by Shandi Boyes
Incapable of holding in my excitement for a minute longer, I flatten my palms on the roof of the Camaro and let out a glass-splintering squeal. My excited scream initially startles the stranger, before encouraging him to push his car to the absolute limit. As the compression on his accelerator boosts, so does the curve of his lips. His heart-clenching smile sends the pulse raging through my body to a needier region.
When he downshifts the gears and drifts around a corner with meticulous precision, I'm panting, wet, and on the verge of combusting. The control he exerts behind the wheel is nearly as stimulating as his panty-wetting good looks. It also makes me wonder if he exudes the same type of domination in the bedroom?
The width of my pupils grows when a set of blinking traffic lights enters my peripheral vision. A luminous orange glow from the out-of-order lights brightens the interior cabin of the stranger’s car the closer we encroach the intersection. I sink deeper in my seat, my heart walloping, my mouth gaped.
“Come on!” I squeal when the stranger withdraws his pressure on the accelerator, dragging the needle on his gauge back to the designated speed limit marked on the nearly isolated roadside. “Bring it all or go home crying.”
The stranger’s gaze shift sideways, his eyes flaring with alarm and excitement. I return his soul-intrusive stare while repeating one of my dad’s famous quotes, “Bring it all or go home crying.”
I lose the ability to secure a full breath when the stranger grins the most seductive smirk I’ve ever seen before planting his foot to the floor. I’m thrusted deep into my seat when 3400 pounds of steel charges down the narrow street. We hit a dip in the intersection so fast, the four tires of the Camaro lift from the ground. A smile cracks onto my lips when we sail through the air. I feel weightless and free even while being buckled into a flying deathtrap.
We land on the other side of the intersection with an almighty crunch. The metal underframe of the Camaro grinds against the asphalt, sending sparks shooting behind us, and the bumper of his pride and joy sustains numerous scratches, but we make it through the intersection relatively unscathed.
I suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs with much needed oxygen before turning my massively dilated eyes to the unnamed man. “That was. . .” I stop talking when I fail to find a word to express how epic that was. I’ve always been a daredevil, but after some devastating events six years ago, I forgot what it feels like to just let go. But even more astonishing than gaining back a piece of me I never thought I’d recover, is the fact I entrusted my safety to a man I don’t know. That is a massive step in the recovery I’ve been undertaking the past three years. One of the biggest leaps I’ve taken thus far—literally.
After slowing his speed to the limit indicated on the signs whizzing by, the unnamed stranger drifts his eyes from the roadside to me. He stares at me, blinking and confused. . . and if I’m not mistaken, with a smidge of awe. I issue him a cocky wink, my mood still high and laced with adrenaline.
The wild thump of my heart kicks into overdrive when he asks, “Who are you?” The deep roughness of his voice adds to the excited shiver running down my spine.
Smiling, I slip my legs under my bottom and tilt my torso to face him. “So you can speak?” I jest, my tone crammed with wit. “I was beginning to wonder if the knock to my head was playing tricks on me.”
Just like earlier, my attempts at humor are lost on him.
“Gemma Calderon-Lévesque. It’s a pleasure to meet you. . .” I leave my greeting open, hoping he will fill in the gap.
His brows furrow together tightly. “Calderon-Lévesque? As in Matias Calderon-Lévesque?”
Ignoring the fact he didn’t introduce himself, I nod my head. Years ago, my dad was well-known in the NASCAR circuit. With five championships under his belt, and more podium finishes than any of his competitors, he was one of the best in the field. As the years moved on from his glory days, so did the glamour surrounding his name. Although no red-blooded creature is happy to let their limelight fade into the background, my father was a humble man who knew when it was time to step aside for the new up and coming racers. Although his name is still associated with NASCAR to this day, it had a recent resurge in popularity from his induction into the NASCAR hall of fame two months ago.
“Matias is of Spanish heritage,” the stranger mutters, his voice shocked.
