G-Force (Commitment, a gay romance series Book 2)

by Karen Botha

  “It’s very much dependent on the courts. I expect this will be tried in the Crown Court due to the severity of the case, so he could get up to life, but a guilty plea could have that reduced and who’s saying he couldn’t realistically be back out again in five years with a grudge to bear.”

  “Listen, if he’s out again in five years, he’ll be begging for more money. Tell him we’ll see him in court.”

  And so that’s how our night ends. With Noah very much in control of playing some mind games with serious implications.

  Elliottt

  The whole issue with Noah is not without its ramifications. I put a call into Jessie who gets behind the publicity, heading it off with our own release explaining our side of what happened. I’m called in for press interviews which, with my shot at the world title hanging in the balance, I have neither the time nor the inclination.

  It means my working hours are longer, and my stress increases, reducing the amount of focus I have for the championship. With the last race looming in a few days’ time, everything will be decided in those two hours.

  My head is a tangle of frustration and anger as I step out of the tiny shower in my RV. Unwelcome emotions bounce around my chest cavity, sending me to the bathroom way more than is normal as my stomach cramps at the mere thought of what I’m putting Kyle through.

  For his part, he’s calm. He takes this latest disruption in stride. “There’s nothing we can do about this. Anyone in my position would have reacted in the same way. While it’s creepy him having his loft converted to a shrine to us, it can only help demonstrate how my position was one of self-defense. It’s a pain in the ass, but if we worry about it, he takes control of another piece of our lives and by default wins. Don’t let him.” He plants a kiss on the back of my neck as I towel off from the shower.

  A shiver zips down my spine, reminding me, as if I needed it, of why I’ve chosen to share my life with this man.

  He sits on the bed, pulls me toward him and tugs at the end of the towel I have wrapped around my waist. “Let me make you feel better.” His hand runs over my length. It grows, a dynamic response showing my appreciation.

  “I’m late. I can’t.” I mean the words, but they have no conviction. I say them, but don’t move away, preferring to stand naked in front of my support mechanism allowing him to deliver on his promise.

  His head dips, and I moan as I’m engulfed within his warm lips, his tongue kneading me against the roof of his mouth as he sucks. He groans, and the vibration slips down my length and into my balls, crinkling them into taut sacks of impending pleasure.

  He lifts his lips away and looks up at me, his deep eyes allowing me access to his soul.

  “I love you Elliott Judd and whatever happens in the race this weekend, I am yours. I will be coming to live with you when it is over whether you win or lose.” His hand works where his mouth had been, but his words stop all sensation as they filter into my brain. The enormity of his promise hits my sensors and before I know it, my body is arching, my breath catching and I’m groaning like I’ve not come in a year.

  “You like that idea?” He lets out a throaty laugh, but I can’t speak yet such is the force of my emotion.

  I head out on to the track with a new sense of purpose. I can feel my body springing as I stroll toward the car with an uncharacteristic glow enhancing my mood. I have everything to lose, and yet it feels like there is nothing. I have Kyle. He’s moving in with me. We’re setting up home together.

  I push an unwelcome flashback to the paparazzi who were lined up outside our houses, jostling for a picture of the two of us together. Is he just moving in with me because his place isn’t safe anymore?

  It’s not relevant.

  Even if that’s the case, he is going to be living with me and I know within my reserves of rational thought that it’s because he wants to share his life with me. He’s only been forced out of his small flat because of his relationship with me anyway, so either way, how can him moving in with me be just because of Noah and his legal games?

  It can’t.

  I’m waved out of the pits for first practice in the deciding race of the season. I pull my visor down and with it, clear my brain of all negativity. I can do this. This is my championship to take.

  I have a point to prove to myself, to Noah, and to the fans. If I can win the title this year with everything that has gone wrong, then I’ll have the chance of being one of the greatest drivers in world history.

  Kyle

  Elliott has his old spark back. He’s driving that car around this track like it’s on rails. There is nothing that can stop him and this is just the practice.

  He's doing everything the team are asking of him without hesitation and pushing to the limits to produce more from the car than anyone expected would be possible in these conditions.

  Jessie stands at the back of the pits, the only reminder that we’re dealing with a media storm. One that Elliott appears to be putting to bed.

  “Kyle!” James waves me over.

  “We need to tighten the suspension around the push rods at the front.”

  We’re pushing even harder. Elliott will be bounced all over the cockpit of his tiny car like a ping pong ball. This is a testing track with lots of turns and this is going to be a real test of his fitness and endurance, particularly when combined with soaring heat and humidity.

  He pulls the car in and waits, checking the times of statistics of the other drivers while he waits for us to make the modifications.

  “OK, release him again,” Trevor shouts this time, his face not moving from his bank of screens.

  The car drops and Elliott pulls out of the garage and into the pit lane.

  It’s the last thing I remember, before the media descend on us. Singling me out, the reporters barge into the garage unannounced.

