Racer (Real Book 7)
Racer: Chapter 43

Racer

It’s crunch time. Racing Abu Dhabi today. Fighting for the championship. The stakes have never been so high for me, and I’ve never wanted to win a race so fucking badly. Hell I love to win, but this race isn’t just for me. It’s for Lana and her family.

I don’t sleep; don’t even try to.

I feel good in the car, feel good about this.

Feel great about Lana lying in bed, sound asleep after saying she loved me last night. She’s said it before—at the hospital. But somehow it counts more when she says it just because.

I dial my father once Lana wakes and steps into the shower, gazing out the window at Abu Dhabi while he answers.

“I’m fired up,” Dad says.

“You watching me race?”

“We’re having friends over, we’re all watching. Maverick and Reese, Melanie and Greyson, Pandora and Mackenna.”

I smile knowing they’ll all be cheering for me.

“Racer,” Dad says.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“And Racer?”

“Yeah?”

A pause before Dad growls, “Go kill it.”

“I learned from the best,” I say, and hang up.

We hit the race track, and the cameras keep snapping pictures of me everywhere I go. I ignore them, focused only on what’s coming ahead—and on Lana.

She’s worried about me, I know.

She’s lost love once—and though I know she knows we wouldn’t have found each other otherwise, it hurts her and it hurts me to know she fears losing me too.

She’s not gonna.

Ever.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I tell her when I notice the look of concern in her sweet green eyes.

She opens her mouth as if to contradict me, then frowns the sweetest frown on a human being these eyes have ever seen.

I pull her closer to me by her shoulders, my voice stern. Hell, I know she can’t help being fearful, but I can’t help wanting to reassure her.

“Lana. Look at me. Do you believe in me?”

I give her a squeeze, willing her to know I’d never leave her. I’d fight death for my crasher. I’d fight my own monsters harder, every day, for her.

“I believe in you. It’s just the other things that happen that make me fear,” she says, her brow scrunching even deeper in worry.

I smile down at her, my chest soft with tenderness even as my determination doubles in steel.

I chuck her chin gently, keeping my voice low for her. “I’m doing what I love. For the person I love most. I’m the luckiest motherfucker on this planet.”

I smile and pat her gorgeous ass to remind her who she belongs to before I head to the drivers’ meeting. Silent. Focused. All those patches on their suits are sponsors; my goal is that after I win this thing, Lana will have to field them, vet them, pick the ones she likes.

Lana continues organizing everyone’s clothes and breakfast. She takes care of us all. When this is over, I want to take care of her for a change.

I meet with Adrian to discuss strategy.

“If you’ve got something to give, give it now. Don’t hold back,” Adrian says.

“I never do.”

“Good.”

“Usually teams have several drivers to help each other out, to provide support and give feedback about the track. We could never afford to do that. All the track input we have will come from you and only you—”

“I got this.”

“You qualified P2. Watch out for P4 and P3 on the start; they’ll be trying to eat up a spot.”

“P1 better watch out for me,” I say.

I grab my helmet, boots, and racing suit—knowing that for this year, it’s the last time I’ll put these on for a race. This fucking race is for my girl. This win is for her, and for the family who believed in me enough.

It’s also for me.

Because, fuck, I love this shit too much.

I change in the motorhome and search her out, sitting by her dad, when I walk down the steps.

She smiles and comes over, even more nervous than she was a few minutes ago.

“After today you won’t be able to tell me I’m not the best driver in the world.” I look at her meaningfully, and she presses her lips together, emotional.

“Go strut your stuff, Racer Tate,” she breathes, her eyes wide, hopeful, nervous. Loving.

I take her by the back of her neck and lean downward, firmly kissing her lips.

“Watch me,” I say, and smile, because it’s a promise.

Lana

He walks down the track and doesn’t even glance around to look at the competition. It’s as if he thinks they’re not worth his time, or as if he’s simply in it to race—and all that is important to him right now is that car before him. I love the way he strokes it with one hand, frowning in concentration as he asks my brothers what they did to change the setting.

In racing, talent can only go so far. Talent cannot make up for the things that a car cannot do. So it is our job to be sure that we give our drivers the most capable car, set in the most capable way, for every track—which is different because of the heat, the length of the stretches, whether it rained recently or not.

He looks as hot as the devil’s son would look in a racing suit, its gorgeous cut enhancing his trim waist, long legs, and wide shoulders.

On the mic, the announcers are discussing the contenders for the year, and I pick up some of what they’re saying about HW Racing.

“What his team is doing is incredible. They’re bringing the fight to the big guys. This team doesn’t have as much resources as the others. It’s a small team bringing in the right rookie, an inexperienced U.S. street racer, into the mix … with phenomenal results!”

“You know, when Racer Tate was announced in the beginning of the season I don’t think anyone expected him to ever see a single podium, much less appear on most every single podium since he began … This is one young driver with some serious talent we’re talking about here. HW Racing has never set up their cars as strongly as they do with him around. He seems to know exactly what he wants his car to do …”

I exhale as we all start going to do what we always do – I put my cap on, slide my ponytail through the hole in the back, and check that my dad has one too, and that he has a comfortable seat, all while my brothers and Racer focus on the cars.