The smile I’ve been wearing the past ten minutes enlarges when his eyes roam over my lightly tanned skin, green eyes, and platinum blonde hair. His avid gaze enhances the uncontrollable throb between my legs. With the aftershock of adrenaline still pumping through his veins, the stranger’s eyes are wild, and his lips still wear the effects of his devastating smile. He looks ravishingly beautiful and traumatized at the same time, two panty-wetting combinations.
After absorbing every inch of my American born body in dedicated detail, the stranger locks his eyes with me.
“I was adopted when I was four,” I explain to his bemused expression.
His astonishment grows. “How old are you? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-eight,” I correct.
His eyes bounce between the road and me for numerous heart-strangling seconds before he asks, “So Matias adopted you at the crest of his career?”
Warmth blooms across my chest at his extensive knowledge of my dad’s illustrious profession. He must be a fan. That makes me like him even more.
Smiling, I nod my head. “He won his first championship the year he adopted me. He said I was his good luck charm.”
A puff of air parts the stranger’s lips; he looks equally shocked and intrigued. “Did he ever let you behind the wheel?” he asks, staring at me with blazing eyes.
I take my time replying, loving that I’ve finally secured a snip of his attention. Even though his excitement is attached to discovering who my father is, I’ll take any leverage I can get on the man I’ve grown an impulsive obsession with. Being honest, part of my interest in him resonates from everyone’s odd reaction when we entered the church hours ago, but the majority is trying to work out how I can keep his libido-bolstering smile on his face. Since he rarely smiles, they are like wishes from a genie. You treasure every one granted.
When the arch of his brow increases, it dawns on me that I failed to answer his question. Gritting my teeth, I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve only ever been allowed in the passenger seat. My dad didn’t want his lucky charm to get a single scratch.” That’s why he was so devastated about my attack.
My dad wrapped me up in cotton wool my entire childhood. I was even homeschooled to ensure I wouldn’t have to endure the taunts children with famous parents usually suffer. He only unraveled me from his protective cocoon once I reached the safety of adulthood. Little did he know it would be grown men who would have the greatest impact on my quality of life.
“Now it makes sense why you weren’t scared,” the stranger mutters more to himself than me.
My grin fades. So, he was trying to scare me with his erratic driving? I can’t fathom why? Other than shamefully begging for a ride to my hotel, I adhered to his do not approach demeanor. Even beyond riveted by him, I gave him the space he so desperately craved, so why did he set out to frighten me? Perhaps I’m not the only one who has grown a weird obsession in a short period of time?
Before I have the chance to consider the consequences of my actions, I grab ahold of his steering wheel and yank it to the left.
Chapter 5
Hawke
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I shift down the gears as my car violently swerves toward the gutter. It’s lucky I maintained the speed limit the last mile or Gemma’s abrupt yank on my steering wheel would have caused my Camaro to cartwheel down the asphalt. Although my life the past five years appears to have been protected by an invincible shield, I can’t make the same guarantees for Gemma. And although she is practically a stranger, I was born with a naturally engrained protective instinct. Especially when it comes to wom
en.
My back molars smash together when the concrete curb scours across my expensive rims, matching the grinding of my teeth to a T. Although annoyed at sustaining more damage to a car that used to be my pride and joy, I’m not overly worried. Our dangerous midair sail already depleted my bank account of a few thousand dollars, so what are a few more scratches?
I haven’t driven my Camaro in years. Before Jorgie, this car was my pride and joy. After Jorgie and Malcolm passed, just like every beautiful thing in my life, I couldn’t stand the sight of it. It’s been sitting in a storage shed the past five years, doing what no classic car should: gathering dust. I’ll be honest, it took more effort than I’d like to admit to slide into the driver’s seat, but it was nowhere near as bad as walking into the church. Just like everything in this town, this car holds a lot of memories for me, but most were gained before I met Jorgie. I do have fond memories of my life before Jorgie became a part of it, but like all couples, when you start making new memories, the old ones don’t feel as compelling as they once did.
Once my car rolls to a stop at the side of Rochdale Village, Gemma drifts her massively dilated eyes to me. “You want to get your heart racing? I can get it racing. Move.”
