by Emilia Finn
That’s not me.
I was showing off. I was a little star-struck. I was riding my high while all those eyes were on me.
Now I have a very expensive contract to fulfill. I have two families that hate each other. Three, if we count my grandfather’s feelings toward the Kincaids. It’s like Romeo and Juliet, the star-crossed lovers, but, like, the corporate version.
I just want to do my work. I want to do it well and prove myself to those who doubted I was the right choice when the company promoted me. I want to prove wrong the people who, when I announced I would be approaching the Kincaids, called me crazy. I want to prove that this deal will be good for us all, lucrative, and a good partnership between dueling families.
The thing is, I doubt the Kincaids have given much thought to my family in more than half a century. Unlike my grandfather, who would regale us with the story of how he was set to marry Chantelle Robertson as soon as she turned eighteen.
Apparently, Bryan’s grandmother was to marry my grandfather. Instead, she ran off with the man she did marry. She created a family. She was, by all accounts, happy, content, and completely ignorant to my grandfather’s lingering feelings.
And now, because of the actions of a couple hotheads fifty or so years ago, my entire childhood was built on listening to my grandfather whine – in front of my grandmother – about how the first Bryan Kincaid stole from him.
I groan. “It’s a damn mess.”
Sighing, I release my hands, drag my drawer open, and pull the first hat out. Undamaged. Untorn. Uncut. It’s in pristine condition, considering its age… and smells of cars; rubber, oil, sex.
“Shit.”
Bryan
Chicks Dig It
“I’ve got you starting against Radcliffe tonight.” Manda reads the information from her clipboard, though I doubt she needs it. Her brain is finely tuned, and Piper’s Lane is her baby. She knows everything that happens here. Everyone. Every detail. “He’s got a shiny new Beamer.”
“Guess I’ll have a shiny new Beamer soon.” I flash a wicked grin, and mentally cheer when I get her small snicker. “I got him. Bikes first?”
She makes a note on her paperwork, and gives a distracted nod. “Yup. Morris is up before you. He’ll be done before you even get started.”
“Good. Then his head will be clear when it’s my turn to roll up. He’s better with my engine when his head is in it. Price here?”
She snorts. “You ask me every single night. And I give you the exact same answer every time. Unless you’re racing him, he’s none of your business. Ignore his existence. Stop picking fights with him.” Her eyes come up to mine. “Your obsession is unhealthy.”
I bark out a dismissive laugh. “It’s only unhealthy for him. I wonder what car he’ll be bringing me tonight?”
She shrugs, and fist-bumps someone as they race by us. When her attention comes back to me, she steps onto her toes and reaches up to ruffle my hair. “This is new. I didn’t even know you had hair.”
“Mm.”
I want to smile, but the only thing I can think about is the fact Madilyn still has my hat… and the longer I’m away from it, the worse my stomachache grows. There are only so many times I can explain to my dad why I’m not wearing Grandpa’s hat, when, before last weekend, I’ve worn it almost exclusively since I was thirteen years old.
It’s a legacy at this point. A family heirloom. And a girl that hates my guts, a girl that has my enemies whispering in her ears, has it in her possession.
She could have already lit it on fire. Maybe she got her dog to take a shit in it first, maybe she left it on the ground for her boyfriend to back over a few times, and then with maniacal laughter, she lit it on fire.
It would almost be deserved. It’s not like I’ve left her with a good impression of me, and my declarations of innocence are always followed by a move my momma wouldn’t approve of.
But still… fucking with my grandfather’s hat is crossing a line.
Right now, Madilyn is like an annoying gnat that continues to bite my ass. She’s a bother, she keeps my attention, but only because I’m wondering what her next move is. But for now, she hasn’t crossed any lines or fucked with anyone I love.
So far, it’s merely… implied.
“Bry?” Manda taps my stomach with her clipboard. “You in there?”
I come back to reality. To the darkness that blankets the world, except for the spotlights that hurt my eyes. I come back to the loud roar of cars and dudes who compensate for their small dicks with large exhausts, back to the bikes, and the cheer girls hoping to bag a winner.
