When the Devil Drives

by L. J. Hayward

  Ethan sprang out of the car on the other side. “Brendan, hey. Sorry we’re late. A few last-minute details to sort out before we could hit the road.”

  Jack very carefully didn’t do a double take at the pure Australian accent pouring out of Ethan’s mouth. For his part, Brendan didn’t seem entirely reassured, giving Jack a sceptical side-eye as he straightened and went to meet Ethan at the front of the car. They shook hands, then shared a manly, one-armed, back-slapping hug.

  Part worried, part fascinated by the display, Jack got out of the car, taking a few moments to stretch his legs and flex his back, giving Ethan time to lay whatever foundation he needed.

  The two men had released each other but remained close, talking in low voices. Brendan had crossed his arms, yet leaned in to Ethan, clearly comfortable being right inside his personal space. And Ethan looked like it didn’t bother him, either. He rested his leg against the car’s front, one hand in a jeans pocket, the other flying around as he explained something, making Brendan throw his head back and laugh out loud.

  It was just an act. This cosy little picture of familiarity and closeness was part of the whole Roy Carter experience. At least that’s what Jack told himself. The uneasy sensation in his stomach was just the remains of the doubtful bacon and egg wrap he’d had for breakfast: it had nothing to do with the way Brendan unfolded his arms and ran a hand up Ethan’s arm so it came to rest on the side of his neck, thumb brushing over the corner of his jaw. Or the way Ethan didn’t stop it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Nishant.” Ethan waved him over.

  Shaking off the moment, Jack went.

  At least Brendan stopped touching Ethan to extend a hand to Jack. “Good to meet you,” Brendan said, smiling, pleasantly enough. “Brendan South.”

  “Nishant Reardon.” His hand was taken in a strong, firm grip, then let go so Brendan could cross his arms again. “Likewise.” Like fuck.

  “I have to say this is a surprise.” Brendan glanced between them. “I never thought I’d see the day Roy let someone else drive Victoria.”

  It was part of a cover. Jack just had to keep reminding himself of that. “It’s called blackmail,” he said as if they were just a couple of guys joking around. “Took me a while, but I finally got something on Roy. Worth every painful moment to get behind the wheel of his baby.”

  Brendan laughed. Behind him, Ethan cocked his head enough to let Jack know he wasn’t entirely amused.

  “However you got here, I’m glad you did.” Brendan turned back to Ethan. “There’s been a little hiccup to the proceedings. Last-minute entry by Calhoun.”

  Ethan sucked in a sharp breath. “I thought he was retiring.”

  “We all did, then he announced this morning he’s driving one last time. Tomorrow, in our little race.”

  “Isn’t it invitation only?” Jack asked.

  Brendan shrugged. “He was given one, as a courtesy. No one expected him to take it, especially not at the last minute. Not coincidently, his announcement came about half an hour after the line-up for the race was published.”

  “He’s doing this because I won our last race.”

  “You didn’t just win, you trounced him. Lucky you had to leave the country so quickly, otherwise I think he might have tried to put a hit on you.” Brendan snickered.

  Jack didn’t find it funny. “What’s this? Who’s Calhoun?” He directed the question to Ethan, but it was Brendan who answered.

  “Todd Calhoun. Won several million in a Lotto jackpot a couple of years ago. Decided he was going to get into amateur racing and pretty much lost it all. Not a bad driver, just too cocky.”

  “He thinks it’s all about the car,” Ethan interjected, his tone a touch sour. “It’s not what you drive—”

  “But how you drive it,” Brendan finished for him, grinning.

  Ethan returned his grin and Jack’s breakfast made squirmy motions in his belly again. “Calhoun challenged me about two years ago. Ten laps at Calder Park in Melbourne. He bet pretty much the last of his money on the race.”

  “Good race, too. Calhoun was convinced he had it in the bag, but our boy here was in charge the entire time.” Brendan patted Ethan on the shoulder, like a proud father. “Roy played coy for what? Six laps?”

  Shrugging off the praise, Ethan said, “Seven.”

  “And then bam!” Brendan slapped his hands together, one shooting off the other like it was taking flight. “Rampaging Roy appeared and Calhoun got nothing but exhaust for the last three laps. I thought he was going to burst a vein when he finally caught up to you . . . in pit lane.” He laughed again.

