I eased off the gas and waited for another opportunity. I knew that when we came out of the carousel, it was right into a serpentine and then a quick right. I held my ground through the first phase. When I saw the right bank ahead, I decided to make my move. Instead of the hard brake a driver would typically apply, I pumped the pedal a little and came around on the Porsche’s right. Once again, he was aware of my position. He widened his turn and clipped across the front bumper of my M3. I held the wheel tightly and kept my ground through the turn, coming out on the far side of the Cayman.
I gunned the gas. I cut the wheel hard to the right to take the lead and instead heard metal on metal as I clipped across his driver’s side front quarter panel.
The white flag with the large black X went up with my car’s number below it. All my ambition had gotten me disqualified. I’d be sidelined for the rest of the day.
I pulled into the pits with an angry screech. I was so pissed off, I itched to punch someone—or something. When Ronnie jogged up to help me out of my gear, he caught one glimpse of the rage in my eyes and wisely didn’t speak. Throwing my gloves and helmet into the car, I barked at the pit crew to bring the car over to the garage.
Fuck. Me.
How could I have made such a rookie mistake? Instead of strutting a win, I was taking a walk of shame. “Fuck,” I gritted beneath my breath. “Fuck.”
I left the pits and beelined through the locker room. If I saw that bastard from the Porsche, I’d probably deck him, and then I’d be banned from the club. Poor sportsmanship wasn’t tolerated in auto racing, and I knew better than to have such a hot head in this arena. I needed some time to get my shit together and calm down.
I headed out to my villa, though the bar in the clubhouse sounded like a much better idea.
No. Being with Taylor sounded like a much better idea.
Where was my sassy girl when I needed her? I would love to lose myself between her thighs right now, forgetting that shit show at the track had ever happened. I was restless and hot, feeling like an exposed wire. Frying off the rest of my system’s adrenaline with some hot, dirty sex sounded like a grand fucking plan.
The villa’s front door slammed behind me after I swung it shut. The pictures on the shared wall jumped when the portal hit the frame. I steadied them and then scrubbed a hand down my face while forcing a calming breath. Taylor had found those pictures for me. She’d been shopping through a knickknack store in Old Town San Diego and had found the set of reprographics of first-generation Formula One cars—or so she’d said. I still had trouble really believing her, because the images and their steel custom frames were perfect for the villa.
Just like that woman was perfect for me.
Where the hell was she?
Another rake of a hand up and down my face. I really had to pull myself together instead of watching the clock like a kid waiting on his prom date. Or hell, maybe she’d already made it and I didn’t know it. I hadn’t exactly been in a clear state of mind when walking across the property from the track. I hadn’t even thought to look for her car in the visitors’ lot…
Most of the motorsports complex was visible from the patio, so I slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the terrace. The desert landscape was flat and extended as far as the eye could see, making the complex seem to stretch out forever. Even though I had a clear view of the visitors’ lot, I couldn’t see every place she might park.
But then…
There.
I swear to God, my lungs squeezed into my throat and my balls swelled beyond a healthy size. Yeah, from just a look. Yeah, from this far away. Too damn far away.
She was strutting her sexy stuff over by the small grandstand. She wore some sort of floaty summer dress that picked up when the wind stirred, and she quickly smoothed it down with modesty. I grinned, thinking how red her cheeks would be if she thought someone caught a peek when the fabric lifted. She was my kinky siren in bed and my pretty librarian on the street. The perfect combination.
“Shit,” I muttered, slammed with another new mental quandary. How would I explain why I wasn’t on the track? Embarrassment flooded me already—to the point that I began to pace.
I could just make something up. Say my car broke down…
But I refused to lie to her. I swore I would always be honest, and I meant every word. Nothing had changed about that oath.
But fuuuuuuck. I’d failed today. Royally. Had been a complete rookie, letting that bastard get the better of me. And of all the people to let under my skin? The dude with the red Cayman? It was almost comical.
Almost.
My phone chirped with a text message. I rushed to grab the device from the kitchen island—and warmed at once, seeing her name and face light up the screen.
Have you raced already? Hope I didn’t miss it. Traffic was awful.
Okay, screw the track. All right, so I didn’t mean that—but was as close as I’d ever be to doing so. Suddenly, nothing else mattered but making things right with my sweet Sassy again. Life had been aimless and agonizing since I’d begged for her forgiveness at SGC that awful afternoon.
The only good thing that had come of that clusterfuck was a slightly better relationship with my cousin Killian. He’d tried, in all the ways he knew, to advise me on backing away from Taylor. He’d even used all the talk-show therapy words, saying she needed “space” and some “safe place” to “get grounded again.” But she hadn’t gotten much of that when things had gotten worse with her leech of a mother, and she’d had to deal with the shitstorm as best as she could. Goddamn, how I’d wanted to run to her then, but Kil had turned up his inner Dr. Phil and come back twice as hard at me with all the psychobabble. Through every minute, I could almost hear Claire’s voice delivering the words instead. But in the end, it was fair commentary.
So as difficult as it had been, I’d dropped out of her orbit.
Difficult? Fuck that. Reaching down and slicing my own gonads off would’ve been an easier alternative. But this weekend was going to change all that. Well, it was supposed to have. I still stared at my phone, wondering how the hell to respond to her message when I should have been fixating on the idea of getting lost in all her pale skin. Absorbing every note of her throaty moans. Getting reacquainted with every inch of her tiny frame. Hell, even just holding her hand while she fidgeted.
But I was frozen. Standing here like a pussy. I might as well have had my dick in my hand instead of my phone.
I’d never been afraid to admit my mistakes. But it had been so long since I’d actually made a solid one. I wasn’t wired to tolerate the fuckers, especially from myself, so eating crow was as unfamiliar as eating fried crickets. Worse, eating crow in front of her.
I was damn sure hives were going to set in next. The thought of looking like anything less than the best in Taylor’s eyes… No. Just fuck no.
I set the phone back on the counter without typing a response to her.
Instead, I paced. Not for long but long enough to recognize I should go take a damn shower. I was hot and sweaty from the firesuit. If she did show up at my door, I wanted to present better than a barnyard animal.
I wasted a lot of time under the spray, washing my hair carefully between whiffs of the girlie body wash she’d left behind the last time we were here together. Little reminders of my Taylor were everywhere, and I liked it that way—especially now, as I remembered how I’d made her come against my lips and tongue in this very shower stall.