She shook her head.
“The Piranha Club, because there’s always someone trying to put one over on you, take you down, destroy you. Feast on your flesh and gnaw on your bones.”
She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Wow. And I thought journalism was ruthless.”
“Wait until you’ve spent a few weeks trailing me. You’ll have a very different perspective.”
She nibbled on her lip. “The Piranha Club… Hmm. That’d make a great title for the book.”
I chuckled. “It would.”
She reached into her bag and removed her iPad.
I snorted. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”
She ignored my jibe and tapped into the notes app, her forehead furrowed in concentration. I closed my eyes. Time to get some shut-eye. The second we landed, my feet wouldn’t touch the ground.
Reilley
The garage smelled of grease and fuel, rubber, and sweat. I stood back, keeping my distance from the mechanics dashing about getting the tires ready for Jared Kane’s final pit stop at the Spanish Grand Prix. I raised my phone to my lips and spoke into it, low, rapidly, describing everything I could see. This was the second race I’d attended. After Bahrain, the teams had headed off to Azerbaijan and China, but a clash of schedules meant I’d had to duck back to the States.
Although the book I was writing focused on Devon and his life during the last twelve years working right in the heart of Formula One, I also wanted to make sure it had enough color, depth, and realism so the reader felt like they were right there watching it all unfold.
I peered across the pit lane to where Devon was sitting behind the pit wall. He had his back to me, his attention on the race, and occasionally, he’d lean over to whisper—or probably shout, given the roar of the engines and the crowd—in Jack’s ear.
He twisted in his seat as Jared slewed into the pits, his attention on the car and on the mechanics as they changed tires at a lightning-quick pace. My attention wasn’t on the car, though. It was on him. A shiver of delight crept down my spine. There was something hella attractive about a man so engrossed in his work that a bevy of beauties could parade by in their Victoria’s Secret finest and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. When Devon was at work, nothing, but nothing stole his attention. I admired that kind of concentration because it was similar to me. When my writing flowed, a bomb could go off and I’d still keep writing, completely unaware of the carnage surrounding me.
Jared’s car screamed down the pitlane, smoke puffing from the rubber. The mechanics poured back into the garage, all high-fiving each other. They plunked down onto the waiting blue plastic chairs to watch the race, their part now over unless a complete disaster occurred.
I was so busy staring at Devon that I didn’t notice Paisley Nash, Jack’s daughter and Jared Kane’s girlfriend, sidle up next to me, but when I received a nudge in my side and looked down to find her wearing a teasing grin, I bit.
“What?” I asked.
I liked Paisley enormously. When Devon and I had landed in Bahrain a few weeks earlier, she’d been friendly, polite, but equally very protective of those she saw as her family, and that included Devon. Given my occupation, I was familiar with people being a little leery of me at first. But over the last couple of weeks, we’d gotten a lot closer, and now I counted her as a good friend.
“Want a tip on how to land Devon?”
“Who says I want to land Devon?”
Yep, way to go, Riles. Perfect blend of disinterest and surprise.
Paisley snorted. “Are you kidding? Your pussy is gagging for it.”
I barked out a laugh while at the same time checking around to see if anyone else had heard her. Paisley was one of the most outrageous women I knew. She simply didn’t possess a filter and was so different than my female friends back home. She was blinding sunlight to most other people’s shade.
“Classy,” I drawled.
“Truth,” Paisley hit back. “So, do you want to know the answer? Or am I going to have to watch you drool with your tongue hanging out at every single race this season, or until that book you’re writing is finished and you trundle off with your tail between your legs and your vagina mourning that it didn’t get to sample Devon’s cock?”
It couldn’t hurt to hear what she had to say, and clearly, Paisley could see through me as easily as freshly polished glass. “Pray tell, oh wise one.”
“Tell him straight you want to sample the goods.”
When I arched an eyebrow in query, she continued.
“Devon is like most men. Thick when it comes to women. They don’t do hints, or coy glances, or fluttering eyelashes. They do straight talk. So, if you want Devon, tell him.”
I gnawed my lower lip, sighing heavily. I wanted Devon to make the first move, but it had been weeks without a sign of him caving. At this rate I’d be drawing my retirement and still be no further forward. “What if he’s not interested?”
Paisley shrugged. “Then you’ll know to stop wasting your time.” She gestured around. “This place is full of hot guys. A beautiful girl like you could have your pick.”
But that was just it. I didn’t want my pick of hot guys. I only wanted one hot guy. I shifted my gaze to Devon, his back to me now, his vigilance on the race, then returned to Paisley. She gave me an encouraging nod, her forehead creased.
“Okay, I’ll tell him. But if this goes to hell in a handbasket, I’m going to kill you.”
Chewing on my lip, I sat opposite Devon, the recorder between us, iPad on my knee. He thought this was just another interview, but I had a different kind of questioning in mind. After my chat with Paisley earlier today, I’d decided to go for it. What was the worst that could happen?
You could make an absolute fool out of yourself.
