There’s only one thing to say. “These are amazing.” I fasten the book’s silver clasp and lay it beside me on the bed, then lean forward to cup his face in my hands. His green eyes, pulled back at the corners in a wide smile, connect with mine. “You are amazing,” I whisper. Our lips meet in the middle, and we collapse backward onto the covers. Jett hovers above me at first before I yank him to my level, running my hands up and down his back, under his T-shirt and against the rippled landscape of skin stretched over lean muscle. It’s impossible not to touch him when our lips lock. Some urgent need to pull every bit of him as close to me as possible hijacks my motor neurons and demands it. It’s as if I’m trying to absorb him. His own hands explore my body too; his roaming fingertips fill my veins with fire. My skin might melt like hot wax. His lips brush over my scar, my hidden shame, but the old instincts evaporate. I don’t pull away. I push closer.
After a few minutes, when we’re both seriously in need of oxygen, Jett settles on his back and pulls me to his side, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I rest my head on his chest; the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart drums against my cheek. Our legs tangle together. My niche, the place where my body magically seems to conform to his. He kisses the top of my head and whispers through the dimly lit room.
“Promise you’ll come back to me.”
“What?”
He inhales deeply, holds it a minute, then blows out a loud breath. My head, still on his chest, rides the wave of air to completion. “When you have to leave…in August…promise you’ll come back.”
I grab his hand, weaving my fingers around his, and pull it to my lips. “Promise. I’ll always come back to you, Jett.”
Chapter Twenty-One
My eardrums might be busted. Surely, the stabbing pressure means the flimsy little things have ruptured deep in the canals.
Okay, so that might be dramatic, but only a little.
Jett said it’d be loud, but nothing quite prepares me for the mind-numbing, decibel-cracking whine of revving engines and rubber meeting asphalt. Each thunderous lap rattles my bones, as though it’s emanating from somewhere inside instead of the track in front of me. It’s what I imagine it’d be like standing in the middle of the football locker room after a Superbowl win. Sweaty, gritty, and brimming with testosterone.
As of tonight, he’s only two races away from The Big One. He has to be on point.
My nerves have teeth sharp enough to chew my own head off, and if I think too much about what he’s doing out there, I’ll likely face-plant in a jerking, heaving pile of panic. Instead, I focus on the things that make me happy, like the way Jett’s butt looked in that jumpsuit or the way his body slid through the car’s window.
And then there’s Gin, sitting on the stool beside me, relentlessly tapping her foot against the metal rung. Since Bo’s working on the pit crew, she came with him to keep me company while Jett’s on the track.
The massive headphones fit snugly against my ears as I slide them back on, instantly blocking out the monotonous mechanical hum and reconnecting with the Jett/pit crew dialogue. The verbal back-and-forth is light speed. Some of it I don’t understand: stuff about drafting and finding a low groove near the apron and dirty air. Some of it needs no explanation.
“That Tyler’s a son-of-a-bitch. I ‘bout burned my brakes up trying to get around this shithead.”
In all fairness, I was also warned the unfiltered feed might be vulgar. It doesn’t disappoint. And I don’t know what I like better—Jett’s commanding tone over the naughty expletives pouring from his mouth or the way Gin’s cheeks shade crimson each time a new torrent unleashes.
“Two laps, son! Pace yourself. You got this little jerk.” Mr. Ramsey’s hard voice crackles over the radio. We’re all in the Crew Chief’s booth, which is nothing more than an uncovered rectangular platform raised about eight feet off the ground. Meager quarters to say the least, and with the five of us up here—Mr. Ramsey, Jenniston, the spotter (some guy named Darren), Gin, and me—it’s more like a sardine can.
Mr. Ramsey’s stool is pushed against the front railing, though he’s not sitting. He just stands beside it with one leg propped on the bottom rung and a set of binoculars shoved to his face. His head makes circular rotations as he watches the cars loop around.
“Bumper! The five car is coming up on the bumper!” the spotter screams into the mic.
“Five ain’t shit!” Jett’s voice fires back. “It’s this damn twelve car that needs to clear outta my way!”
Tyler’s in the twelve car. The entire race has been a switcheroo: Jett first with Tyler second, then Tyler first and Jett second. Over and over and over again. Now, coming into the last lap, Jett’s slightly behind. My nails are chewed to oblivion, and a queasiness rocks my stomach.
“White flag! Slingshot the little asshole!” Mr. Ramsey belts out. He’s leaned so far over the railing I’m terrified he’ll tip over and splat on the pavement below. Jenniston catches me staring and side-shuffles toward me, never taking her eyes off the track.
Below, the seventeen car looks almost attached to twelve’s bumper. That can’t be safe. I hold out one side of the headphones; the deafening growls from the engines filter back in.
“Jenniston?” I yell above the noise, and she darts her eyes in my direction. “What’s he doing?”
“Drafting. Getting ready to make his move.” She ticks her head toward the track and taps her own headphones, signaling me to listen in.
“Approaching the straightaway! Show this idiot who’s boss!”
