Pole Position

by Karen Botha

  “Shall we leave you two to it?” Trevor asks, visibly cringing back into his chair.

  “No, it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you longer than I need to. We’ll carry on. Kyle and I can catch up later.” I smile, as though there is nothing at all untoward going on here.

  Trevor gets back to his figures, as Kyle plants his hands on his hips and stands, feet apart, biting his tongue.

  His voice is strong when he speaks, and I know I’m going to get a run for my money. “No, you guys head off. This is nothing that can’t be picked up when we return to the factory. Have a good trip back. We’ll catch up then.”

  They pack up in silence as the energy between myself and my husband simmers, a smoldering volcano poised to erupt. When the door closes behind the last engineer, Kyle is quick to fly at me.

  “What the fuck, El? You’re behaving like Axel. If we have something to discuss, then let’s get it out in the open.” His voice isn’t raised, but his tone is hard like he’s not taking any shit from me, and it throws me off balance.

  “I’m not hiding away. I had work to do. You’d be as well to take a page out of my book. This business isn’t just for fun, you know.” I have no clue what I meant by that, where it came from, nor the dig I’m trying to get in. Words are just flowing out of my mouth in defense of the hurt I feel at his betrayal.

  “Bullshit. And you know it. I made a call. It’s my job. You didn’t like it and now you’re sulking down here.”

  “Of course I didn’t fucking like it. You could have told me earlier that we were racing. I assumed that you’d make the call when it suited the PR coverage. That you were building some heat so that we’d get more exposure for our sponsors.”

  “Why would you assume that? We’ve always been about fair racing. It’s one of our core principles. Why would that change when you have a chance of a win?”

  “Because it should!” I spit the words and even I can hear how stupid they sound when I allow them into the normal, free thinking world rather than being confined in the implosive turbulence of my brain.

  “No, it shouldn’t, and if you stop being a jerk long enough to take a step back, you’ll see this too. I can’t invoke team orders just because it’s you. You were both racing at the same pace. It would make you look bad if you only win because you own the company, or because you’re my husband or whatever reason you think buys you the right to win races. And it would make me look bad because for no good reason I prioritize my husband.”

  “Isn’t that what being a husband is all about?”

  “You’re just talking shit now. You know this was me in my position as Team Principal who made that call, not your husband. That wasn’t your life at stake, just your pride. And, if you were a proper racer, you wouldn’t want your win gifted to you anyway.” He stands. And he stares. His jaw ticks as he waits.

  Low blows. My gut wrenches as though he’s physically laid that blow into my stomach.

  I get up, fully intending to walk out. The space is claustrophobic and I can’t breathe.

  But as I pass him, he grabs my elbow. “Not so fast. You don’t get out of this by behaving like a child. Man up and let’s discuss this.”

  He’s angry with me. Really fucking angry and as I try to wrench my arm from the grasp of his huge palm, he tightens and somehow ends up body slamming me against the wall with such force that I give the back of my head a small crack.

  The sharp pain hurts and without thinking, I scream, “Ouch,” and rub it with my free hand.

  “Fucking girl,” Kyle growls.

  And we laugh. That’s it. Argument over. We allow the tension between us to seep away through the power of joy. All the anger that I’d felt for him, and at myself, for allowing my arrogance to throw a race that I could have won, floats away. The room which a few moments ago was oppressive, is now light and carefree with more than enough air to draw the color of life back into our blackened hearts.

  Kyle

  The sexual frustration combined with the pure fucking irritation that this infuriating man brings out in me means that as soon as we’re close enough, I pounce.

  I jam my lips against his with none of the ardor I’d imagined back in the RV. Our teeth graze as our mouths open and I shove my tongue deep into his mouth, if for no other reason than to shut up his whining. He matches my hard pressure as we tussle deep at the back of our throats.

  Our hands are everywhere, tugging at clothing, unbuckling pants and shoving out of the way what cannot be removed with enough speed until we’re standing, cocks exposed and throbbing.

