Racer Read online

  To the fire inside us, may it always burn

  “FAST CAR” by Jonas Blue (feat. Dakota)

  “DON’T YOU NEED SOMEBODY” by RedOne (feat. Enrique Iglesias)

  “LOVE DRUNK” by Boys Like Girls

  “SOUND OF YOUR HEART” by Shawn Hook

  “FAVORITE RECORD” by Fall Out Boy

  “BELIEVER” by Imagine Dragons

  “THE OTHER SIDE” by Jason Derulo

  “JET PACK BLUES” by Fall Out Boy

  “BATTLE SCARS” by Lupe Fiasco and Guy Sebastian

  “COME AND GET IT” by Selena Gomez

  “WALK” by Kwabs

  “UNDISCLOSED DESIRES” by Muse

  “UNWELL” by Matchbox Twenty

  “REDBONE” by Childish Gambino

  “YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL” by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

  “REMEMBER WHEN” by Chris Wallace

  “MAPS” by Maroon 5

  “LET ME LOVE YOU” by Ne-Yo

  “XO” by Beyoncé

  “THE BEST” by Tina Turner

  “WHATEVER IT TAKES” by Imagine Dragons

  Lana

  There’s something about being the last child born in a family. Something about being the only daughter. I’m the youngest in the family, the fourth child born after my three brothers. My whole life I’ve been coddled, protected, bullied, bribed, and all of that is all fine, because I love my brothers, I love my family, but sometimes I wish I were the eldest, so I wouldn’t be underestimated the way I am now. My name is Lana, but to them and my dad, I’m their Lainie baby even at twenty-two.

  My brothers and dad stand by our tent at the side of the track. Dozens of cars zoom past. Blue, black, yellow colors flying by, helmets with rainbow visors, sponsor logos, and testosterone galore. Other than the fact that they are all Formula One race cars, they have one other thing in common: none of those cars are ours. None of those cars are being driven by one of our drivers.

  I sigh and carry the lemonade cups back to our tent. The autumn cold air cuts into my cheeks and steals under my ponytail to freeze the back of my neck. This fall, while testing possible drivers, I’ve gained two bright spots on my cheeks, thank you wind-chill combined with sunlight, and judging by the way my face is stinging now, I’ll bet the red is spreading to my ears and nose.

  There’s a whistle as I pass our neighbor’s tent. “Lainey, that for me?” one of the mechanics calls.

  “Sorry I’ve only got two hands and they’re both spoken for.” I don’t even glance his way—it’s true that everybody is always nice to me, but I try not to get too friendly with the other teams. We’re opponents, after all. Let’s keep it real.

  HW RACING TEAM, our logo stares back at me as I reach our tent—black as background, red and white on the logo.

  The cars are rumbling past in practice and we already know this will be our last, and worst, season. We used to be the team with the smallest tent, the lowest budget, but the greatest talent. Now we have a small tent, low budget, and no talent. And next year, without my dad … I glance at my dad and he’s in a pullout chair. He’s got his face in his hands, exhaling deeply.

  At the side of the tent, the only driver out of three who still meant to race is puking. The car is smashed. He’s shaking, pale and pissed at himself. The driver was physically unharmed, but we all know, if you smash the car in a test drive, you’re not going to get the gig.

  I bring the guy one of the lemonades. “Sugar,” I coax. “Could help.”

  He keeps staring at his racing boots, his shoulders bent in defeat. “Only chance I get to test and blow it.”

  I set the cup at his side and give him my most comforting smile, though my three brothers and my dad want to murder him.

  “It’s gonna take hundreds of thousands to fix this fucker,” my oldest brother, Drake, grumbles as I head over to my dad.

  “Hundreds of thousands we barely have,” Clay grumbles back.

  I stroke the side of the smashed car. Dad has three cars. My favorite is Kelsey, and I’m relieved she was out. I’m still sad for Moira though.

  The day you think about a car as a friend …

  “Might be time for me to admit, I’m waiting for something that isn’t going to happen,” I hear my dad say.