  Jack looked at Ethan with raised eyebrows. “Rampaging Roy?” He wasn’t sure if he should be amused or worried.

  “Just a nickname,” Ethan murmured.

  “It’s more than a nickname,” Brendan assured Jack. “If you’ve ever seen Roy drive seriously, you know it’s not.”

  “I’ve seen him drive pretty seriously.” Jack recalled the preternatural calm that had come over Ethan behind the wheel during a police chase in Sydney. He nodded to Brendan. “I get it.”

  Ethan smiled at Jack, small and shy. All trace of the secret look was gone when Brendan turned back to him.

  “How did Calhoun afford the entry fee?” Ethan asked his friend.

  “Got himself a sponsor, apparently. No one knows who.”

  “Entry fee?” Jack asked. “I thought this was by invite?”

  “The fee is more like a donation,” Ethan said. “For the charity.”

  Brendan gestured all around them. “The Gold Coast doesn’t shut down its main drag for nothing, you know. This whole thing is rather expensive. They have to cover costs somehow.”

  “Right.” Jack crossed his arms. “And how much is the buy-in?”

  Ethan smirked at him. “The donation is twenty thousand.”

  “Holy shit.” Though, he guessed if everyone here was willing to race cars of the same pedigree as Victoria, then they could drop twenty grand without a second thought.

  “The upshot of it is that your practice run got bumped up the schedule,” Brendan said to Ethan. “You’re supposed to be on the track in an hour.”

  If that worried Ethan, he didn’t show it. “Fine. I’ll need to check Victoria over first.”

  “You’ve got your usual bay. I could move Victoria for you while you go check-in,” Brendan offered slyly.

  “Nice try.” Ethan patted him on the shoulder. “Bay thirteen, Nishant. Brendan can show you where it is. I won’t be long.” He sauntered off toward a pavilion on the far side of the carpark.

  Jack liked the defeated expression on Brendan’s face far too much and hid his smile by getting back into the low-slung car. “Which way am I going?”

  Scowling, Brendan waved back the way he’d come from, toward a long row of temporary sheds set up behind one of many equally temporary grandstands that faced the track. “Thirteen’s at the far end. No racing off the track,” he cautioned.

  “Got it. See you later.”

  Brendan stood back as Jack manoeuvred the Vanquish out of the park, looking a little shocked by the dismissal.

  Ignoring the tiny spurt of guilt at leaving Ethan’s friend behind, Jack swung the car around and, engine purring like a contented panther, eased it down the narrow space between sheds and grandstand. There was activity on both sides. Cars, drivers and pit crews to one and on the other spectators gathered between the grandstand and a fence that was more a polite demarcation line than a truly effective barrier. They snapped photos and pointed excitedly at the exotic cars. As much as Jack wasn’t a big fan, he had to admit the line-up of speed machines was impressive.

  Porsche, Maserati, Ferrari. A BMW Roadster and a lone Lamborghini Diablo. Then, a car appeared that Jack had no inkling about. It looked like a Roadster and Carrera got a little tipsy one night and nine months later, this thing had rolled off the production line. This collection of cars was a veritable rainbow of high-powered dick substitutes. Tha
t is, except for the hot-pink Ferrari sporting a breast cancer awareness logo. Two women looked up from the Ferrari’s engine as Jack eased by. The blonde smiled and waved happily while the redhead crossed her arms and glared. More friends of Ethan’s? Behind Victoria’s darkly tinted windows, Jack was just an anonymous shadow, but considering Ethan’s reluctance to let anyone else drive his car, it was understandable they thought it was him behind the wheel. Jack waved back for the heck of it.

  Bay thirteen was second to last in the row, between a sky-blue Carrera and a blood-red Maserati so low a shallow pothole would probably break it in two. Everyone else had backed in, so Jack carefully turned the black car around and reversed into the shade. He was barely out of the car before the friendly blonde appeared.

  Her happily shouted “Roy!” was cut off as she skidded to a stop inches from colliding with Jack. Back pedalling, she eyed him warily. “You’re not Roy.”