  I shove his shoulders. He needs to pay for what that sulky mouth of his spat out. But he resists.

  “No, you owe me for the humiliation.” He holds his position, standing firm, jutting out his bottom jaw, egging me on.

  Oh, no. We’re not playing that game. He’s the one who should apologize for his grumbling.

  I shake my head as we face each other in a naked stand-off, our cocks aching between our legs for one of us to give in. I push mine between his legs, powering my hips into him, enjoying the way the raw burn makes this moment real.

  He laughs with an insidious ring. “Oh no.” Then he grabs me, enfolding his palm around me as I continue my thrusting. Taking hold of him and working my hand in a furious motion up and down his glorious, solid, grinding rod, the power between us is uncontrollable. I run my other hand over the well-developed muscles of his chest, enjoying their resistance under my firm touch. And then I work up, toward his neck, burying my fingers in his hair, before cupping around the back of his throat, my fingernails biting against his scalp as I support his head with my fingers and dragging his face toward mine in a hungry kiss laced with need and wanting.

  Drawing my hand around to the front of his throat, I pull my mouth away, catching my breath. I cinch his strong jaw in my grasp, running my thumb roughly over his swollen bottom lip. It peels away, displaying his bared teeth, and combined with the wild of his eyes, my overpowering urge is to bend him over the desk and fuck away his bitter sulk.

  I’m not taking no for an answer this time. I spit on my finger and steer him until he’s facing away from me. Pressing my hand between his shoulder blades, he relents to my pressure and bends, naked butt in the air, legs spread, asking for his ass to be filled.

  I’m rough with him as I slip in one wet finger, not slowing to ease it in, getting a kick out of the way I can make him crumble against the desk as I circle then press against his mass of nerves. I pull out, add another finger and do the same. He cries, crooking his neck back allowing another cry, lighter this time. Fumbling in my jeans, I find what I’m looking for, the sliver of plastic that I keep in my wallet for these occasions. My hard-on tenses in expectation as I rip the packet open with my teeth and lavish a thick, cold layer between his cheeks. Another gasp and I swear, if I don’t thrust inside this fucker soon, I do not know what will happen.

  He grasps at his prick, tugging against the soft flesh as I ease between him, sinking deep inside with a slow pressure, which forces a howl from both our throats. Finally satiated, I move gently inside him, wanting to ram as hard as my hips will allow but taking my time to work in, enjoying the heady tease of his tightness around my girth. And then I start to move faster and deeper, all the way to the root of my thick cock, chasing my climax. His hand works faster around the front as my entire body aches for this exasperating man.

  Any blood left in my head races directly south, until my hips surge and my balls tingle. My teeth nip into the flesh on his shoulder, and he releases a tremulous groan as his entire body tenses, nipping down and pushing my cock over the edge. At the same moment, he jerks backwards into me, his head tipping as he cries out, and finally our tension is shattered.

  Kyle

  After that, Elliott and I have put our spat behind us, and life is moving on nicely. We’re fast approaching the final race before the summer holiday, and I need to decide whether we’re going to have the anniversary party that I’ve been consideri
ng.

  “Axel, I want you to help me with something.” I wave him into my office, from where he’s seated at his desk outside.

  “Oh?” He’s still cool, but time is melting his frosty attitude.

  “I’d like to organize an anniversary party for Elliott, a surprise one, in our garden. I’d love you to help. What do you think?”

  He makes a show of performing some teenage grunting, but at least he doesn’t storm off. “Sure, I can help.”

  “Brilliant.” I explain my idea about having people over, but it being more about fun and celebrating our relationship with each other as well as our friends. “I was also thinking about having a go-carting competition. Do you think you can get someone in and set that up?”

  “I can, but don’t you think it’s a bit crass? Not all your friends are into racing. And folks will come dressed up, regardless of what you say about it being low key.”