I glance at them as they hover over Kelsey—who’s already on the table, looking sharp and bare for one last check-up.

My eyes caress Racer’s backside. From the top of his black hair, down his thick, strong neck, his wide shoulders, his narrow waist, all of that enveloped in that sexy black racing suit.

I watch the guys lower Kelsey to the ground, and Racer slide into the seat and behind the wheel, strapping down the safety harness and then gripping the wheel with his gloved hands as they start pulling him out to pits.

I cannot believe that we’re at the end of the season. I cannot believe how much more racing means to me now, when the man I love is the one driving our cars—representing our team. Chasing all of our dreams.

Our eyes meet and hold for the briefest, bestest second, before his visor comes down, and Racer is full on in racing mode.

Trembling with adrenaline, I head to take my spot next to my dad. He’s on his feet to get a better view, and I feel a prick of nerves as the cars shuffle out to the track.

Drake walks up and rehashes everything with Dad and me. “So if Clark doesn’t finish the race, we’ll win the championship if Tate at least comes in second. But if Clark finishes the race, then we need that first come hell or high water.”

I exhale and nod.

Dad nods as well, his expression stubbornly determined. “We’re not skimping on wheels, on anything he needs,” Dad tells Drake.

“No sir, we’re not,” Drake assures him, patting my dad’s back as we watch the cars in anticipation.

The engines flare to life.

The crowd gets restless, their excitement palpable in the air. I watch Racer’s car, bright red with blue and our sponsors’ logos, pull into the track, his shiny blue visor reflecting the sunlight off his helmet.

My pulse skyrockets in anticipation as my eyes stay on Kelsey. All that red on that car is pure absolute fire, home to the devil behind the wheel.

The Clarks are going to pull every stop to ensure the win, try every trick in the trade from pitting in for fresher tires to tweaking their downforce to saving fuel to more. Clark continues leading the championship, after all. I’m afraid there could be some rough driving—and my nerves are eating at me.

I take position and slide on the headset that Clay hands over. We all discussed how it should be, and though I insisted Clayton should be the one on the headset with Racer, both Clayton and Racer disagreed.

Racer wanted me here with him; and though I feel completely unprepared and am not as good at this as Clayton is, I caved in because I want to be here too.

“Let’s do this,” I whisper to him through the mic, and my stomach clutches as they circle several laps until finally, the green flag flashes in the wind.

And they’re off!

I keep my eyes on him. When he drives past, all I see is a flash of red and dust behind him. I check the stats and the times for the drivers, wanting to keep him as informed as possible. “P2 and holding steady,” I say.

He doesn’t reply—we’re too focused on winning here—but I almost notice his car kick up faster after P1.

The cars appear from around the curve. They zoom past the stretch, one next to the other. I glance at the stats and whisper, “0.06 after P1.”

“I’m outbraking him,” he mutters.

I hold my breath. To outbrake him is to brake after the other guy, so that you can pass him on a curve. It can go well, and it can go badly.

Racer outbrakes. There’s screeching, and they’re off, with—

“P1!” I say excitedly.

Clark is on his tail, and as both cars charge down the track, kicking up a storm, the cheers from the stands get louder and louder.

Racer

Sweat coats me under my racing suit and drips down my temples under my helmet. The heat is simmering in my body as I keep pushing for my best, still leading on P1 with my girl on the line.

I’m on eighth gear, go to second for turn 1, and exit turn 1 going up through the gears. When gear five fails, I know it’s not good.

“Shit,” I growl.

From fourth I have to push to sixth, but I lose engine torque, and Clark catches up.

Goddamn me. I’m going to fucking lose torque every time I move up the gears because I’m skipping a gear. I’m going to need to make up all the time I lose in every turn on the straightaway.

When you lose one gear, it’s fucking dangerous. The gearbox can fail. It’s hard on the gearbox and it can completely fail. I can’t head to pits, it takes hours to fix. I’m on lap 52 out of 70, I’m in P1, but Clark is close behind. Too close behind. And he’ll be getting the gift of catching up with me on every fucking turn.

I just hope the gearbox doesn’t break down completely and I end up in the wall.

I push through around the curve and speed like the devil down the straightaway with Clark on my ass, and when I take my next turn and lose gear three too, I know I’m fucked.

“Fuck fuck FUCK!” I yell.

“What’s wrong?” Lana asks.

“Put Clay on,” I rasp.

“Racer, what’s wrong.”

“Put Clay on for just a second,” I repeat, shifting to eighth on the straightaway, pushing Kelsey as hard as I’ve ever pushed her.

Lana

Clayton is rehashing strategy with Racer, and I keep noticing Clark is right up on Kelsey’s ass on every turn.

“What’s going on? I can tell something’s wrong,” I ask Clay.

“He’s lost fifth and third gear,” Clayton says, mumbling “Yeah I’ll put her on” and passing me back the headset.

“Hey, baby.”

