Racer (Real Book 7)

Racer

I’m fired up. I hit the gym at midnight, worked on my stamina, upper body, killed my legs, worked my arms.

I snatch up a coffee early morning, get one for Lana, and head out to the track.

I spot her with her brothers. Her eyes widen when I give her a cup of coffee, and she has a shit ton of coffees on the table beside her. “Oh. I brought you one too.”

I nod, and eye her as I watch her take mine and drink it in silence before I head to the drivers’ meeting.

The race director briefs us all on the basics. “This is the situation with the safety car …” he’s saying.

He indicates which turns have safe havens (in case a car breaks down). “The safe havens are indicated with orange cones or turn marks.”

The Clarks snicker and whisper among themselves.

What jackasses.

It’ll be a goddamned pleasure to beat their asses this year.

After the drivers’ briefing, I head back to the tent to talk strategy with Adrian, Lana’s youngest brother. Aside from the mechanics that make up HW Racing Team, Lana’s family make up the most important roles. Adrian is the race engineer. Clayton’s the driver’s coach, the guy I usually discuss driving skills with and am on the headset with during the races. The eldest, Drake, is the team manager. Lana’s dad is the team owner: a man who loves to live on the track and rarely leaves until the entire team does.

Adrian and I discuss how many pit stops we’ll do, what tire compounds we’ll be starting out with.

I feel eerily calm; I’m good at being calm under pressure. There’s something about knowing your life is on the line that clears your head. Heightens your every sense.

I focus on the strategy and keep my body relaxed, my mind focused.

Soon, the drivers are called out to pits.

I approach number 38. Lana’s “Kelsey.”

It’s an exotic machine, built for speed. Built for racing.

She’s ready. And so am I.

I grab my gloves and zip up my racing suit, then ease on my helmet. Before I lower my visor, I let my eyes scan over Lana, who’s been watching me from the side. I let the testosterone she stimulates run over me—and I give her a look that says this one’s for you.

My dick fills up and stiffens under that adoring look in those expressive eyes of hers.

That flush on her is just the cherry on top of my Lana Sexy as Fuck Cake.

By the time I slide into the car, strap down, and ignite the engine, I’ve got a huge hard-on.

F1 cars are much rawer than normal cars. Louder, faster, with more grip, much harder to drive. It’s harder to freaking win. It’s not a one-on-one race here; I’m racing against sixteen other drivers, all of them hungry. As hungry to win as me.

We follow the car as we get into positions, and then, it’s green flag—and I get a good solid launch.

It’s all about easy clutch release.

I’ve got it nailed, and I’m speeding up, holding position as I head up to 230 mph on the straight. The seat shudders beneath me. The wheel fights back at me as I take a fast turn.

Guess this is where I thank my dad for teaching me to exercise.

My core is engaged, my every muscle engaged, my heart pumping, lungs working as I catch up with number 8.

I wait to pass—biding my time.

“Easy,” I hear on the mic.

It’s Clay.

“You’re P3 holding steady, catching up on P2,” the voice says.

I push the pedal, waiting for the chance to overtake him, then take a slow turn and head to the next.

The voice says, “Trailing .10 seconds after P2 and gaining.”

We head into the straightaway, and I’m at full speed. I use his draft to get closer. You need to be careful when you get too close or you can understeer—the car gets jacked up with the other car’s draft and doesn’t want to turn.

We head to a fast turn and head into a heavy braking zone, and I don’t brake when #8 starts braking.

I keep my foot on the accelerator—outbraking him at the last instant, braking harder and later. Within a second, I pass him.

He steers awkwardly into the curve, nipping the back of my car as he does. I’m off into the straightaway, hearing something clink.

“Second …!” I hear.

#8 is eating my dirty air as I shift gears.

The gears on an F1 are on the wheel. The wheel is for more than steering; it’s the car’s goddamned brain. I upshift with my right hand, downshift with my left, and even check the status of the track; any yellow or red flags appear as flashing lights on the wheel as I steer.

The track is clear, and I’m chasing after Clark. Number fucking 9 is on my radar and I’m catching up.

“You’re P2. P3 coming up behind you fast,” Clay says.

I feel his nose nip the back of my car. I hold her steady, outbraking him again, and leaving him behind.

The white flag appears, and I know the checkered one is coming.

I catch up to #9, but don’t have enough time to overtake him.

I try anyway, my nose basically a hair away from his ass.

“Don’t risk it, Tate,” Clay says, as if he’s reading my mind.

I grit my jaw and decide to listen—a P2 is better than getting pulled off the track at the last lap.

My body’s so wired from the adrenaline, I’m high. When I get down, I want to fucking kiss her.

I’ve got about every brain cell honed in on the expression on her face she’ll be wearing. Every brain cell is honed in on wanting to kiss her, long and hard, wanting her to tell me I’m the best fucking driver in the world.

She’s reluctant to yield to me, to admit to wanting me, to me being exactly what she’s been waiting for, but I’ll be patient. Dad always said I was impatient as fuck, but that one day I’d find something that would make me realize just how much I wanted to be patient for.

Her name’s Lana fucking future Tate.