Racer
Page 46
I burst out laughing. “You’re not awkward, not in the slightest.” I think she’s charming and honest, and I’d have loved to have a sister like her to balance out my three brothers. Now there’s a set of bullies for you. “Why did he scare the guy you like?” I ask, confused.
“Because he wasn’t good enough for me. He said that if he’d cared he’d have been impossible to scare off in the first place.”
“Hmm,” I say, pursing my lips, terribly amused about my protective Racer. “Well I agree with you,” I say, and him, I think to myself, trying to keep our interaction going. “He’s a bully, over-confident, and completely bossy,” I state, noticing Racer raising his eyebrows across the room, and I realize he heard every word I said because he winks—proudly—as if all of this were a good thing.
“He just heard and winked at me,” I tell his sister.
She groans, glances past her shoulder, where he winks at her too, and she laughs and shifts back to me. “Yep. That’s my brother. You could be saying the worst things about him, and he’ll still puff his chest out like everything about him is golden.”
I laugh, confiding in her, “He’s wanted me to admit to him being the best driver in the world for so long, but I wouldn’t budge an inch until recently.”
“Good for you. Now prepare for him to get you to marry him. He’s been announcing it since you met.”
“Oh wow, seriously?”
“Yes!” she cries.
I think I look like a cherry because my cheeks and neck and whole face start to burn, like the rest of me, because the thought of marrying Racer Tate—of him truly making me his wife and telling everybody he plans to do this—gives me more butterflies than anything in my life has given me before.
If his sister thinks he’ll be getting his way …
Then I’ll play it cool and classy, but secretly in my heart of hearts and right in my soul which is so deeply connected to his it’s scary, I’ll desperately hope that he does.
After a fun evening, we all head back to the hotel, and I notice that my father looks beat. “Daddy, do you feel well?”
“Yes, I’m enjoying every moment.”
I shoot a pleading look at Drake.
“Let’s get you to rest. So much excitement won’t help your body stay strong,” Drake tells him as we all step off the elevator on our floor.
“I think the excitement is helping,” Dad jokes.
I laugh. And when we take him to his room, and say goodnight and head back, Racer takes my hand and gives me a squeeze. Noticing my worry and concern.
“How much time does he have?” he asks.
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell us and forbids the doctors to. It’s cancer, but he doesn’t want treatment.” I shake my head. “He says he doesn’t want to be feeling sick for the remainder of his life. But the doctors said he had a good chance if he got treated, he’s just stubborn.”
“I know someone like that,” he says, tender.
“Really? Me too.” I smile, because obviously I mean him, and Racer smiles too, his dimpled smile and his presence making me feel better.
Drake once told me that I had to respect my father’s wishes, that people let go when they are ready, and I needed to learn to let go too. But feeling as if something you love with your whole heart is being taken from you, the truth is, human beings hang on tighter—and it only hurts more.
What I want doesn’t matter.
Not really, not in these things. So I just tell myself that I, too, will enjoy every moment, because whenever my dad leaves, and I leave, and my brothers, and even my immortal Racer Tate leaves, we will always take these moments with us.
I follow him to his room; it just seems handier that we be where he has all his racing gear, etc. I also really like simply being in his space and feeling … well, safe and welcome there.
Racer rummages through his duffel and takes out his bottle and pops back his medicine, and downs a half glass of water.
“You’re taking them every day now?” I ask as I watch him set that aside and give a hard yank to his T-shirt, his chiseled, perfect male chest in full view.
“I feel good. Feel fucking golden.” He cracks his neck side to side, and stretches his arms, then drops them when he notices me ogling. His eyes gleam and he raises his brows. “Especially ‘cause I’ve got you right here.” His lips start to curve, and he reaches out, pulling me to his chest. I start to go up greedily on my toes and Racer just lifts me up higher, kissing me like only he knows.
Racer
We’re in Mexico and have only Brazil to go, and then the final in Abu Dhabi. I’m geared up to put up a good fight for the championship and heading out early in the morning to the track with my girl at my side when a group of fans spot me at the hotel lobby.
“Ay, Dios, es Racer Tate!”
“Ohmigod, Racer!”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Yeah, sure.” I grab her pen and scribble down my name, then do the same for the other two.
“You’re my favorite driver,” one gushes.
Beside me, Lana prickles with jealousy.
“Nice girls,” I say as we head out.
She presses her lips tight.
“They seem to think I’m a pretty good driver,” I point out.
“Marry them, then.”