Yeah, true, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d told a guy I liked him, only for him to tell me he didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t like I was in love with Devon. I had the hots for him, I wanted to fuck him, but if he didn’t feel the same, fine. It might make working together awkward for a few days, but we’d get past it. We were both professionals. Both adults.
And if he did feel something…
“You must be pleased about today,” I said.
Jared had won the race, and ever since Devon had come out of the post-race meeting, he hadn’t stopped smiling.
“You think?” he responded, shooting me a teasing look.
“Well, considering since Jared crossed the line you’ve used up this year’s smile quota, I’d say you were pleased.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I smile.”
“Frugally,” I said. “You should smile more. You have a nice smile.”
His eyes took on a faraway look, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over my left shoulder. And then he shook his head. “How’s the book coming along? You getting what you need?”
When I’d first started recording our conversations and taking notes after we’d landed in Bahrain, I’d told Devon I didn’t want to interview him per se. Instead, I’d ask a question and then just let him talk. Then I’d decide what made it into the book and what didn’t. There was method in my madness: by allowing him to simply recall his memories in his own way, he’d feel less under pressure and more likely to give me what I needed. It was a tactic I’d used before to good effect.
“I’m making progress,” I said evasively.
“Can I read what you have so far?”
“No. The only person who sees the rough drafts is my editor. Besides, it’s a mess at the moment. It’ll be a while yet before it’s in a readable state.”
“Fair enough.”
His easy capitulation went straight to his character. Devon wasn’t a demanding kind of a guy. Placid and mellow, but also deep and thoughtful. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t fight or stand his ground, but he chose his battles carefully.
“So, where do you want to start tonight, Reilley?”
I’d like to start by getting naked. With you.
Just do it! Rip off the Band-Aid.
He arched an eyebrow. “Tongue-tied? Wow, that’s a first.”
I shook my head. “Never mind.”
Dammit!
This wasn’t me. I was a confident woman, the kind of woman who knew herself inside out. Who was outgoing, vivacious, uncaring of what other people thought. Of me, anyway. If they attacked my work, yeah, that hurt, because I considered every single one of those books to be my babies, my children. But if people didn’t like me, *shrugs*, I didn’t care. So why couldn’t I bring myself to tell Devon Gray that I wanted to get into his pants?
When I discover the answer to that question, I will share it. Promise.
“What’s up, Reilley? You’re acting weird tonight.”
I’m going to kill Paisley.
She’d put the stupid idea in my head to tell Devon I found him attractive. It had been almost two months since Devon had agreed to take part in the project, and during that time we’d spent, maybe, twenty-five hours either in face-to-face conversations or on the phone, and not once had he given me an inkling he was interested in anything other than my writing prowess. He’d thawed, definitely, but on the coworker-lover scale, I’d say we were firmly in the coworker sector.
“Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Yes! But I can’t.
“It’s all good, Devon. Okay, let’s get some more interesting stories for the book.” I picked up the dictation device and pressed record. Setting it back down on the table, I brushed aside all non-professional thoughts and began.
“So far, we’ve talked a lot about the excitement, the thrill, the pure exhilaration of winning, of being in the top team in Formula One, and what goes into achieving that kind of success. Tonight, I’m looking for some balance. There must be bad days, terrible days. I’d like to talk about one or two of those. Tell me, Devon, what was your worst day ever at a race?”
His shoulders sagged, and his hand came up to stroke his chin, his eyes glazing over as the memories crowded his mind. He dropped his chin to his chest. When his eyes finally cut to mine, they were glistening.
Oh shit. What can of worms has that question opened?
“San Marino, seven years ago. The track isn’t on the calendar any longer. They’re always changing it up, introducing new circuits, new locations. It was my first season working for Jack, and every race was a new adventure. Even though I’d been working in Formula One for five years by then, I was still young enough to be completely oblivious to the fragility of life.
“I was working with Antonio Santos, a seasoned Brazilian driver who had only come over to Nash Racing that year. It was a major coup for Jack to land him. Everyone wanted Santos on their team. The man was a genius on and off the track. Jack put me with him because he felt I could learn a lot from Santos, and I did.
“San Marino was the fifth race of the season. Santos had won the previous four and was riding high at the top of the championship. The press was already starting to report that the championship was over, even though we still had seventeen races to go, he was that damned good, you know.”
He stood, stretched out his back, and wandered over to the window of his hotel room, overlooking the city of Barcelona. I stood, too, taking the recorder with me, unsure our voices would reach if I left it on the table.
I waited for Devon to begin speaking again. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, the position pulling the material tight over his pecs. I tried not to stare. I failed. Fortunately for me, Devon was too lost in his memories to notice.
“We successfully made it through the first round of pit stops, always a tricky and nervous time, and Antonio had pulled out an eight-second lead. And then, just like that,” he snapped his fingers in front of his face, “the car jerked, weaved, and then pitched him into the wall. The car rebounded and rolled several times, eventually stopping halfway across the track. Thank God racing drivers have such fast reflexes, because those following managed to avoid him.”
He took a deep breath, then twisted his head to look down at me. “The car was intact. A few dents here and there, but solid. It did its job of protecting the driver. The problem was, it couldn’t protect his brain from rattling around in his skull as the car rolled and bounced. The medics reckon he was already dead when they lifted him out.”