  “Have you heard the news, Kyle?”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “We’d like a comment.”

  Jessie is there within seconds, holding back the crew, having to hold her arms out and physically prevent them accessing me. They’re like an oil spill, slick and dangerous, spreading where it’s not needed, unconcerned about stemming its flow. Black, viscous and pungent, they push back against her, jabbing microphones under my nose.

  “Keep Elliott out of here,” I say to James.

  He nods, knowing instinctively this is not something we need to play out ahead of our final race weekend. “Go out back.”

  I’m already leaving. I’m no use in the pits right now. It’s not like Elliott can come in anyway and with me out of the way, the press might leave sooner than they otherwise would have.

  The staff room is quiet; everyone is out at the practice session. I have no missed calls, so I make one of my own.

  “Clifford. What’s going on? The press is all over me asking for my opinion.”

  “It never ceases to amaze me how they get hold of information before we do,” he snaps.

  “Don’t you know what’s happened?”

  “Well, yes, but they must have found out before me as I’ve only just been passed the news myself.”

  “What do they want my comment on?”

  “Noah is dead, Kyle.”

  Kyle

  The words don’t sink in. Instead they float around my brain searching for a place to settle. My tongue is dry and it sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  It’s over. The whole sordid experience is over.

  Except that it’s not.

  Noah is dead and much as he had his issues and I despised the man, I never wished him dead.

  Clifford is silent on the other end of the phone.

  “What happened?” The question pops out without any consideration from my brain. I’m still processing the information I’ve just received.

  “He was attacked by some inmates. I’m not sure of all the facts, as I say I’ve only just heard the news myself, but it appears he was beaten to death.”

  “Which inmates?”<
br />
  “I don’t know if we’ll ever find that out. Prisoners do tend to keep their own counsel.”

  I perch on the edge of one of the molded chairs that frames the huge table where we all dine.

  “This cannot affect Elliott’s race. He’s battled with enough this season without this messing him up.”

  Clifford doesn’t reply. I guess really he knows that’s a stupid statement and that unless I’m going to close down all forms of external communication, then Elliott will learn the news sooner rather than later.

  I briefly consider my options. Is it possible for me to hold him in a cocoon for the next forty-eight hours? Would he resist his phone being taken away?

  I wrap up the call asking Clifford to pass any information to me when he receives it, then I place my head in my hands and listen to the echo of my breath in my ears. Beaten to death. A savage attack.

  It’s nothing on what he was going to hand out to me, but I’m not sure I would wish this on him. I’m also not sure I wouldn’t either, but my confusion is interrupted as the sickness in my gut rises. I swallow down bile but my mouth waters preparing for the inevitable. My stomach tightens and my throat clenches. I swallow again, but the warmth in my chest accelerates.

  I dash to the bathroom, bend over and open my lips in time to expel a cream fluid from my mouth. I heave as it splashes the side of the toilet bowl, gasp as round two of my revulsion builds. I hold the bitterness at the back of my engorged mouth and lift the seat. I'm just in time, the warm vapor spills out. I'm bent at the waist, spitting out bile and wiping tears of exertion from my cheeks.

  When my stomach has finished lurching, I stagger back to the seat by the table. I'm shivering and spent, my stomach internally bruised from the strangle of bile.

  “You OK?” James pokes his head in.

  I nod, explaining the latest development in my newly turbulent love life. “Yeah, I heard. The press said.”

  “What shall we do with Elliott?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know, but you should be the one to tell him. Jessie has moved the hacks on if you want to come out. We can bring Elliott in and you can describe the news slowly to him, taking your time and making sure this doesn't affect his race.”

  I like how the effect of Noah killing himself on Elliott's season comes back onto me. Instead of getting antsy, I sigh. Of course it should be me. “OK, give me a few minutes. I just need to drink some water.”

  He nods and backs out again toward the door. As he’s closing it behind him, he pops his head back around. “Kyle, we know this whole mess isn’t anything that you two have done. Noah was always been nuts. I understand this is awful, but please try to not let it eat away at you.”

  “Thanks.” My smile is wonky, but I appreciate his sentiment.

  Elliott

  I don't know what it is, but there’s something going on when I pull the car into the garage. Kyle greets me, subtly but insistently moving me into my room out the back.

  “I need to speak with you.” He wraps his arm around my waist and steers me toward the exit.

  His tone is off and alarm sparks my synapses. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just wait until we’re in the privacy of your changing room and I’ll explain everything.”

  “Fuck, Kyle, you’re scaring me. Tell me what is going on.” I plant my feet hip distance apart and cross my arms, facing him. He turns from where he’d continued walking and manhandles me forward.

  “Elliott, I’m not messing around. Come with me.” He grabs me again but this time I walk with him, letting him guide me. Every nerve in my fucking body is on red alert. This is not going to be good.

  By the time we’re in my room, not only are the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, but my head feels like the roots of those hairs are needles puncturing my skull.

  “Sit down Elliott.” I do as he tells me.