My brows tack when she kicks off her shoes, throws off her seatbelt, and climbs over the small parcel of space between us. “It’s time for you to see how a real NASCAR driver does it.”
With her ass thrusted in the air and her blonde hair clinging to the leather lining of my roof, she slips her foot into the minute portion of space between my splayed thighs and the steering wheel. The adrenaline heating my veins turns to anger when her wild berry scent stirs my cock. It isn’t just my cock’s reaction to her closeness annoying me. It is the fact my attempts at scaring her were ineffective.
Although I was in control the entire time, I don’t usually drive so erratically. I just had an irrepressible desire to scare Gemma away from me. To show her how dangerous and unhinged I really am. Why? Because as the minutes on the clock slowly dragged by at Ava and Hugo’s reception, Gemma’s sneaky glances my way increased. This may make me sound conceited, but her reaction isn’t abnormal. When entering a room, I conjure the inquisitive stares of women of all ages. Usually, it is my large frame and height that initially attract their attention. Then, for some inane reason, the more brooding my temperament is, the more attention I gain. Women these days seem to like a challenge. They flock to men with aloof personalities with the hope they will be the one to change them—to make them better and feel whole again. What they don’t grasp is that it’s never going to happen. Men with personalities like mine don’t want to be saved. We want solitude. That is the reason we are so standoffish.
Well, that’s usually the logic I work with. Tonight, my approach did a complete one-eighty. The more my brutish behavior secured the inquisitive stares of Gemma, the more my fucked-up mind strived for her attention. That pissed me off even more than my pointless wish on the church stairs. I was sitting in the hometown my wife was born, raised, and buried in, guzzling down bottles of water to force myself back into sober territory, and all my fucked-up mind was worried about was attracting the attention of a pretty blonde across the room. That alone proves I should have never stepped foot in this town.
My grief the past five years has been a sickening mix of remorse and guilt, but when I add the idea of moving on to the volatile concoction, the guilt becomes crippling. Every breath I take without Jorgie feels like I'm betraying her. So, shouldn’t spending even a second without her on my mind make it hard for me to breathe? To me, it should, and it’s been that way the past five years. But every time Gemma glanced at me tonight, for the quickest moment, I wished I could go back to the man I was before I lost everything. To know what it feels like to breathe without heaviness sitting on my chest. To smile without guilt. To enjoy the company of a beautiful woman without feeling like I'm betraying my wife. I'd give anything to become the man I used to be, the man I was before I was broken.
Gritting my teeth, I swallow down the guilt bubbling up my throat before gripping Gemma’s hips and hoisting her toward the driver’s side door. Once I’ve clambered into the passenger seat—which is no easy feat for a guy my size—Gemma cranks the driver’s seat mechanism, dragging it closer to the steering wheel. Her pupils are dilated, and a fine layer of sweat is beading her forehead, but she takes control of my car with a confident approach not many women exude when sitting at the helm of a car with a five hundred horsepower motor.
After checking her mirrors, she flicks on the blinker and pulls my Camaro onto the isolated street. My car shudders when she gingerly shifts the gearstick from first to second. Her brows join when her heavy compression on the accelerator sends the speedometer into the red zone.
Guilt creeps up my esophagus when Gemma shifts her eyes to me and mutters, “I don’t know how to drive a shift.” It isn’t her confession causing my odd reaction, it is the little chuckle toppling from my lips after seeing the panicked expression on her face. I didn’t mean to laugh, but it spilled from my mouth before I had the chance to push it into the small crevice in my chest not suffocated by guilt.
“Keep going. You’re doing fine,” I force out through the tightness of my throat when Gemma removes her foot from the pedal and veers my car toward the edge of the road.
Gemma’s brows meet her hairline. “Really? As I’m fairly certain your gears aren’t going to have any teeth on them by the time we make it to my hotel,” she replies while grinding the gears from second to third.
I shrug my shoulders. “After tonight, this old girl is being returned to storage.”
Gemma scoffs. “My dad would have a coronary if he knew you kept this beauty locked up. Collectors are not car enthusiasts. They are sadists only determined to make the less privileged envious,” she quotes her father, a saying he used numerous times during his long NASCAR career.
