Open Wheel

by Shey Stahl

  Rager snorted at Axel’s remark, the sound agitated as he looked up, never meeting my eyes but focused on my brother.

  Those words had everything to do with his situation, not mine. It had a little to do with mine, but he had no right to say these things to me.

  None at all.

  And he was a fucking idiot if he thought I was going to let him get away with it, too.

  “No, you don’t get to call me a slut or judge me, Axel.” I was so pissed right then my jaw clenched shut and I could barely get the words out, but knew I needed to. He didn’t call me a slut directly, but I knew damn well what he was implying. I knew what everyone was implying. “You have no idea what it’s like to be with somebody and love them, but have someone else hold your heart captive in the palm of their hands!” Shoving him backward, I started to walk away. “You’re an asshole.”

  I realized quickly in that moment—through my anger—I’d basically told the pits of Volusia Speedway how I felt about Rager Sweet.

  My phone started ringing in the back pocket of my jeans. Pulling it out, I noticed it was Easton. “Hey…”

  “Hey,” his voice was rushed, loud sounds of what seemed like the crew members inside the hauler with him, “do you have my gloves with you?”

  “Your what?”

  He sighed, the annoyance clear. “My fucking gloves, Arie. You know, the red and black ones I wear every Sunday.”

  I stopped walking, ready to throw my cell phone in the dirt.

  Is it be a dick day and I didn’t realize it?

  “Why would I have your gloves, Easton? They’re probably in your bag.”

  “Never mind,” he barked and then the line went dead.

  “Asshole,” I snapped, shoving my phone back in my pocket.

  Of course, Rager followed me, dressed in his black and yellow racing suit and Solar Seals Racing hat pulled down low over his eyes. “Hey, wait up,” he yelled after me as I walked on a mission, my shoulders hunched forward, jaw clenched and mad as fucking hell that I could have ripped that bottle from Axel’s hand and shoved it up his ass. And then if I knew where Easton’s gloves were really at, I would have slapped him with them.

  “Hey now,” Rager wrapped his arm around me, walking right beside me, “he’s just mad.”

  “I don’t fucking care! That wasn’t cool,” I growled out, continuing to walk, shaking off his arms. I really, really needed to relax, but I was running on adrenaline now. I couldn’t hold my temper or my emotions back any longer. “I’m not a slut! I didn’t sleep with you. That wouldn’t make me a slut regardless, because he has no fucking clue what’s going on in my life right now!”

  Rager stopped me when we made it to the concession stands and brought me around the side where a drum of fuel sat. Backing me against the wall, he stared at me, intently, his eyes darting from my heavy chest to my lips. “You know he didn’t mean it. And he didn’t say you were a slut.”

  “I know that.”

  Okay, he technically didn’t say that, but he implied it.

  He looked better than he did last night, the color in his face returning from his stomach flu yesterday. Resting his hand on the wall beside my head, I looked at his hand, knowing I’d give anything to have it wrap around my head bringing my lips to his, and realizing that was exactly how I fucked myself into this mess.

  “What if he did mean it, Rager? I know what this looks like. I do. I’ve always known. Everyone thinks I’m cheating on Easton with you.”

  “I wouldn’t be that lucky,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, his eyes on that fuel drum when a crew member for Shane’s team came by and picked it up on a golf cart. When he was out of sight, Rager looked at me again. “And who the fuck cares what they think about anyways. Let ‘em talk. That’s all it is. Talk.”

  “Is that all it is?” My voice was a whisper, only meant for him as usual. “Talk?” I asked, regretting the words immediately. His answer would dictate a lot. Standing there, staring at him, as I waited for his response, my legs felt wobbly while the rest of me was numb to whatever the hell this was.

  That expression, the one he gave me right then with the scrunched brow, darting eyes and the rise and fall of his heavy breath, wordlessly told me what I needed to hear.

  He knew exactly what I meant by that.

