Racer (Real Book 7)
Racer: Chapter 3

Racer

5 minutes ago…

I hear the siren well before the cop car lights flash red and blue in my rearview mirror.

I’m a damn idiot thinking I’d get away with it this time.

Exhaling with a growl, I pull over to the side of the road on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Turn down the music, then drum my fingers as I watch through the rearview mirror as the cop straightens his belt and walks over. Fucker, get over here already.

The guy probably knows I’m in a hurry (hint: I was going 29 mph above the speed limit) and is taking his goddamn time. Rankled and intent in rankling him back, I take my time too as he stands out the window. Then, after a while, I slowly click the button and lower the window. I suppose a smirk’s not the way to greet a cop but I can’t fucking help it when he stops me every damn time my wheels are spotted around here.

“License and registration, Tate,” he says.

“You already know I’ve got both.”

“Yeah well I want to see them again.”

“For the twelfth time? Must look pretty in my license picture.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Tate,” he growls.

I pull my hands from the steering wheel, reach into the glove compartment, then my wallet, and hand them over.

“You up to mischief again, Tate?”

“Not especially.” I grin.

He does the same dance we always do—checks the paperwork, clucks as he shakes his head.

I pull out a hundred-dollar bill, place it between my index and middle finger, and shove it out the window. “You might want to catch a beer for the next half hour. In fact, make it an hour. Invite a few buddies. On me.”

“Man … you’re really pushing it.” He pockets the money. “Don’t be so eager to go to the grave.”

“Nah. I’m immortal.” I grin.

He laughs, then shoots me a scowl and walks away. I fire up the car and screech away, switching gears as I speed off the narrow road, hitting it hard as I glance at the time. Two minutes to the race, still a couple miles to go.

I push on faster—never wanting to be in a race like I want to race this one. Because she’s fucking there. I can feel it in my bones, and I want her to know who the fuck the best driver in the world is.

Fucking me.

I pull into the parking lot where the crowd of usuals snap up at attention when they watch my car pull in.

They squeal and wave.

Preston’s car is already lined up—ready.

I park mine and leap out through the window.

Adrenaline courses in my veins.

I crave this shit. It’s in my DNA, in my very damn bones. I need it like air. I need it like I need a heart.

“Tate?”

I scan the crowd for her. Fucking couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wanted her here as hard as I wanted to race. Where the fuck is she?

I hear Henley approach.

“Tate? You ready?”

I spot Preston across the street, surrounded with girls, drinking.

“That’s gonna be his third,” Henley says to me.

I keep my eyes out for her, and suddenly I see a speck of light brown hair and green eyes.

She’s gaping at me.

I kinda like it.

Female hands are on my abdomen, stroking. Wanting. Purring in my ear.

“A little tension release before the race, Tate?” one of the girls whispers.

I feel my lips hike up at the corners. Yeah, I don’t reply. My mind is on racing now.

But my eyes …

My eyes are on her.

Honey hair, light-green eyes, a fucking wet dream. My muscles tight, I’m ready. But I can’t keep from walking over, my heart pounding as I envision claiming her as my prize, feeling her melt beneath me, tasting her mouth beneath mine, letting her show me all the favorite places of her body while my mouth shows them all some TLC, Racer-style.

“What is this? Role-play today? School teacher slut—” I hear some asshole say.

“She’s not a whore,” I growl, angry, shoving my way to her as she watches me, wide-eyed, in both interest and concern.

I warned her to stay away; she should’ve. But she’s here now, and I’m so ready to blow her fucking mind off, I can already taste her on my lips. Feel her with my goddamn hands.

“You ready for the race of your life, Alana?” I ask, my voice gruff.

I’ve got a hard-on, and it’s for her.

My dick swells with speed, yeah I get hard when I race, but it’s never swelled like this before.

She narrows her eyes as she thinks about it.

“You’re late,” she says with that princess-like, bossy tone that somehow turns me on.

I just smile and make her watch me head to my car.

I’m testosterone-laden and as pumped as it gets every time I begin, and I’m high on my own power when I end.

I’m going to fuck her like she’s never been fucked tonight.

