying I do with him.” I shoot him a scowl.

He laughs, and shakes his head. “Anything you want. Free of charge. Driving lessons. Petting sessions.”

“Really?” I frown. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, Alana.” He stops me, his eyes twinkling as he frowns down at my mouth as if he wants to take a bite out of it and is annoyed that he can’t. His voice lowers. “I’ll stop by tonight for a kiss, for P3.”

My lungs suddenly feel like rocks in my chest, but I try to sound stern as I say, “You can knock, but that doesn’t mean that door is going to open.” I see his dimple deepen as he watches me walk away, my whole stomach buzzing in a way it has

never

in my whole damned life

buzzed before.