  Rager didn’t answer right away, his eyes scanning mine and my face, searching for the right words to this complicated situation that never seemed to get any easier for us.

  “If you’re asking if it bothers me, I’m not going to lie to you. The only thing that really bothers me right now is that you’re married and I can’t have what I want. That’s just me being a selfish son of a bitch, though.”

  While processing his words, the horn sounded for the drivers to get to their cars for hot laps, and I knew our time was up, cut short again. Before he drew back completely and his heat was gone, Rager pressed his lips to my forehead. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s been through a lot.”

  Him or Axel? Because the way he said those words made me think he could have been referring to both of them.

  Sticky Track – When the surface of the dirt is sticky, the clay packs really well and the cars have good grip.

  THERE WAS NOTHING I hated more than throwing up. The stomach flu was like torture. The throwing up wasn’t the worst part. It was the feeling that I was going to. That went on for hours before the flu finally hit mid-way through the night’s events on Sunday. I felt like a dumb ass that here it was my third day doing the job and I had to pause during the feature to throw up in the booth.

  But guess who was there to give me water and Gatorade, because he’d ended up destroying his car in the feature.

  Rager.

  Seemed me being there for him Friday night meant something.

  “I don’t like Abigale anymore,” I groaned with a wet washcloth on my forehead in my hotel room. Rager’s motor home was parked in the parking lot and he was here, checking on me. Being there for me.

  He laughed, holding the washcloth to my head. “I know what you mean.”

  “Please tell me this doesn’t last long.”

  “It doesn’t. You’ll feel better soon,” he assured me, as if I shouldn’t worry.

  As I was feeling like death on the floor in the bathroom, Rager at my feet, ready to get me anything I needed, my phone started ringing.

  “It’s probably E,” I moaned, my head buried in the toilet.

  Rager stood, reaching for it on the dresser and then sat down beside me again, smiling.

  “What’s the look for?” I peeked one eye open, taking my phone from his palm.

  “He’s pissed.” There was a small grin tugging at his lips.

  “Why?”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be at the race today?”

  I’d totally forgotten. Feeling like crap, I never made it over to Daytona to watch the race. Well no, it wasn’t that I forgot. I had a job to do now, and I couldn’t just take off in the middle to see the end of the race for him. Besides that, he asked for a fucking divorce. In my head, I kept going back to that.

  Couldn’t make it, I see.

  That was Easton’s text message instead of leaving a voicemail.

  I didn’t have the energy to reply to him right now because I knew anything I said would have resulted in an argument anyway. Setting my phone down, I stared at the toilet water.

  Rager picked the phone up and clicked on the message. “What are you doing?”

  “Replying back.”

  “Oh God,” I reached for the phone, but then gave up, “don’t do that.” After a moment, I asked, “What did you say?”

  “That you were busy with your head in my lap.”

  “You didn’t…?”

  He smiled, at least I think he did. My eyes were watering so much that I could barely see him clearly. “I did.”

  “Rager…don’t…”

  “Too late.” He set the phone down so I could see it, and then shook his head. “I’m not that m
uch of an asshole.”

  Picking up the phone, I tried to hold it close enough to my face that I could actually make out what the text message said.

  Not feeling well. Sorry.

  Okay, so he wasn’t that much of an asshole. Not that I ever thought he was.

  Rager cleared his throat when I tossed the phone back on the floor. “Do you want some water?”

  “No,” I groaned, feeling like my throat was tight and my stomach was trying to squeeze through it. “I want to die.”

  “I can’t let that happen. Who would torture me then?” he asked, raising his brow slightly.

  “True,” I said, nodding my head as I rested it on the toilet seat where thousands had probably sat. The thought was revolting, so I settled with pressing my face to the cool tile floor.

  In a nice gesture, Rager scooped me up so I could lay with my head in his lap. His hands went to my hair, brushing it away from my face.

  “Are you guys fighting?” His tone was casual, but there was an anxious glow to his eyes.