  “No,” he agreed as the redhead strolled in and looked him over, her scowl deepening. “I’m Nishant.”

  “Are you a friend of Roy’s?” the blonde asked.

  “Who else would he be?” Red had a surprisingly low voice, laden with sarcasm.

  The tone didn’t dint her teammate’s misgiving. “I’m just making sure. Remember what happened to Kav and Fred last year?”

  The reminder of which was apparently enough to convince Red.

  “Are you Roy’s friend?” Red reiterated, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

  “Well?” Blondie prompted firmly, one brow raised sceptically.

  Cornered, Jack held his hands up placatingly. “Yes, I’m a friend of Roy’s. He’s just at the main tent, signing in or whatever. As I said, I’m Nishant. Nish for short, if you want. And you are . . .?”

  It was Red who moved first, coming forward with her hand out. “I’m Katie Cross and this is Vicky Stapleton. Nice to meet you.”

  Jack shook her hand and turned to Vicky.

  “Actually,” Vicky said, taking his hand, “it’s Victoria.”

  “Victoria?” Jack looked between her and the car. He’d believed it a quirk Ethan had to give his cars female names and had jokingly thought of them as his harem before, but now he wondered if there was more truth to that than he’d like. The idea of Ethan and Victoria—human Victoria—doing more than raving about cars together made his stomach react again.

  “She wishes.” Katie smirked. “Victoria the Vanquish was named long before Vicky ever met Roy.”

  Vicky huffed, but broke into a cute grin. “It’s true. Just happy coincidence. Are you a driver, Jack?”

  Now that Vicky was convinced Jack wasn’t a car thief they hung around and chatted. About two minutes in, Jack knew he was being interrogated, the ladies determined to A, ensure Jack wasn’t some bastard taking advantage of their friend, and B, find out just what sort of “friends” he and Roy were.

  Jack, too, wondered if perhaps there was more to Vicky’s little crush. Ethan had assured him sex wasn’t on his agenda outside of the requirements of a job and Jack had believed him. Then, he and Ethan had started having sex outside the requirements of a job. Their arrangement to hook up was just casual, though. Neither of them had asked for exclusivity, so it was entirely reasonable Ethan was seeing other people. Jack hadn’t turned down every offer of sex outside of Ethan’s visits, either. He had absolutely no right to be jealous if Ethan had slept with Vicky. Yet, the more Vicky revealed herself as an intelligent, fun woman with a love of engines to rival Ethan’s, the less Jack found himself smiling and answering.

  It didn’t help that when Ethan finally showed up, he greeted Katie with a smile but broke into a grin and hugged a giggling Vicky. Jack may as well have stayed in Sydney for all the attention he got while Ethan and Vicky popped the Vanquish’s bonnet and began rooting around in the engine side by side.

  When he found himself slumped against a bench beside a similarly scowling Katie, he felt a little better, and ashamed as well. He’d left the reason for his presence up to Ethan and if Ethan chose to play it straight, well that was Jack’s issue. Even though it shouldn’t be. He and Ethan weren’t actually together.

  So why the hell was he here?

  Katie finally dragged Vicky away, assuring her they would all catch up after their practice runs, or failing that, at the function that night.

  Finally alone, or at least as alone as they could be in an open-fronted shed with people bustling all around and a crowd of spectators across the road, Jack watched Ethan pull their bags out of the boot.

  “Could you hang this up please, Jack?” Ethan held out the garment bag.

  Jack grunted and took it, hanging it on a hook at the back of the shed.

  “I’m sorry I took so long to register,” he continued, oblivious to Jack’s cranky mood. “There was more insurance paperwork than usual because the track is actually part of the public roads. Which means, I’m afraid, you won’t be able to ride with me during the race.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I made sure that during the practice laps it would be fine. You’ll have to suit up, as well.” From the overnight bag Ethan pulled out two racing suits, one in black and silver, the other plain black which he absently held out for Jack to take. From the boot he also produced a pair of helmets. “I get fifteen minutes for practice then four qualifying laps. Thankfully, they’re awarding starting positions on today’s time trials, not on finishing places in previous races. I haven’t raced in Australia for nearly two years.”

  “Lucky.” Jack resisted the urge to tie the suits in knots.