  I head over to him with the other lemonade cup. “It will, daddy, it will.”

  I’m the assigned team PR. I feed them, organize hotel stays, interviews for our drivers (not that that’s been a big part of the job lately). I get their clothes cleaned, pick up the dry cleaning. Basically, I make a home for them an ocean and a thousand and one miles away from where we grew up in Ohio.

  We uprooted after mom left us, all dad’s money going to a Formula One team. It’s his dream. One thing he gave up for my mom and could never get over. And now that I know it’s his last chance to get it, it’s mine too.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Not now, Lainie.”

  They’re pissed. They need a pep talk, but I can see dad is fresh out of pep talks. He looks defeated.

  “He’s not the only guy with talent,” I tell my brothers.

  “We don’t have money to take in anyone with talent anymore. Everyone’s been groomed since they were racing go-karts at six. By the time they’re in their teens they’re already owned by their sponsors or their teams,” Drake says.

  “I’ll reel him in.”

  I’m panicked. I’ve never seen them look so defeated and frustrated. When did it stop being fun? When we lost hope of winning.

  “Clay, Drake, Adrian, shush. I’ll do it. You set the cars, dad’s head of the team, let me bring in the talent.”

  It’s my dad’s dream. Now it’s mine too.

  “I’ll do it.”

  My brothers keep on talking, and so does my dad.

  I grab my shoe and toss it at them. It hits Drake in the shoulders and he turns, scowling.

  “I said, I’ll do it.”

  “Did you just throw your shoe at me?”

  I grab the other one, and throw it too. “No, I threw you two.”

  “Lainie …”

  “Don’t Lainie me. Dad, you run this team, you guys fix the cars, let me bring in the talent.”

  “Look, Lane, just because dad made you the PR doesn’t mean you have a lick of sense in determining whether someone has talent,” Drake says.

  “It’s not hard to spot. Give me a chance. This is our life. We gave up … everything for this. I don’t want us to quit.” I step forward. “I don’t want Dad to quit.”

  He looks at me.

  I don’t mention that I’m afraid that quitting might make him give up, that quitting will give him some sort of permission to leave now that he has no dream to live for.

  “Drake, it’s his dream.”

  “It’s all our dreams, but we need to be realistic here. We don’t have any of the money Dad started with: no wins equals all expenses, Lainie. It’s a long shot and Dad’s tired, he’s tired, we might as well spend it somewhere calm where he can take it easy …”

  “No,” I say firmly.

  “Lainie,” he begins.

  “No. This will give him new life. This will make him happy.”

  He looks at me with pity, the kind of pity reserved for older brothers who are more mature, who’ve dealt with the news about your dad. And me? I have focused on his every dream for the past four years because tomorrow we all die. It’s today that matters to me, because today my dad is right here in the tent, breathing and living and disappointed and I’m the fixer.

  “You guys are being too realistic, let me dream for all of us. Give me ONE chance. Just one test. I’ll bring the pilot.”

  Silence.

  “Dad, I said I could do this.”

  He looks at my brothers, and I groan.

  “Who do
you have in mind?” Drake finally asks.

  “You’ll see,” I lie.

  “Whoever he is, you think you can just convince a guy to come with a team on its last legs?”

  “How hard can he be? He’s a man, isn’t he?”

  I shoot them a look that speaks volumes, then kiss my dad on the cheek and tell him, “I’m going to have to travel. Hang tight, Daddy. I’m not coming back until I find him. I’m not settling for anything but the best—someone who loves the wheel and doesn’t have a ride.”

  That same night, I take a red-eye flight from Australia to Atlanta, then another from Atlanta to St. Petersburg, Florida. My plan is to try to catch the Indy drivers during practice before their season starts, and I know they’re practicing in St. Pete right now. So I run through the list of pilots during my flight, researching their pros and cons.

  I’m uncomfortable in my seat, shifting as I try not to bother the two people next to me. I booked my flight last minute, and therefore ended up with the very coveted (not!) middle seat.