  “You could say that.” I nodded, conflicting emotions raging through my body, my palms sweaty and the back of my neck prickly and cold. More than likely it was from the flu—but still—Rager had such an effect on me I couldn’t be sure which one was making me feel this way.

  “Are you still happy?” His eyes moved to mine. He was trying to keep the conversation light, but it wasn’t, never could be with us, and he knew damn well it wasn’t. There was hurt and resentment for what we were doing, though we both avoided it.

  “I don’t know what I am.”

  “Well...” He shifted, leaning his back against the wall, still holding me, his brow creasing, but he kept his movements slow. He was silent for a moment, too silent, staring back at me almost as if he was waiting for me to say more. “You remember what I said to you, right?”

  My gaze dropped from his, losing the battle, wilting under the burn of his eyes, and I recalled what he said.

  I could never forget it. Though it didn’t change my situation, I memorized everything Rager had ever said to me.

  “I’m sorry about everything that happened,” I breathed, my head resting on his shoulder, listening to the beating of his heart, so steady and strong just like him.

  “I’m not. If a day, a month, a year from now you realize you might want me, or need me, I’m there for you no matter what.” He slid my hand that was on his shoulder lower to his heart. “I know you feel it. We have something here that will never go away.”

  “I should have sent that text,” Rager muttered, humor returning to his voice as he laid his arm over me to push the hair that was stuck to the side of my face away.

  “Why?”

  His eyebrows wiggled, a smile presenting itself in the corner of his mouth. “Your head really is in my lap now.”

  “You’re such a boy.”

  The fact of the matter was, I did miss Easton’s race, and I did have the stomach flu thanks to the Pretty Princess.

  But I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than with my head in Rager’s lap while he took care of me. Eventually, I started to doze off to sleep when Rager exhaled, almost a sigh of contentment, much like I had right then. “When are you going to see that you’re meant for me? Only me,” he rasped, about the time sleep took over completely.

  I replied with something, but I wasn’t sure what.

  WHEN EASTON RETURNED home from Daytona on Sunday night after his win, I wasn’t sure what to expect because of his conversation with me on the phone. He hung up on me on Friday night and the fact that I didn’t go to the race on Sunday left me a little anxious for what I’d be met with.

  Given that, he could still be pissed off about me not coming to the race. But then again, I did I care? He was the one who yelled at me.

  Knowing Easton won the Daytona 500, I had an idea of what his mood was going to be like after seeing his interview in victory lane. Adrenaline filled and looking for release. The way he always was after a win.

  What I wasn’t sure about was what this would mean since we were separated and still living together.

  Seemed crazy to me that this was our life now when just months earlier, in September, we seemed to have it together and were trying to have a baby.

  It was clear once we started trying to have a child together, and it didn’t work, we both sorta felt like it was for a reason.

  Lying in bed, I stared at my cell phone and the string of messages and photos from Lexi celebrating with Easton in victory lane. Though it was nearing midnight and I tried to sleep, I couldn’t. I hadn’t much these days. Especially after that damn flu. At least I wasn’t throwing up still.

  Another hour later, I heard the front door open and shut, his keys tossed on the counter as he walked by and up the stairs. I waited, knowing he’d come in eventually.

  When he came into the room, I knew he’d been drinking by the way he staggered slightly, and when he was closer, the whiskey on his breath and smelling like stale beer, it was evident. He didn’t say much, except for talking about the win and how excited he was for it.

  “Can you believe I fuckin’ won the Daytona 500?” he shouted, his hands raised and clasped behind his head. “Your dad was pretty excited over it.”

  Of course that made him feel good. Every driver I knew, including my brothers, and even Rager, wanted Jameson Riley’s approval. It meant something more than just a nod. It meant you were worthy of a, “Good run, kid.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled myself, remembering my dad’s grin when he heard the news Easton had won. It was a smile I hadn’t seen in a while from him. At least not since Jack died.