Soundlessly I walk to my mustang. It’s nicked by her, and I suppose that’s why she got off with it. Because it’ll have a thousand more nicks by the time I’m done tonight. And because she looked tired, tired, beat-up, and about as lovely as a bird with a broken wing.

Dozens of footsteps hurry behind me as I reach my mustang.

“Holy shit!” the girls cry.

“Bring your camera,” the guys say.

Yeah, they’re pumped about it.

Because I’m good. Because nobody is as good.

I grab the door, climb in and take the seat, waiting for it to fuel me, fill the void that keeps growing in me no matter what I do—pissing me the fuck off. Nothing satiates me, nothing fills me, it’s the curse of being a Tate—one I inherited from my father.

But I’ve got this.

And suddenly, I’m wired up because tonight, I’m going to have her.

Preston fires up next, and we let the engines steam.

I eye my car not only because she’s beautiful, but because of what she can do.

She’s all red body, black seats. Four hundred horsepower. (I did some modifications to take her to this level.) A beauty. She’s raring to go.

I shift, pull up an inch closer to the starting line—line up next to him.

I feel him glancing at me, I glance back, giving him my best eat-shit smile. Ten … the count begins.

Nine…

Eight…

Seven…

Six…

Five…

Four…

THREE…

TWO…

ONE!!

The squeal of tires on asphalt. Pedal to the metal, the seat vibrating beneath me as I step it. Easy first—and she’s purring. Shifting gears, I head down the narrow road, and pick up speed, my foot down harder as I shift again.

We’re neck to neck.

I’m hitting 100 mph. 120 mph. 150 mph.

We’re fucking fast now. Trees flying past my window. Preston bumping up against my side. I swerve lightly and lock our wheels together. Shove him off the road. Destabilized, I swerve and straighten with a screech. He loses seconds.

Up ahead, there are headlights, like beady white eyes coming at me.

I keep my feet on the pedal, swerving right as the truck passes, dust piling up in a cloud behind me. My heart is racing a thousand miles an hour, and I want it to race even more.

Preston comes up, attempting a pass. He gyrates and bumps me to the side, sending me spinning.

“Fucker.” I let go of the wheel, let her spin before I grab her back in my hold and recover control.

I’m fucking pissed now.

I pull up behind him and kiss his bumper. We meet eyes through his rearview mirror, and I smile menacingly, pressing the last way into the pedal to kiss the fucker harder.

He swerves—I swerve the other way and pass him until he’s eating my dirty air. I push harder to get away so he can’t use my draft, my eyes up ahead, where I pull up the parking brake and spin to turn.

I release it and speed back to the parking lot, my mind on that finish line—and on fucking sexy crash-into-my-cherry-mustang Alana waiting in the crowd.

Is she like my fans who watch me? Whose pussies get wet from the excitement? Whose nipples turn hard as fuck by the time I climb out of the car and give them a glance?

My cock is thick again. It’s been acting up since I met her, and it’s only been intensifying with each second she breathes even in my zip code.

Yeah my dad is a man who goes after what he wants. You can say I’m cut of the same cloth.

I want her beneath me tonight.

I screech to a halt. I turn her off, then ease out of the car, breathing hard. I hear the shuffle of feet as girls scramble to get closer, meanwhile the guys shove their way forward too, including Henley.

“Insane, you’re a ridiculous beast!!” Henley yells.

I raise my arm and slap his hand. He also places my bets, and the wad of cash he shoves into my hand is 30,000-dollars thick.

Yeah it feels good to stuff that money in my back pocket, but not even winning feels as good as the drive.

The moment I hit that pedal, I’m alive.

And tonight I feel drunk with it.

I scan the crowd and look for her—my eyes replaceing her in the same spot I left her, her mouth gaping wide open. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want to fucking kiss the shit out of that mouth. Tonight my prize is her.

My eyes stay on her, my gut roiling with hunger. I smile at her; her eyes widen a little bit, and she blinks.

“We’ve got you a prize … show you what champions …” I’m hearing Henley say.

I start walking forward, feeling crazed like I’ve never felt crazed in my life, my eyes, hands, mind, even the hot, adrenaline-buzzed blood pumping in my veins, all pumping for her.