  By the time I land in Florida, it’s afternoon, and I’m badly slept, dehydrated from the flight, and completely exhausted—but I have three days not only to find a driver, but to take the long flight back to Australia in time for the first F1 race of the season. Speculation about our team pulling out of the race must already be in full bloom, and although I can’t control what others think, I’d be damned before I let my father retire with anything less than a gold star. So even sleepless, dehydrated, hungry, and worried, I’m clinging to all my determination to prove myself to my family as I drive my rental to the track. My stomach growls every time I drive past a restaurant, but I know that food needs to wait.

  I circle around the track where the drivers are testing before race day. I’m searching for a place to park, struggling because of the blocked streets due to the temporary street circuit set up for the St. Petersburg Indy-Car race.

  I spot a space, but I have to slam on the brakes when a red car turns with a screech before me.

  I frown, annoyed, and press the accelerator again toward one of two empty slots. The mustang in front of me swoops in and steals the first vacant slot and, panicked that someone will jump out of the blue and take the only remaining one right next to it, I gun it into the second slot. The car stops with a jolt.

  Oh fuck!

  I just crashed the guy.

  “Ooops, my bad,” I say, putting the car in reverse and then back to drive, carefully parking it in place.

  The door of the mustang swings open, and a guy clad in black exits the vehicle. I nervously hurry out of my car and head around to stand next to the guy.

  He inspects the damage.

  I inspect the damage.

  “You need driving school,” he gruffs out in a very deep voice.

  Aghast at the insult, I grit, “You need driving manners.” I raise my head to glare at him, and my breath stalls in my throat when I look into his face.

  Because …

  No one.

  In this world.

  Should own such a masculine.

  Hot.

  Terribly handsome face.

  His eyes have a gleam that makes me feel as if he wants to devour me. They’re irresistible, raw, intense and challenging, completely animal and fiery. The rest of him is absolute beauty. That’s really the only way I can describe him. The floor under my feet tilts a little bit when he smiles, and one lone dimple appears. Oh god, I’m a sucker for dimples.

  “Really?” the guy says, lips now curving in amusement as our eyes meet.

  “Yes. Really. I’m not in the mood for this. You took my slot.” I feel a frown pinch my face as my anger over his driving manners mingles with my anger over his handsomeness, and his eyes begin to twinkle.

  I try to suppress my reaction to that twinkling eye; but the truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever seen blue of this shade in real life or anywhere but in pictures of beautiful oceans somewhere far away like Fiji.

  “I haven’t eaten in hours, or slept at all. I’m really not in the mood,” I say, and when he only glares down at me, something inside me starts to heat up under his intense gaze.

  His eyes keep glued to me.

  I don’t think anyone has ever stared at me so thoroughly.

  Not just with annoyance, and interest, but almost … amusement along with … confusion?

  Exactly the way I feel. Staring up at him.

  There’s a slight darkening in his eyes as he keeps staring at me. I don’t know what that something is, but it’s something that makes parts of me tickle and squirm.

  “Watch out next time,” he then says, after a long moment, his voice gentler, his eyes sort of sliding hungrily all over my body as he takes a step back, grabs a cap from inside the car, slams the door, and locks it with a little beeping sound.

  I look at the scratch and tiny dent in it, realizing he’s just spared me by not insisting we call the insurance company. “I’m sorry,” I say belatedly.

  He stares at me past his shoulder and clenches his jaw, comes back to tower over me, glaring. “What’s your name?”

  “Um … Alana,” I lie. It’s close to Lana, but not exact. I’m too nervous.

  “Alana. You crashed my car,” he growls, shooting a pointed look towards his gorgeous cherry-red mustang.

  “I … I’m sorry? I just got out of a sixteen-hour flight and it’s been a never-ending day.”

  He laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe my excuse.

  He shoots me a pointed look, and I stare at his midnight-black hair as he leaves, resisting the urge to fan myself a little.