  Going back to the engine, Ethan began tinkering, still prattling about time trails and starting positions. Jack tuned him out. Not because he wasn’t interested in hearing it, or because he was focused on how beautiful Ethan got when he was so excited. No, this time it was an attempt to keep his frustration in check.

  Really, why the fuck was he here? He wasn’t a part of Ethan’s life beyond the bedroom. They’d established that fact weeks back, when Jack had had to draw a firm and hard line between his work and Ethan. Jack didn’t know Roy-bloody-Carter and his car-crazy friends. Didn’t want to know them. Or at least, didn’t want to know how fucking close Roy might be to any of them. Didn’t want to watch Ethan be Roy, the friendly, touchy guy who didn’t move away when Brendan got into his personal space, who hugged and kissed cheeks in greeting, who was sensitive to the fact Katie wasn’t his biggest fan and yet somehow managed to make her smile anyway. All normal, natural things.

  This wasn’t the Ethan Jack knew. Or thought he knew. It wasn’t Ethan Blade, the calm and steady contract killer who understood and accepted Jack as a soldier and spy. It wasn’t Ethan, the sometimes shy, always intoxicating man who happily locked himself away with Jack in his apartment so they could ignore the demands of intrigue and assassination, and be safe and content together.

  This was a well-adjusted normal guy surrounded by people who cared for him and whom he shared regular, sociable space with. Someone who seemed so fucking genuine Jack was starting to wonder if Ethan Blade was the construct and Roy Carter the real man.

  Which begged the question, just who had Jack been spending so much time with?

  CHAPTER THREE

  No thoughts had been settled and no answers found to his unasked questions before Brendan arrived with a couple of race officials. They all got under the bonnet, making sure everything was aboveboard with the engine. Satisfied the car wasn’t illegally modified, they then subjected Ethan to a breath and saliva tests for alcohol and drugs, which he cleared as easily as Victoria had cleared her tests.

  After Brendan and the officials left, Ethan toed out of his shoes and, unconcerned by the wolf-whistles from the spectators, undid his jeans and peeled them down right there in the middle of the shed. Normally, Jack would have made some sort of lewd suggestion himself, but things weren’t normal today.

  “Showing a bit too much leg there, Roy,” Jack muttered as Ethan came over in shirt, boxer briefs and socks, jeans over his
arm.

  “You don’t usually complain, Nish.” There was a touch of teasing in his tone, but the exchange of jeans for racing suit was very chaste.

  Jack glanced at the crowd, some of whom had their phones up, taking pictures. “Usually you don’t strip for an audience.” Lowering his already quiet voice to little more than a whisper and barely moving his lips, he added, “They’re taking photos.”

  Ethan shrugged and stepped into the legs of the black-and-silver suit. “It’s just my back.”

  Which was true. Ethan had been very careful to keep his face away from the crowd. Even with his blond hair and sunglasses, there was facial recognition software sensitive enough to find the connection between Roy Carter and Ethan Blade. The other distinctive and identifying part of Ethan’s anatomy—his scarred back—was covered up.

  Dressed in his suit, Ethan held out the plain black suit. “Your turn to change, Nish. Unless you don’t wish to ride with me, of course.”

  Jack wanted to say no. The angry, confused rumbling in his stomach hadn’t eased and the urge to push Ethan away, even further than he already seemed to be, was strong. He felt like the odd man out, the one who had no idea what was going on, or even who this person behind the dark shades was. Brendan, Vicky and Katie all seemed very confident about knowing Roy. They knew how to make him laugh and could understand everything he said when he talked engines and torque and fuel to air ratios. They shared his obsessive love of fast cars and knew who his on-track rivals were. And what did Jack know about him? That he used a Desert Eagle to kill people and had an odd fixation on over-the-top action stories.

  He shook his head to refuse, but at the same time, started changing. Between the threads of doubt and confusion there was still that intangible magnetism, drawing Jack to Ethan. An allure of not just physical attraction, but a need to know the truth, to find the man beneath the assassin. And if that man turned out to be more Roy Carter than Ethan? More a man with nothing in common with Jack other than a messed-up military past and insane sexual attraction? Well, he’d blow up that bridge when he got to it.