I run my knuckles down her cheeks and cluck as I shake my head somberly. Yeah, I want her to know she’s it; and there’s nothing that will change that. “I can’t do that. I’ve been promised since before I was born to the first girl to crash my cherry mustang.”
Lana nibbles on her lip, and I can tell she’s doing that to keep from smiling. I love this girl like crazy. I can’t get enough of her scent. The feel of her. Taste of her. Teasing her. Making those green eyes widen with shock or delight, and especially with love and lust for her man. Her man, aka Racer fucking Tate.
I’m prepping for the upcoming races, exercising more. I’m trying to get some good sleep, eat right, keep my monsters at bay, have no more surprises.
The standings show me in second place.
Her brothers? Yeah, they seem to be more and more okay with me and Lana being together.
I’ve grown to admire them, appreciate her family. I don’t want to disappoint them. Hell I don’t want to disappoint my own family. Or me. Especially … I want my crasher to always have reason to be proud of me.
Lana
They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I think it flies double when you’re in love.
We’re in fucking Abu Dhabi before we know it … and it’s been a whirlwind few weeks of interviews, practices, qualifying, and races.
Evenings full of kisses and licks, days full of engine fuel and carburetors.
I told my dad I’d stopped booking rooms for me because I was staying with Racer … and Dad said that was all right.
Whenever we go out with my family and hold hands, I notice Racer trying to be respectful with my dad and not doing it in front of him.
But I also know that my dad watches us with a pleased look on his face, a look of peace almost as if … he’s happy for me.
As if he wanted this for me and never knew it.
Maybe, I didn’t know either.
Losing someone you love marks you in ways you’ve never known until you’re left in the aftermath, struggling to heal that gaping hole.
I still remember that day David died, too young and too suddenly. I remember not even being able to cry for the first couple of minutes after my parents told me the news because I was screaming. I was sobbing, rocking my body on the floor, my own arms wrapped around me and I could not stop shaking but no tears were coming out. The sounds I was making were much more gut-wrenching, expressing much more than sadness. I felt my soul break; I felt my spirit break. I was in complete shock, my brain frantically searching for a way to prove nature wrong. Searching for a way to make this all go away, to make it all not be true. That day I lost that sense of hope and faith that we carry deep within us, that sense that everything will work out okay.
Some call this hope and faith childish—and the loss of it maturity. But I believe we all, even adults, carry this sense of hope and faith in life and in our safety with us. Death is one of those events that makes us question this hope. Makes us abandon this faith.
“Because he wasn’t good enough for me. He said that if he’d cared he’d have been impossible to scare off in the first place.”
“Hmm,” I say, pursing my lips, terribly amused about my protective Racer. “Well I agree with you,” I say, and him, I think to myself, trying to keep our interaction going. “He’s a bully, over-confident, and completely bossy,” I state, noticing Racer raising his eyebrows across the room, and I realize he heard every word I said because he winks—proudly—as if all of this were a good thing.
“He just heard and winked at me,” I tell his sister.
She groans, glances past her shoulder, where he winks at her too, and she laughs and shifts back to me. “Yep. That’s my brother. You could be saying the worst things about him, and he’ll still puff his chest out like everything about him is golden.”
I laugh, confiding in her, “He’s wanted me to admit to him being the best driver in the world for so long, but I wouldn’t budge an inch until recently.”
“Good for you. Now prepare for him to get you to marry him. He’s been announcing it since you met.”
“Oh wow, seriously?”
“Yes!” she cries.
I think I look like a cherry because my cheeks and neck and whole face start to burn, like the rest of me, because the thought of marrying Racer Tate—of him truly making me his wife and telling everybody he plans to do this—gives me more butterflies than anything in my life has given me before.
If his sister thinks he’ll be getting his way …
Then I’ll play it cool and classy, but secretly in my heart of hearts and right in my soul which is so deeply connected to his it’s scary, I’ll desperately hope that he does.
After a fun evening, we all head back to the hotel, and I notice that my father looks beat. “Daddy, do you feel well?”
“Yes, I’m enjoying every moment.”
I shoot a pleading look at Drake.
“Let’s get you to rest. So much excitement won’t help your body stay strong,” Drake tells him as we all step off the elevator on our floor.
“I think the excitement is helping,” Dad jokes.
I laugh. And when we take him to his room, and say goodnight and head back, Racer takes my hand and gives me a squeeze. Noticing my worry and concern.
“How much time does he have?” he asks.
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell us and forbids the doctors to. It’s cancer, but he doesn’t want treatment.” I shake my head. “He says he doesn’t want to be feeling sick for the remainder of his life. But the doctors said he had a good chance if he got treated, he’s just stubborn.”