  Whoa.

  I stare at his backside in jeans, the black T-shirt hugging his chest, my irritation sort of falling away as a nearly overwhelming wave of lust hits me.

  I discreetly brush my hands over my breasts to try to get my nipples to stand down.

  Going out with guys with my four men in my life isn’t an easy option. Nobody is good enough for me, and all of the men I meet are drivers. The last thing I’ve wanted is get involved with a driver. When I was seventeen, I had a boyfriend. He died. David was everything to me. I would never want to date anyone who put his life on the line like car racers do. But boy, I really need to get laid.

  Hurrying into the stands, I’m glad to find that because it’s testing day, not racing day, the stands are somewhat uncluttered.

  At the far end of a set of stands, there’s a man in jeans and white shirt, his dark hair peppered with salt at the temples. I head over and take two seats before him when my heart stops as the man behind me calls, “Son!” and I watch the guy I crashed into head up the steps.

  My heart starts beating so hard when I see him again that I duck my head, and yet even through the noises of car motors, I watch him through the corner of my eye as he takes the steps up to his father.

  Clearing my throat, I pull out my list of drivers and my marker. I’ve got eight drivers on my list that I want to watch, but I’ve got the rest of the Indy drivers’ names on the bottom of the list too. Just in case.

  “You weren’t at the gym today,” I hear the man behind me say.

  “I don’t get off on getting my face rearranged. Jesus, Dad.”

  There’s a low laugh from one of them, and once again the voice of the guy I crashed into. He’s got a very deep voice. “Where’s Iris?”

  “Getting some water.”

  A girl of about eighteen takes the steps up the stands to where they sit. Glancing back to see, my stomach tumbles when she hugs the moody hottie and the moody hottie hugs her back, and then she sits right next to him.

  She looks tiny compared to him.

  He’s all big and muscly, and too gorgeous to name.

  Okay so he has a girlfriend. Big deal. He’s terribly beautiful, and so is she. Both of them dark-haired and model-looking. But so what? Good for them. I’m not here for romance. I’m here for work.

  But suddenly the idea of having a fling before going back starts to appeal. Nothi
ng serious. I don’t want anything like that. But maybe something … to get me relaxed. Get my mind back on racing and off the body-hunger things.

  I can’t help but be curious about him, though. I can somehow feel his eyes on the back of my head, boring into my skull like lasers as I study my list.

  Inhaling nervously, I steal a look past my shoulders.

  The young man shoves his hands in his pockets as he locks eyes with me, his eyebrows raising, his lips curving as he catches me staring.

  His dad is staring at him now too. Frowning.

  He says something to his son, but his son doesn’t reply. He smirks at me.

  I don’t smirk back; I can’t think straight.

  The son stands and takes the steps down toward me.

  Oh shit.

  I turn back to my list. He comes over and leans behind me, his body warmth somehow suddenly too close to mine as he starts reading my list over my shoulder.

  He smells like soap. Not cologne.

  Just clean and soapy and male.

  Something about that natural scent makes my mouth salivate and I swallow nervously.

  “He’s too slow on the straight.” He taps the top name on my list. I try to shove the page under my bag but a part of it still peeks out from underneath.

  “You know a lot about cars, do you.” I scowl and try to suppress the way my body warms under the effect of his smile as he comes over to sit beside me.

  “Too bad you don’t have any driving manners,” I add.

  He smiles wider as he settles down beside me, all lean and fluid, and he looks at my paper again. “Bucket list?”

  Huh?

  “No!” I laugh then. “It’s … no,” I say, realizing what he’s implying.

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “You can, but it doesn’t mean I’ll take it.”

  He reaches for my list and slides it out from under my bag, and then he plucks the pen from my hand and scratches a line down the list of names. Then he sets the page on his jean-clad thigh, a very hard-looking thigh, and writes down one word. Racer.

  “Is this … what does this mean?” I ask, confused.

  He winks as he hands it back. “You’ll be smart to keep him on top of that to-do list.”