I gasped, even though I’d guessed where this story would end up.
“He suffered a catastrophic brain aneurism. Left behind a wife, two gorgeous kids, a mother and father who’ve never recovered from their loss, and millions of fans around the world who watched the horrifying events unfold on TV.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, automatically reaching for Devon’s hand.
He accepted my gesture, squeezed my fingers, and gave me a sad smile.
“The race was cancelled, obviously. Later that night, I went back to my hotel room, and I’m not ashamed to say, I cried. I sobbed for hours and hours for the loss of a dear friend, and a racing genius, the likes of which I doubt we’ll see again for a very long time.”
He released me, turning his attention back to the view. “After Antonio’s death, there were calls for the sport to be banned, that it was just too dangerous. Obviously, that didn’t happen, but like every accident, whether it’s in a sport like ours, or an airplane crash, or a boat sinking, those terrible tragedies result in improved safety. The manufacturers of the helmets made changes which include a lining that is custom-molded to their skulls, meaning their head will be much better stabilized in the event of a crash like Antonio’s. Since that terrible day, there have been other similar crashes, but every driver has walked away.” He tapped his head. “Touch wood.”
I smiled faintly at his attempt to lighten the mood after what had been such a sad story.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me putting that in the book?”
He nodded. “Antonio’s accident is a matter of public record.”
“But your reaction to it isn’t.”
He offered up a wry grin. “I’m not afraid to admit I cry, Reilley. That I bleed, that I can feel and show raw, tearing emotion. It doesn’t make me any less of a man.”
No, I thought. It makes you even more of one.
Devon
I clapped Jared on the back, then pulled him into a rough hug. “Well bloody done, mate. Terrific drive.”
His grin almost split his face. “It’s thanks to you and this team. To win in Monaco. God, Devon, it’s my fucking dream.”
Paisley sidled up to him, slipped her arm around his waist, and raised up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “My hero.”
I turned away, anticipating a PDA that would likely peel the skin from my eyeballs. Jared and Paisley weren’t shy at showing their mutual attraction. They didn’t care who was around. They’d got together almost two years ago, and by now, the team was used to them locking lips at every available opportunity. Didn’t mean I wanted to witness it.
“Hey, Devon,” Paisley called out as I walked away—thinking about the hot shower, room service, and three fingers of whiskey in my immediate future.
I glanced over my shoulder. “What?”
“I spoke to Reilley earlier. You’re coming out tonight. No arguments. We’re all going to Obsidian.”
I groaned. Obsidian was the club in Monaco if you were young, hip, and liked paying obscene amounts of money for watered-down cocktails. There wasn’t one thing from that list which applied to me.
“Not my jam, Paisley.”
“True, but it is Reilley’s.”
“So? Reilley can go. I’m not her keeper.”
Paisley let go of Jared’s backside and skipped over to me. She put on ‘the pout’—an expression Paisley had perfected over the years. I knew her manipulative ways all too well. As Jack’s daughter, she’d spent a lot of time around the paddock before finally starting work with the team as a mechanic two ye
ars ago, where she’d met Jared. She’d grown up a lot since then but still assumed she could twist me around her little finger.
And she could. Not that I’d ever share that with her.
“Come on, Devon. Don’t be a spoilsport. Madison and Tate are coming, too, as are a few of the other guys, and they’re all bringing their other halves. Don’t make Reilley play the part of wallflower.”
“I’m not Reilley’s other half,” I helpfully pointed out.
“Not yet,” she said, winking.
I glared at her, despite her comment sending my heart racing. Was Paisley clutching at straws, or had Reilley said something to her? Did Reilley want more from me than information to sell books? We’d definitely grown closer over the last few months, even though I’d initially worked hard to avoid her. My worry, that I’d never share with anyone, was that I had a feeling Reilley could break through my protective armor that I’d encased myself in after Charlotte’s accident. Reilley’s genuine warmth, innate, easy charm, and her ability to make me laugh, where others spectacularly failed, endeared her to me in a way I hadn’t expected. If I allowed her to burrow any further under my skin, it could have catastrophic consequences.
“Not ever,” I hit back.
“Whatever you say. Protest all you like, Devon. You’re coming,” Paisley said.
“You’re wasting your time arguing, buddy,” Jared said. “You know what Paisley is like when she makes up her mind.”
Paisley grinned broadly. “That’s settled then. Eleven p.m. tonight. Obsidian. Be there, or I’ll personally come looking for you and drag you there myself.”
She swanned off, singing to herself, with Jared trailing after her, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I ushered Reilley into Obsidian. Security waved us on, which meant Paisley had put us on the guest list. Reilley danced on tiptoes, buzzing with excitement as we weaved through the crowds of half-drunk twentysomethings dry humping anything that moved. Monaco was beloved by a lot of the Formula One crowd. It was my least favorite place on the calendar. Too rich, too full of entitled wannabes, too pretentious.
The Full Velocity Series Box Set Page 45