I ease off the edge of my stool, crushing Gin’s hand in mine. My heart pounds against my ribs in a heady mix of anxiety and adrenaline. Whatever maneuver Jett’s about to pull will definitely be risky, but as much as I want to cover my eyes, I can’t look away.
“Watch this, Cami!” Jett hollers into my ear. Then in one quick, blurring moment, he fakes high, drops low, and in a sudden burst of speed shoots past Tyler, capturing the checkered flag.
The platform and pit crew erupt, jumping up and down, slapping hi-fives and yelling, and of all the people celebrating Jett’s win, I’m the loudest. For once I don’t care who’s looking or listening. That’s my man!
But my cheeks catch fire when, through all the hoopla, Jett’s voice crackles over the headphones with a private message in front of a very public forum. “Let me finish with this winner’s circle stuff, Cami, and then I’m coming to get my real victory prize.”
His arms circle me from behind. The smell of exhaust is stronger than ever even though his hair is still wet from a shower in the track’s facilities. The way his breath wafts over my skin, slinking down my neck into the hollow of my chest, bristles the hairs on both of my arms, and I pinch my shoulder to my ear reflexively.
“Someone’s ticklish,” he whispers. His lips move against my earlobe, sending a million more chills over my body. I cross my arms to hide the obvious reaction. My brain goes all stupid for a minute, unable to form any sort of a rational response.
Jett doesn’t notice. He’s too amped up on the speed and the adrenaline rush of victory. True, it’s been hard to keep our hands off each other the last couple weeks, but this? This is a bolder, more affectionate side than usual.
“Can I tell you how hot it was to see you in the booth with those headphones on?”
I feel a flushing heat on my cheeks, and I’m melting. The stirrings surge through me like never before. Like the cars on that track—frenzied, fiery, and fast.
“Yeah?” I turn around and toy with the zipper on his team shirt, tugging it down an inch or so. “Can I tell you how hot you were in that racing jumpsuit?”
Our bodies press together. Jett’s lips hover millimeters in front of mine, so close, but not touching. He’s teasing me, and it’s working because right now, between the shallow panting and the aching in my lungs, the only thing I can think about is running my hands—
“Blech! Blech! Blech!” Gin and Bo are standing there fake puking. They’re b
oth doubled-over, fingers stuck in their mouths.
Bo straightens up and slaps Jett on the shoulder. He narrows his eyes and glares, but a slight smile betrays him. “And did I ever tell you how much I miss you winning races without being so disgusting afterwards?”
My cheeks burn. Jett, unfazed, moves back to me, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of my shorts and tugging me toward him. “I can’t help it. Another win and this hot girl to cheer me on?” He leans forward and trails kisses down my neck. “You’d be feeling it too.”
“On that note, we gotta get going.” Gin wags her finger between the two of us. “You two, please be good. Great race, Jett. See you tomorrow, CJ.”
I grab her hand. She’s stayed with me all night. The last thing I want her thinking is that I’m throwing her over once Jett shows up. “Don’t go, guys. We’ll behave I promise.”
“No, you won’t,” Bo says. “But we really do have to leave. Early morning delivery at the market tomorrow.”
As they walk away, Jett swirls his car keys on this finger. He has no intention of our spending the night in the camper with his dad and Jenniston, announcing instead we have our own plans back on the island. Apparently, it’s a colossal secret, and he remains tight-lipped except for one hint. “I got my victory tonight, Cami. Now let’s go get yours.”
Within minutes, we’re flying down the two-lane marshy highway toward Edisto, windows down, briny air whipping a few loose tendrils of hair around my face. I squeeze the arm rest, keeping my eyes closed for most of the ride. Sure, Jett’s a highly-skilled racer, and he’s been working with me all summer on overcoming my fear of driving, but that’s only been baby steps. I slit one eye and lean over to get a good look at the speedometer, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
As if reading my mind, he pulls my knuckles to his lips, kissing in a line up to my wrist. He says nothing, even when I pry my eyes open and gaze in his direction. No words are needed. The way his gaze locks on mine for the briefest of seconds tells me I’m safe.
Jett pulls into a short gravel drive and stops in front of a metal gate fastened with a chain and lock. Chain link fencing spans the perimeter, partially covered in what looks to be honeysuckle vines. Ahead of us, a set of headlight beams break through the inky darkness, illuminating a whole lot of open space and some sort of dirt drive. If I wasn’t with Jett, I’d probably be running for my life; this place seems like a TV crime drama set, where a bunch of dumped bodies might be found.
“Where exactly are we?” I ask, scooting up in the seat and scanning the empty lot.
Jett flips open his console and removes a keyring with two keys. “One of my favorite places in the world.” He leans over and kisses my cheek. “Be right back.”
I watch him run to the gate and unlock it, pushing it forward to make enough space to drive through. He pockets the gate keys on the way back to the car and slides behind the wheel.
Chill bumps scatter over my skin and my teeth begin chattering, and I’m not sure whether it’s from the night air or the eerie place. We pull forward slowly, the car bouncing up and down with the rough terrain until we reach the dirt road, which is broad and flat and curves to the left. At the far edge, a tall building with garage-style doors stands amid a group of palms.