“I know someone like that,” he says, tender.
“Really? Me too.” I smile, because obviously I mean him, and Racer smiles too, his dimpled smile and his presence making me feel better.
Drake once told me that I had to respect my father’s wishes, that people let go when they are ready, and I needed to learn to let go too. But feeling as if something you love with your whole heart is being taken from you, the truth is, human beings hang on tighter—and it only hurts more.
What I want doesn’t matter.
Not really, not in these things. So I just tell myself that I, too, will enjoy every moment, because whenever my dad leaves, and I leave, and my brothers, and even my immortal Racer Tate leaves, we will always take these moments with us.
I follow him to his room; it just seems handier that we be where he has all his racing gear, etc. I also really like simply being in his space and feeling … well, safe and welcome there.
Racer rummages through his duffel and takes out his bottle and pops back his medicine, and downs a half glass of water.
“You’re taking them every day now?” I ask as I watch him set that aside and give a hard yank to his T-shirt, his chiseled, perfect male chest in full view.
“I feel good. Feel fucking golden.” He cracks his neck side to side, and stretches his arms, then drops them when he notices me ogling. His eyes gleam and he raises his brows. “Especially ‘cause I’ve got you right here.” His lips start to curve, and he reaches out, pulling me to his chest. I start to go up greedily on my toes and Racer just lifts me up higher, kissing me like only he knows.
Racer
We’re in Mexico and have only Brazil to go, and then the final in Abu Dhabi. I’m geared up to put up a good fight for the championship and heading out early in the morning to the track with my girl at my side when a group of fans spot me at the hotel lobby.
“Ay, Dios, es Racer Tate!”
“Ohmigod, Racer!”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Yeah, sure.” I grab her pen and scribble down my name, then do the same for the other two.
“You’re my favorite driver,” one gushes.
Beside me, Lana prickles with jealousy.
“Nice girls,” I say as we head out.
She presses her lips tight.
“They seem to think I’m a pretty good driver,” I point out.
“Marry them, then.”
I run my knuckles down her cheeks and cluck as I shake my head somberly. Yeah, I want her to know she’s it; and there’s nothing that will change that. “I can’t do that. I’ve been promised since before I was born to the first girl to crash my cherry mustang.”
Lana nibbles on her lip, and I can tell she’s doing that to keep from smiling. I love this girl like crazy. I can’t get enough of her scent. The feel of her. Taste of her. Teasing her. Making those green eyes widen with shock or delight, and especially with love and lust for her man. Her man, aka Racer fucking Tate.
I’m prepping for the upcoming races, exercising more. I’m trying to get some good sleep, eat right, keep my monsters at bay, have no more surprises.
The standings show me in second place.
Her brothers? Yeah, they seem to be more and more okay with me and Lana being together.
I’ve grown to admire them, appreciate her family. I don’t want to disappoint them. Hell I don’t want to disappoint my own family. Or me. Especially … I want my crasher to always have reason to be proud of me.
Lana
They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I think it flies double when you’re in love.
We’re in fucking Abu Dhabi before we know it … and it’s been a whirlwind few weeks of interviews, practices, qualifying, and races.
Evenings full of kisses and licks, days full of engine fuel and carburetors.
I told my dad I’d stopped booking rooms for me because I was staying with Racer … and Dad said that was all right.
Whenever we go out with my family and hold hands, I notice Racer trying to be respectful with my dad and not doing it in front of him.
But I also know that my dad watches us with a pleased look on his face, a look of peace almost as if … he’s happy for me.
As if he wanted this for me and never knew it.
Maybe, I didn’t know either.
Losing someone you love marks you in ways you’ve never known until you’re left in the aftermath, struggling to heal that gaping hole.
I still remember that day David died, too young and too suddenly. I remember not even being able to cry for the first couple of minutes after my parents told me the news because I was screaming. I was sobbing, rocking my body on the floor, my own arms wrapped around me and I could not stop shaking but no tears were coming out. The sounds I was making were much more gut-wrenching, expressing much more than sadness. I felt my soul break; I felt my spirit break. I was in complete shock, my brain frantically searching for a way to prove nature wrong. Searching for a way to make this all go away, to make it all not be true. That day I lost that sense of hope and faith that we carry deep within us, that sense that everything will work out okay.
Some call this hope and faith childish—and the loss of it maturity. But I believe we all, even adults, carry this sense of hope and faith in life and in our safety with us. Death is one of those events that makes us question this hope. Makes us abandon this faith.