I’m not going to lie; excitement thickened my blood when I found out Gemma’s dad is Matias Calderon-Lévesque. I’ve been a fan of NASCAR racing for as long as I’ve been breathing. If I had the skills, I would have loved to become a professional racer. But like all young boys, my dreams were not quite within my reach. They did get close enough I could smell them, but not quite close enough I could grasp them with both hands. Perhaps if I’d spent a little more time at college concentrating on my career aspirations instead of chasing skirts, I would have gotten a little closer to achieving my dreams. It is another thing I can add to my unachievable wish list.
The further we travel out of Rochdale, the lighter the heaviness on my chest becomes. Recognizable locations streaming by my window still conjure up memories, but most of them are pre-Jorgie ones. Although I wasn’t born and raised in Rochdale like Jorgie, I did spend a majority of my teen years here. To be honest, before I met Jorgie, I couldn’t wait to see this town disappear in my rearview mirror. That all changed the instant I attended my first Marshall brunch. It wasn’t Rochdale’s location that had me calling it home; it was the people in it.
“Take a left,” I instruct Gemma when a familiar street enters my vision.
Nodding her head, Gemma follows my demand. Her pupils are still massive, but she stopped chewing on the corner of her lip half a mile ago. Although I’m still hesitant at the odd reaction her presence incites, I need to do something to ease the guilt I’m feeling from trying to scare her. This is a small step, but it’s better than nothing.
“This road has a steep descent that’s perfect for learning how to shift gears. As you roll down the hill, take your foot off the accelerator, push in the clutch and glide through the gears. Get a feel for the stick and how it moves.”
A faint smile creeps across my lips when I remember the time I said a similar thing to Jorgie. Just like Gemma, Jorgie had never driven a stick shift before we met. I gave her lessons on the side streets of her university most weekends I drove up to visit her. The only difference this time around is that Gemma is driving the car I refused to let Jorgie
behind the wheel of. I never let Jorgie drive my pride and joy as I didn’t want to run the risk of her getting even a hairline scratch on my expensive paintwork. How ludicrous is that? I wouldn’t let my partner of four years drive my car, but I hand her care over to a lady I only formally met minutes ago.
My lips quirk. I thought my confession would have guilt boiling my veins, but, surprisingly, it doesn’t. I'm sure if Jorgie is looking down at me now, she would be laughing. She’d say the damage to my car was Karma’s way of kicking my ass for trying to scare Gemma. I do agree with her. What I did wasn’t nice. If Gemma wasn’t raised by a NASCAR icon, I could have scared the living hell out of her.
When the sound of metal grinding booms through my ears, I turn my attention to Gemma. Her first run through the gears grinds at the teeth of my gearbox, but her second attempt is more convincing that she was indeed raised by Matias. Gemma’s teeth graze over her bottom lip as her apologetic eyes relay her sympathies to my car without a word seeping from her mouth. Just like Jorgie, Gemma has attractive features that cause men’s heads to turn when she enters the room, but the hesitancy in her eyes weakens her appeal.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying the timid look makes her less attractive. I’m saying it is the reason why the dozen or so men gawking at her from across the room tonight never built up the courage to talk to her. Some made it close. For others, it was a dismal failure. The two who got within handshaking distance soon regretted their decision when Gemma blinded them with the flash of her camera before she used their hindered sight to escape.
One good thing that came from watching the cringe-worthy attempts of the men striving for Gemma’s attention was that it took my focus off the fact I couldn’t wash away my haunted memories with a bottle of liquor. It was only after guzzling down four shots of whiskey did the burn of my car keys in my pocket become too great to ignore. With my head ordered into lock down mode, I completely forgot that I drove to the hotel the reception was being held at. After calling the local taxi company and discovering my transportation options were limited, I switched my beverage selection from whiskey to water. Jorgie and Malcolm were killed when a man driving while three times over the legal limit struck Jorgie. That alone ensures I’ll never drive drunk.