“I’m here.” I shake my head. “Sorry.”
“You’d better find your focus, handsome. We want to keep our incident-free streak, please. No way am I letting you drive if your head ain’t in it.”
“I’m fine. I’m here.” I paste on a fake smile and back away. “I’m here. I swear.” I reach up out of habit with the intention to reseat my hat. Instead, I run a hand through my hair and sigh with what I’m certain is genuine grief. “I’ll be on the line when it’s time.”
Turning away from the five-foot woman, I cast my eyes over the large crowd in search of Tuck, and figure I can be his support while he races, then when he’s done, he can be mine.
Racing is only a solo sport if you want it to be.
There aren’t a lot of drivers here tonight that don’t know how to fix their own cars. It’s just something you grow to learn after a couple years of trying to make a machine run faster and faster. Knowing that, knowing how to change a tire, knowing that you’ll be alone in that car when the flag comes down, it’s easy to become the guy who avoids human contact. We don’t need anyone else.
And if, by some really shitty stroke of bad luck, you crash… you won’t have left behind anyone with a broken heart.
“Bry?”
I spin at Tuck’s voice, and grin when I find him pushing his bike in my direction. “I was just looking for you.”
“That’s what all the pretty girls say.” He comes to a stop in front of me, and kicks the bike stand down so he can release the handlebars. “You look stupid when I can see the top of your head.”
“Get the fuck outta here!” I swing out with a right hook, but laughter ruins my attack. As do his quick feet and his ability to duck and weave out of range. “I’m about ready to blow my fuckin’ lid at all the smartasses around here.”
Chuckling, he only leans against his bike and folds his arms over his chest. “You seem tense. All the pretty girls say no?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the way they travel over the crowd in search. “I haven’t even spoken to a chick yet. Can’t strike out if I don’t even try.”
“Said every fat, lazy, forty-year-old virgin that still lives in his momma’s basement.”
Finally, I bring my eyes back to his and grin. “I lost a few pounds recently. You didn’t even notice.”
He throws his head back and lets out a barking laugh. “Who are you rolling up against first?”
“Radcliffe.” I shrug. “Manda said he’s got a Beamer.”
“You worried?”
I scoff. “I’m actually kinda psyched. The new models are sexy, I wanna see how it runs. You know engines turn me on.”
“Probably why you’re so obsessed with me. I’m flattered, Bry. I truly am.” He presses a hand to his chest. “But I’m into chicks. There’s just something kinda welcoming about a pair of titties to rest on at the end of a bad day.”
“Ya know what I don’t get?” I push away from him, and begin striding across the hard-packed dirt on my way to my car. “Seriously. You’re over here waxing on about titties like a total bastard, but everyone loves you. They think Tucker Morris is sweeter than honey and can’t do any wrong. Your real friends know you’re a dick, by the way. Meanwhile, I actually try to be a decent person, I tell the underage girls to go home, I let a dude know his fiancée is a cheat, and everyone gets off on hating me.”
&nbs
p; He keeps up with my brisk pace, and only laughs as we move. “It’s all about the approach, Bry. See, I help people. I fix their cars. I tip my hat for the girls. I help them out of cars, and I never get caught staring at their titties.”
“Ass.”
He snorts. “That either. These people probably think I’m a virgin, ‘cause I’m that sweet. Then there’s you…” His chest bounces with laughter. “You’re loud, you’re fucking obnoxious. You peacock around and tell people you’re gonna fuck their girl. You win every single race, and you ain’t humble about it.” He looks to me and lifts a brow. “Do you understand that word? Humility; noun; to not be full of your own self-importance; also, not being full of shit.”
“Shut up.” I stop at the side of my car and dig a hand into my pockets in search of my keys. “If I win, I should be allowed to celebrate. I’ve earned that right.”
He shrugs. “I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just telling you things might be different if you learned to use your inside voice.”
“You sound like my mother.”