I start to sob, and I remove the headset for a tiny second as I try to control my tears and keep him from listening to me. I suck in a harsh breath and force myself to put it back on, wiping my tears.

I know he needed to discuss options for him when he asked for Clay, and now I don’t know why they aren’t just bringing him back to pits safe and sound.

“Hey. Hey, baby,” Racer says, more sternly. “I’m coming out of this car and you’re going to be the first person I want there. You remember what I like to do the moment I get out of the car, you got to be there to greet me in the winner’s circle. I’ll be pissed if you’re not there.”

“Racer, please, slow down. Stop. I don’t mind if you lose the race.” More frantic tears fall, and I’m fearing that if I lose him, there will be only a dark black pit for me. No more life, no more love, no more good things for me.

“Don’t worry about me, baby, this is for your dad, this is for you.”

I can barely speak through the pikes in my throat. It’s a war just to force my voice to stay level. “I love you. You have no idea how much.”

“I love you like that too,” he says.

I get mad the next second. “Racer Tate! People die from this! You know that?! This is not something to fuck around with, this is not street racing anymore! These are dangerous machines that you’re fucking with!”

“Not me. Not today. I know this car. It’s a part of me.” The steel in his voice strengthens me, and I exhale as he quietly commands, “Now walk me through it. Where’s Clark.”

I wipe my tears and straighten my spine, trying to focus as I strain my eyes and try to lead him safely back home. So the best driver in the world can please come safely back to me.

Racer

Come on, girl.

I struggle with the gearbox on every turn, trying to get Kelsey back on her fastest speed on the straightaway.

I cannot disappoint my people. I can’t fucking lose this—I never. Fucking. Lose.

I’m the best driver in the world.

Motherfucker Clark’s got a better car? A better damn gearbox?

I’ve got more talent, and a girl to woo.

Lana

On lap 69, we’re holding our collective breaths out by the tent. The announcers are going crazy speculating what is wrong with Racer’s car, for it’s been acting even more reckless than ever, leaving skid marks as Racer’s rough, raw driving comes to show.

On lap 70, I cannot look but at the same time, I cannot take my eyes away from that red car, growling past us like a storm …

We’re down to the last lap.

Clark is trying to take the lead on every turn—attempting pass after pass—and Racer is fighting not to give it to him.

They head into the turn, almost nose to nose. Clark passes him. The crowd collectively gasps as Clark retakes the lead. They take the straightaway, and we’re down to the last seconds when Tate positions Kelsey right behind Clark—using his draft to pull him forward.

Two seconds to go, Racer veers right and passes him on the straightaway.

One second to go … and then … the checkered flag is waving as #38, the most beautiful car in the world driven by the best fucking driver in existence, zooms past the winning line.

The announcers are going crazy.

“And it’s RACER TATE, RACER TATE! The BEST rookie driver we have seen for as long as this Grand Prix has been standing! RACER TATE takes the win in the last SECOND of the race! This is unbelievable …”

After both the car and pilot get weighed, Racer finally steps off the scale and pulls off his helmet, swiftly scanning the crowd gathering around him.

I’m trying to push myself forward as Racer starts walking into the crowd and people start chanting,

“TATE! TATE! TATE!!”

My dad is crying like he’s never cried in his life.

Racer grins as my brothers and the mechanics catch up with him and they fling him in the air, and when he lands back on his feet, his eyes lock on mine. My lungs seize up for a heart-stopping moment. Because his eyes are the most marvelous, most gorgeous blue they have ever been.

They flash primitively as he narrows them on my face, and he picks up his pace as he cuts a path toward me.

I’m frantic and breathless as I shove my way forward, needing nothing but to reach him right now. Yes, he’s an amazing driver, but he is so much more than that.

He’s my guy.

He’s my guy and this is one of the most important moments of his life.

When I finally reach him, his hands take my waist and I’m tossed up in the air as if I weigh nothing. One second I squeak, and the next he catches me, and his hot mouth is on me, and I’m getting kissed as if Racer Tate means to eat me whole.

Dizzy and euphoric as he sets me back down, I laughingly press my face to his warm palm, and he shifts so that I can get closer. I slide my cheek down his arm and against his chest while he slides his arms around me and draws me closer.

He kisses my freckles. I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.

“I love you,” he growls in my ear, squeezing me.

“I love you so much I can’t believe it,” I admit between tears and laughter, biting down on my smile as I kiss his dimple. He groans softly and becomes hard. I lift my head, and his eyes are vivid with possessiveness—and when they drop to my lips, he presses them to mine, and I press them back to his, suddenly kissing him as if my life depends on it, and maybe it does, because right now all I know is hot, warm, hard Racer’s mouth on mine, and he is my #1 in everything.

Unfortunately, I cannot kiss him forever—and soon we’re caught up in the excitement of the award ceremony as I watch with a full heart as Racer gets his award and steps up to the very top of the Formula One Grand Prix podium. After a lot of cheers, a lot of crying from not only my dad, but my brothers and the mechanics, I spend the rest of the day out of the track, watching on the sidelines as Racer gets crammed with interviews and autograph requests.