  “Did you watch?” He wasn’t looking at me when he asked the question, but the curiosity behind his words was there.

  I nodded. “Yeah, that was intense.”

  Easton grinned, removing his shirt, leaving him standing by my side of the bed in just his jeans. A laugh escaped him when he caught me looking at his half naked body.

  He still looked good. There was no denying that. Running his hand down his scraggy jaw, his arms raised over his head like he was flexing. Easton was flirty when he was drunk, and by the bright, glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, I knew he was pretty lit.

  Seeing him this way made me wonder what he was going to do next. Though it was cute seeing him so giddy over the win, it didn’t have the same effect on me that it used to. Ordinarily when he flirted, I flirted back and it went from there. Only now, I dropped my eyes to my hands folded on my lap.

  Leaning over the bed, he kissed my forehead and peeked down the front of my shirt to see I wasn’t wearing a bra. Taken back by his boldness when drunk, I let out a small chuckle, but said nothing. “I’ll be right back.”

  When he disappeared in the bathroom, I figured he would be in there a while taking a shower, so I curled up, set my phone on the nightstand to charge, and intended on going to sleep. We were still sleeping in the same bed, which did seem a little weird, but nothing happened so far.

  We never touched in the night, and in the six weeks since we decided to separate, we hadn’t had sex. Hadn’t even come close.

  Ten minutes later, I was nearing sleep, body feeling relaxed when I heard the bathroom door open.

  Easton emerged from the bathroom, steam rolling from the room, with a towel around his waist, running his hands over his stomach. Our room was dark, the only light coming from the bathroom. Peeking one eye open, I watched as he approached the bed and removed the towel around his waist, letting it fall to the floor.

  Naked? He’s going to sleep naked?

  My heart started racing, my body trembled slightly, not knowing what he was about to do. Reaching inside his nightstand, he removed a condom, held it in his hand for a second, and then ripped it open with his teeth.

  Oh, my God, what the fuck is he doing?

  He couldn’t want…nah, he didn’t want that, or did he? He put a condom on. He wanted something, but from me? His soon-to-be ex-wife?

  Winning
for Easton meant sex. It usually did. And when he was on the road, alone, and would win, part of me always wondered who fulfilled that need for him.

  The bed dipped down and Easton twisted around and took the blankets off me, pushing them aside. I was only wearing an old t-shirt and panties, but still, I was covered.

  He didn’t say anything as he reached for me, crawling between my legs. Sitting back on his heels, he ran his hands up my thighs and my breathing turned heavy knowing where this was going. He wanted sex. Of course he did.

  I guess, at least he had the decency to put on a condom. I could tell by his breathing he was still high on the win. It was in the way he touched me and took what he needed, still caught up with that speed and determination to get what he wanted, just like on the track.

  I wasn’t sure whether to open my eyes or not. I had no idea how to react. None.

  When he had my panties off, his body covered mine the next second, his breathing just as ragged. He panted against my neck as he pushed my legs apart and slid my shirt up my stomach, his need increasing the speed of his movements, too rushed and clumsy.

  The feeling of his erection sliding on my leg was somewhat of a turn on, since it’d been six weeks, but still, this felt so wrong.

  Reaching between us, he positioned himself and then went forward. No warning, no nothing. I gasped at the tightness because I wasn’t exactly ready, my eyes flying open, surprised that he was being this bold, this…I didn’t even know.

  When he entered me, he groaned, the noise coming deep from his chest, shaking the both of us, his body trembling with each movement. I knew then no one had been fulfilling his needs, because the way his muscles shook with each hard thrust into me, I could tell it’d been a while.

  “Fuck…” he damn near moaned, the muscles in his arms trembling even more.

  His hands moved to my ass, and in a series of maybe ten thrusts into me, he squeezed my backside as he buried himself inside of me, grunting in my ear as his dick swelled.