  “Hmm, OK. Well, shall I leave it with you and see what you come up with? You have a lot more experience with events than I do now.” It’s a shameless attempt to butter him up. I want to make our relationship good again, even though I’m still not entirely sure what I did wrong in the first place. We can work on something together at the same time as he has the opportunity to do something nice for his dad. It may even make him appreciate Elliott a little more.

  He sits, making notes on his phone about the dates, potential guests and all manner of other details, which to be fair I hadn’t considered. For example, how are people going to gain access to our compound? It hadn’t even entered my head. And then he starts to spew out ideas, becoming more excitable with each new suggestion. I’m incredibly supportive of all his plans and as we chat, the uncomfortable atmosphere that lingered over us before finally eases. It’s the breath of fresh air I’ve been craving, and as he enthuses I realize this could be my chance to say something to set the record straight without sending him off on another tantrum.

  I’m still undecided, when my mouth opens and makes the decision for me. “Listen, Axel, I wasn’t suggesting you are a PR opportunity before. I just don’t want for you to not be one hundred percent relaxed with who you are. We both love you and we have no reason to hide you. I just wanted you to know.” I cringe. Did I really bring that up again when we’ve just started to speak amicably? I could kick myself.

  But he surprises me. “It’s OK. I get it. I possibly over reacted.”

  I bite my tongue preventing me from speaking what’s really on my mind. Instead, I get up and I walk around my desk while his cloud gray eyes watch my every move. And when I reach his side, I stand next to him and then what? It’s uncomfortable. I was going to give him a big hug, happy that we’re reunited. But, he’s an awkward teen who does not want to be manhandled by me. So, I hover, with my palm resting on his shoulder.

  It’s enough though. He understands the meaning behind my subtle gesture, and when he smiles, it’s full of warmth.

  Elliott

  I’m not going to mess this up. It’s the last race before summer. Nothing will come between me and that pole position, and once I get it, I will not let that lead out of my grasp.

  Except, in the practice session, we found an issue with the car. It runs part on standard fuel, and part on kinetically generated energy. Or it should. The system that charges the battery isn’t working.

  We need to fix the issue. Otherwise, I don’t care who will think poorly of me; I’ll be stealing Keegan’s car.

  “You are not taking his car, Elliott. You cannot demoralize our drivers like that. You would have hated that when you were driving for Chase. The guy is young and he’s here because he wants to learn from the best, you can’t then bowl in and drive his car because it suits you.” That’s Kyle, ever the voice of reason.

  I sigh, knowing he’s right, but it doesn’t mean I’m happy accepting it.

  However, it’s not an issue because the team is amazing again and manages to find out what’s causing the issue and override it so that I’m now trundling down the pit lane, with a car, which I’m told isn’t going to cause me any problems.

  I get through first and second practice as we predicted, and Keegan and I are experiencing the same issue. The car is going, but it feels like it’s struggling more than it should. Looking at the timings, we’re doing fine, but there’s something going on under the hood that the figures aren’t telling us. And we both know it.

  “Look at the wear on those tires.” One of the mechanics points once I’m back in the pits, and he bends to change them for an additional set we’re allowed to run during the final part of Saturday’s qualifying competition. He’s right. They’re all blistered up, and the rubber is melting, fast. After just a few laps, that’s usually another sign that there’s something not running right on the car.

  I roll my eyes and tune out their comments, not wanting my head to be swayed with concerns about reliability. But then I use my radio to speak to Kyle, Luke and Trevor on the pit wall.

  “If we are concerned that I may have any issues with the reliability of the car, I don’t want to go out and run some laps, which will allow others to have a time to beat. Luke, what do you think of not leaving the garage until right at the last minute and running one warm-up lap and then only having time for one flying one? It’s a risk, but it will mean I know what speeds I’m trying to beat. I won’t have to push the car any more than I need to because we’ll be working with certainties.”