I unlock my car, and drag the door open to reveal the dark interior. Monaco steering wheel. Monaco gear shift. Monaco floormats, even. Damn.
“If I wasn’t gonna brag about winning,” I continue, “then what’s the damn point of racing in the first place? I don’t race to pay my rent, I do it because it’s fun. I work hard, I play hard. And I help the damsels when they need it, but no one remembers that about me.”
“Probably shouldn’t have written your name on that chick’s back,” he snickers. “I feel like maybe that was crossing a line.”
“Fuck it was.”
I slide into my front seat and groan at the feel of soft leather beneath my ass. I wrap my hand around the steering wheel, and appreciate the smallest tweaks that Monaco did to make them more comfortable. To make them more controllable. It’s like the fin on a surfboard. So minor, so easily overlooked – until it isn’t.
“Everybody expects a fighter to raise their arms in the air and shout about winning,” I reason. “But if I do it, it’s obnoxious? Get the fuck outta here with that.”
He leans against the side of my hood and shrugs. “I’m only passing on a message, Bry. I mean, hell, you don’t have to get mad at me about it.” His eyes come to mine, no longer laughing. No longer teasing. “I didn’t mean to put a wedge in our friendship or anything. I was only trying to help you understand why some folks consider you a thorn.” He turns away, and brings a hand up to cover his mouth. “Geez, and now you’re mad at me.”
“Wait. What?” I push out of the front seat and come around. “I didn’t… I wasn’t… Tuck? I didn’t say I was mad at you.”
He turns to me with a shit-eating grin and a raised middle finger. “This is why everyone loves me.”
“You asshole!” I lunge forward and slam a fist into his gut, but it’s barely more than a tap, and ends with laughter. “Jesus, Tuck. I thought you were gonna cry.”
“The chicks dig that.” He pushes me back, and instinctively lifts a leg. He’s gonna kick me in the chest if I come at him again. “Seriously, put on that oh no, I’m so sorry face, and you’ll have any girl eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“Any girl?” My eyes stop on a shiny new car rolling onto the dirt track behind his back. I can’t see inside, and yet, I know. I fucking know it’s Jackson Price. “Really, Tuck? Is there a guarantee on that?”
Catching on to where my eyes have gone, he peeks over his shoulder and watches as – I fucking called it – Jackson slides out of the luxury muscle with Monaco parts added all over the damn place. The passenger door opens, then a pair of impossibly long, denim-clad legs come into view.
“Do you think if I cry in front of that chick, I’ll get her on my side?”
He chuckles and comes back around to study me. “She might be an exception to the rule. Keep your eyes to yourself on that one, Kincaid. You don’t have permission, nor are you likely to get any.”
And yet, my eyes remain on the legs. Then bare arms.
It could be any other chick. It could be one of a million; fuck knows, Price brings a new one most weekends. But then she pushes out of the car, and that long, silky hair bounces against her back as she moves.
She finally stands, full extension, and from beneath the brim of my fucking hat, her eyes meet mine. Defiance. Dare. Pure fucking challenge.
“Aw, shit,” Tuck hisses. “Why’d she have to do that?”
Madilyn
Misinformation
“I want you to stay close.” The moment I come around to his side of the car, Jackson takes my hand in a punishing grip and tugs me close enough that I’m tempted to kick him in the balls. “Maddi?” He bends a little lower to get a peek under my hat.
Bryan’s hat.
I’m wearing the second one he tossed, the one no one knows he gave me. So to them, I’m just wearing a hat. And since it’s not the Padres one everyone saw me steal, I don’t have to answer to my friends why I chose to wear it out tonight.
“Maddi?” he snaps. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah.” I try to ignore the Camaro parked fifty or so feet away. I try to ignore the two men that stand by it. I try to ignore the one man whose shoulders seemingly grow and fill with adrenaline as he stares at the side of my face. I fix my purse strap between my breasts, pat the main compartment to make sure it’s sitting on my hip like it should be.
But I don’t pat too hard. I don’t want to crush its contents.