  He sits next to me and wraps that arm around me again. “I have some news. I know the timing is off, but there’s no way to keep this from you. But, you need to prepare yourself to process what I’m about to say logically. You can react emotionally when the championship is tied down. OK?”

  I chew the inside of my mouth. “Are my parents OK? Is your mom?”

  “Yes.”

  Relief slackens my jaw, and I build a mental wall protecting me against the words that Kyle is about to deliver. “OK, then I’m ready.”

  “Noah was killed. In prison. He was beaten to death sometime this morning, but we don’t know all the facts.”

  “OK.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks for letting me know.”

  I don’t feel upset, nor angry at Noah. It doesn’t mean that I won’t, but for now, I’ve heard the words and my reaction to them is on ice.

  “I have this race to win, Kyle. I will not let him take this away from me. He’s caused enough damage, not just now, but in my past. His final send-off will not be to lose me this championship.” I hear my voice. It’s cold. Clinical. Devoid of any emotion.

  Kyle

  Well, I know he’s a professional, but wow. He really can put a barrier up when it suits him. His response is flabbergasting. I can’t comprehend how it’s possible to manually switch off your emotions like he just appeared to do.

  He’s fine for the rest of the weekend.

  When I look closely, he’s a little on the quiet side, but outwardly he’s behaving as he normally would before a big race.

  If anything, it’s helped him to concentrate. He bagged pole position without any kind of real effort. Of course it helps that his car is running to perfection. Neither him nor Brad seem to be able to do anything wrong with it while the competition starts dropping out with engines worn out from the battering they’ve already endured in previous races.

  He’s avoided all the press attention, and while this is unprecedented, so is the situation so none of the other drivers have complained.

  His start was also perfection. He nailed it into the first corner and everyone else was left in his wake. The first pit stop is a dream and I’m left thinking that he really could do this. He could pull it back like the professional he is.

  Until Brad takes a bend too wide and bounces off a rumble strip onto the grass at the side. This forces his car to rocket forward at breakneck speed across the race track, narrowly avoiding the guy behind him. The rear axle crunches against the barrier at an angle before spitting him back. redepositing him into the same barrier front on.

  There's a pause in the garage where everything is silent. It must only be a fraction of a second, but it lasts a lifetime. The front wheel hangs on a thread amidst the carnage of crushed metal. Brad's head doesn't move, nor does he speak into the radio.

  And then he speaks. "I'm OK." His voice is shaky, but it doesn't matter. The car can be fixed as long as Brad is well.

  His car is straddled across the center of the circuit so the safety car is deployed to stop racing while the marshals clear away the debris. To protect the drivers from harm, everyone has to drive around in convoy at a restricted speed. As no one is allowed to overtake during this period, anyone who hasn't yet taken a pit stop uses the opportunity to change their tires without losing too much of their track position.

  Elliott had only been in one lap before, so he's left trundling round, weaving from one side to the other to keep his tires warm during the slow pace. His lead is eaten away as the cars behind him bunch up.

  His main competitor, however, is not so strategically unfortunate and stops to change his tires while the race ambles around the track in formation. As he pulls back to rejoin the race he and Elliott are nose to nose. They face off, leveling with each other. Elliott is restricted by the speed limit of the safety car because he's on the race track so he can't speed up to protect his lead. His speed has a limit which he must maintain or be disqualified, but the pit lane runs on a different, faster limit. Elliott is about to lose the championship as his competition uses this
rule to push ahead. El is left watching the title which was just within his grasp be snatched away from him in a cruel twist of fate.

  The atmosphere in the pits is tense, and it’s not made any better by me slamming my fist against the side wall in frustration. He did everything he possibly could and his year has been thrown away by a technical glitch.

  I want to scream, “You need to do something, get him back out in the lead.” But I don’t. I stand and seethe at the rear of the pits watching the crazy situation before me play out as the team strives to find a means to retrieve his win.

  It doesn’t happen and when he crosses that line in second position, I could cry. I slam out the back away from the cameras and prop my foot against the wall. If I smoked this would be the perfect time for a cigarette. But I don’t. So I distract myself from the frustration by observing the other less fortunate teams who are already breaking down their pits. The now familiar hubbub is no comfort. Elliott deserved that win after everything that has gone on this season and this weekend.

  The music from the podiums wafts over. My initial instinct is to ignore it. I don't want to witness his desperate humiliation at failing through no fault of his own. But, I don’t have any choice.

  I must celebrate his wins and his losses alongside him. And so I force myself to march over there. My steps are heavy and my legs ache with spent adrenaline. There’s a massive uproar from the crowd in the distance and I feel sick that fans are celebrating the winner in such an overt fashion.

  It’s only when I draw closer that I note the color of the outfit standing on the top podium step. I see that before I can make out Elliott’s figure.

  Without even noticing, my exhausted legs have found energy and are moving faster beneath me, breaking into a jog and then a full blown run.

  It’s Elliott.