“You’re not bringing me out here to kill me or something, are you?”
He circles his hand in a halo over his head. “Purest intentions, I swear. Welcome to my escape, Cami. My personal practice track—the one I started out on—and hideaway,” Jett says. He cuts the engine and gets out before sticking his head back in. “Give me a minute to turn on some lights.”
He heads toward the building and disappears into the shadows, and for a moment an intense ache of loneliness creeps through me. The night sounds of the swamp grow ten times louder; the trill of tree frogs and cicadas rise and fall into oblivion.
I pull my feet underneath me and nibble on a hangnail when a sudden burst of light erupts, shining through the windshield. It’s so bright I have to squint until my eyes adjust, and the mysterious place takes shape. Large posts with stadium-style lights dot the perimeter of the field, illuminating an oval dirt track. The building we’re parked in front of looks to be some sort of utility space. One of the garage doors slides up, and inside, fluorescent lights reveal some large machines and a row of toolboxes along the back wall. Jett’s silhouette darkens the doorway briefly before he saunters back to the car. He sticks his head in my rolled-down window.
“Are you ready?”
“For what?”
A broad grin spreads over his face. He winks and holds up the key to the Challenger. “I promised you your own victory tonight.”
For a moment, his words don’t register. My victory? Then like a thunderbolt, it all comes together. I scramble out of my seat and slam the door, running to catch up with him as he rounds the trunk.
“No, Jett. Absolutely not. I’m not ready.” My arms shake, the tremble coursing down into my fingers. “I can’t.”
He stops, grabs both of my hands, and stoops down nose to nose. “Yes, you can, and you will. I’m going to help you.”
“But this is a car car. Not just any car. A fast one. With gears.”
He drops my hands and makes his way to the driver side door. He gets in and slides the seat as far back as possible, then pats his lap. “Well, come on.”
“What?”
A little nod and a grin. That’s all he gives me.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” I ask.
“It means get over here.” There is a lilt in his voice as he beckons me with his finger. “You sit here, steer, and press the gas. I’ll control the clutch, and we’ll shift together.”
“What if something happens?”
“Nothing’s gonna happen.”
“I don’t know…” The thought of getting behind the wheel makes me seize up like an engine with no oil, and I turn to stone. Still, there’s a big part of me that doesn’t want to let him down. I want him to see I can be brave. That he’s helped me.
And I really—really—want to sit on his lap.
“Other than Bo, no one else has ever driven my car. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Yeah, it tells me you’re gonna be super pissed when I wreck it.”
He deadpans and blows out a loud breath. “It should tell you that I trust you. Now the question is, do you trust me?”
One hundred percent. No question in my mind. I nod a few times as if summoning my courage and climb into the car, situating myself on his lap. A lump knits itself in my throat, so huge I have trouble swallowing, and it’s not only because of the butterflies in my stomach. There’s something about the way our bodies hug tight to each other sitting like this. How the rippled muscles in his thighs press against the bottom of mine. How I can feel exactly how much his excitement is growing by my being on top of him. When he cranks the engine, the deep hum of the motor vibrating only intensifies the aching.
He trails both hands down my arms to my waist, where he grips me above the hip before moving his hand to the gear shift.
He eases into first gear and slides his foot off the brake, and the car rolls slightly. I stomp on the brake, throwing us both forward. Jett’s face is plastered into my shoulder.
Surely now he can see how stupid this is—how hopeless I am—but he says nothing, only runs his hand over my right arm, covering my palm with his and lifting it onto the gear shift. His voice is easy in my ear. “Calm. Steady. I got you.”
Boy, does he ever.
I nod and lift my foot from the brake, then press on the accelerator. I apply super-soft pressure at first, then harder and harder until we gather enough speed to actually warrant changing gears. As Jett pumps the clutch, his leg rubs against mine. We shift gears, his hand over mine, moving in sync.
As we approach the first curve, my heart beats triple-time until his lips brush my earlobe. “Lean into it. Natural. Easy.” Again, his leg slides along mine as he pumps the clutch, setting
off a million little explosions all over my body, but I drag my thoughts back to the dirt course. “Great job,” he reassures me and plants a kiss between my shoulder blades. “That’s my girl.”
With him so close to me and his reassuring voice in my ear, my confidence grows with each curve and straightaway. We zoom forward, picking up a little speed so that the cool night air slips through and around the building heat between our bodies.
After ten laps, Jett takes the steering wheel and pulls off the track in front of the garage. He cuts the engine and we sit in silence for a minute, absorbing the gravity of the situation. His hands once again wrap around my waist, and warmth radiates over my skin.
“You did it, Cami. I knew you could.”
I did it. We did it.
“I drove!” I scream, pumping my fists. A rush of excitement careens through my body. The space between Jett and the steering wheel is tight, but with a few creative foot placements, I finagle myself around in the seat to straddle him. “And it’s all because of you.”
“No. This is your victory. You earned it,” he says and wraps his arms around my back. But he stops short, concern knitting his brows together. “You’re shaking. Was the driving too much for you?”
As Much As I Ever Could Page 18