“I’ll be in your sight, Jackson. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t go to Kincaid tonight.” His eyes scan across the dirt space and narrow. “Not even to fuck with him. If you must, then come and get me. I’ll keep you safe.”
On the outside, I smile. I hold his hand, nod, and play the role of a good girl. But on the inside, I wonder why he thinks I need protection.
Bryan has never hurt me, even though I’ve hurt him. He’s never done anything but remind me that he’s going to keep an eye on me. And considering that my deal with his family, a deal I genuinely hope will be successful for us all, is legitimate, he’ll come around.
“I’ll be good.”
I smile for Jackson, and wonder when in the last week that I decided he gives me the creeps? I grew up with him and Jenna. In their home most weekends. At their dinner table. In their pool. I’m fairly certain Jackson and I have been pretend-married a dozen times already, and at one point, we had a teddy bear family that I was certain I had to mother or they would perish.
We were children, and though we were parented by a bunch of socialites more interested in their mimosas and manicures than they were their children, I figured that we – the children – were in it together. I figured we were evolved and smarter than those who came before us. I thought I had brothers in arms in this weird world and the war that has been pitted against anyone not them.
But here I stand, seemingly on the inside of our group, but in my heart and my gut, I don’t feel like I belong. And that feeling of subjugation makes me feel sick in my stomach.
“I have to check in with Manda,” Jackson murmurs. “Do you wanna stay by the car, or come with me?”
“There’s no third option?” I ask with a teasing smile. Keeping it light.
His eyes come to me. His lips quirk up. “Nope. Come on.”
Without releasing my hand, he throws an arm over my shoulder and leads me right past the Camaro. Like I’m a horse being shown off. Like I’m a trophy. And since I have that part to play, I merely walk under his arm and allow myself to be led past a man whose eyes burn me.
“Bry,” I hear first. Then another. “Bryan! No.”
I watch as Bryan races around to the opposite side of his car. Jackson is… distracted. With his admirers, I suppose. Though I have no clue why he has any.
Money, Madilyn. Don’t be so naïve.
He shakes hands, he chatters as we pass groups of people. Hell, he chatters at me, but my brain is exclusively stuck on t
he man sneaking around behind us.
A week ago, I’d be screaming and waiting for the knife to be plunged into my back. But tonight… I don’t know.
Jenna’s explosion in my office this week seems to have changed things. She’s not talking to me, she’s not taking my calls, she’s not answering my texts or visiting my home like she normally would a couple times a week. Her brother is still up in my business, but Jenna’s absence is palpable. And the reason for her absence – my lack of vilifying Bryan Kincaid because she cheated – seems to change things.
The world hasn’t changed. I have. And that is what has led me to feel like I don’t belong.
“Hey, Snapper!”
Jackson greets someone – Snapper, a man that kind of looks like a fish, I suppose – and bumps me around as he half hugs the fish-man. They clap hands, exchange cash so fast that no one but a trained socialite would notice, then they pull back and study me.
My mind is on Bryan as he sneaks through the crowd. A dark shadow, a looming omen that’ll probably kill us all.
But then I’m torn back to the guys in front of me. To Jackson’s expectant gaze, to Snapper’s hungry eyes. “Huh?”
Jackson chortles. It’s like an old, fat, cigar-clutching, whiskey-sipping chortle; just like his father’s. “I was saying, Snapper, this is Madilyn Tosky. Madilyn, please meet my friend.”
“Oh, okay. Hey.” I extend a hand and try to focus on the tall man in front of me. His face is long, narrow, angular. His lips, heavy and bottomset. “You can call me Maddi.”
“Enchanté.” He dips a little. Bows. And completely contradicts the loud noises of the track, the filth, the dirt and sweat. “You’re Tosky? Monaco?”
I nod. “I like to think of myself as Madilyn first.” I give him a sugary sweet smile. “Ya know, just me. No labels. You weren’t here last weekend? I thought Jackson introduced me to everyone he knew.”