  There’s a pause, and then the radio cranks up again. “We’re happy with that if you are. We’ll release you just in time to start your flying lap as the timer runs out.”

  So Keegan runs his times and I sit there, my heart pounding out of my chest, my legs stiff with adrenaline as I watch the others push their cars to the brink of their capabilities in a bid to start at the front of the grid.

  When I’m released I still don’t know what the time is that I have to beat. Our competitors haven’t yet completed their laps. But this first lap is all about getting my car warmed up so that when I push her, she won’t screech off the track. I won’t register a time, but that’s not to say this isn’t important. If this lap doesn’t do everything I need, my one chance at beating the fastest time out there will be lost.

  No second chances.

  Luke feeds the time through into my ear as I speed over the start-finish line and down the first straight of my flying lap. He’s also told me how that lap breaks down to each of the three sectors so that I know at any point on the track how I am performing and whether I’m pushing myself beyond what anyone else has been able.

  The first sector is good. I hit a purple line showing I’m the all-time fastest, setting a new all-time track record. But the second sector contains a corner, which has always been my nemesis. I concentrate on it, speaking to myself. ‘Come on, Elliott, you can do this.’ I fly into the bend, holding off on my breaks. It’s all perfect. I hold the steering steady, and my lady does exactly as I ask. She floats around the bend without complaining and as I reignite the acceleration she sails off perfectly. I couldn’t have asked for a better corner. ‘Now concentrate on what you’re doing. Don’t think you’ve won already.’

  I continue my internal dialog, but my brain loses focus with my celebrations at the last corner, and I run wide. It’s not a disaster, but it wasn’t quite the fastest route and so now the pressure is on for the last sector.

  I clear my head, forgetting about the prize at the end and fix my eyes and my brain on the spot I must hit with my front wheel. It’s a dangerous line, and this will either make or break my lap, but this is the time for taking risks. If I don’t hit this right, I’ll be off in the gravel and starting at the back tomorrow. I glide toward the spot without issue. I control the shaking on the steering column as I pummel the rear of my car out in a direction she wasn’t expecting, and my glorious lady turns in. She does just as I ask, and I’m through the last bend, foot down and charging toward the finish line.

  I’m over the line, and I check. “Tell m
e?” I scream over radio.

  “You did it El, P1,” I can hear the grin splashed across Kyle’s face in his voice as he tells me I’ll start at the front of the pack in tomorrow’s race.

  Kyle

  The next day is tense, but not the kind of bad tense that goes with failure. This is the type that is brimming with untapped opportunity. With the team already having won a race, the bulk of the pressure is on Elliott’s side of the garage.

  The race starts well. He gets off to a great start and rather than losing a place or two when the lights go out as we had feared, he breaks away from the crowd and ends up building enough of a lead that when he comes into the pits for a tire change, it’s with enough of a gap that, despite his lost time on the circuit, he can still re-emerge at the front of the pack.

  As far as racing goes, it’s boring. Elliott has the whole race nailed with Keegan in a dominant second. The event is exhilarating and understated at the same time, as barring a terrible mechanical issue, Elliott will cruise in, converting his pole to a win with seemingly minimal effort.

  “The sponsors will be pissed off; the TV cameras were following the middle of the pack because there was nothing going on at the front.” Axel smiles in case we’re being filmed as we wait at the bottom of the podium to cheer Elliott’s first win since beating the injury that nearly ended his career.

  “Yeah, but they’ll be delighted now,” I wave my hand and cry out in jubilation as Elliott appears to claim the top step of the podium and his winner’s trophy.

  Everyone falls silent as the national anthem starts and, oh no, here we go. The lump, which I’ve been dreading, appears in my throat and there’s no swallowing it back down. Much as I try, my eyes well and tears spill over, matched only in intensity by Elliott’s. My gorgeous husband is crying. In public. I have an urge to be by his side, to hold him and for us to sob our tears of joy together. He must feel such a fool up there, in full view of the world. Such is the power of his emotions.