by Larkin Rose
No matter the reason he dialed her number, no matter the why, she was always there for him. She’d loved him from the second he had copped a feel with her in their graphic arts class, in the dark room when he thought he was safe, and got his nuts kneed up into his throat. He was the spoiled high school quarterback who did nothing more than bat those baby blues for a passing grade while she struggled through every project, getting pathetic scores because she rode the wild side when the instructions clearly stated that mild was the intention.
Screw mild. She didn’t want mild. She wanted naked flesh and bad girls. She wanted racy wardrobes and parted lips. She wanted action. Which is exactly why she couldn’t score a passing grade to save her life. No matter her plea, no matter her argument, her teacher waved her away with a demand to fix it every single time.
And here she was, running from herself, locked in the only career that could keep her close to her passion for photography and far, far away from the action, the death—his death—that made her run far, far away to begin with.
Somehow she’d managed to escape the class with a credit on her high school transcript, but it’d been by the hair of her chinny chin chin. And her relationship with Billy had begun the second he hit the floor bellowing in pain. All these years later, he was still the love of her life.
The phone went silent while Lacy’s orgasm curled tight.
As if summoned, Zoe reached between her legs and flicked her clit.
“Yes.” Lacy drove inside Zoe, feeling her slick walls tighten around her fingers, and then her orgasm jerked her into spasms.
Lacy cried out while Zoe’s hips jerked. With a hiss, she fell across Lacy’s back. They ground against each other for several minutes until they both slid down to the mattress.
“Wow,” Zoe whispered into the back of Lacy’s head.
The phone rang out again, and Lacy growled out her aggravation. “Seriously? Someone better be bleeding or in a coma.”
She crawled across the bed and dug through the pile of clothing until she found her jeans. With a huff, she jerked the phone from the pocket and connected the call.
“Is my princess Gabby in a hospital?” she barked.
There was silence for a split second before Billy answered. “Nope.”
“Is that beautiful wife of yours bleeding?” she asked, notching her irritation, even though Billy would only mock her aggravation.
She loved that about him. How he never took her shit. How he could solve her problems from thousands of miles away with his voice alone. How he always let her be herself even if he didn’t agree with a damn thing she was saying. Especially when he didn’t understand a single thing she was bitching about.
He was such a jock. He understood football. He got the logistics of baseball. He lived race cars. But when it came to women and love and all the drama in between, his brain went void. She loved that even more about him.
“No,” Billy said.
“Well, it’s obvious you aren’t dead. That means you have absolutely no reason to interrupt my…” Lacy rolled onto her back and eyed Zoe. Zoe quirked an invitational brow at her. “Extracurricular activities.”
“You couldn’t keep it in your panties long enough to pack your luggage, could you?” Billy joked.
“I don’t wear panties.”
Zoe leaned over and placed a kiss against her ankle. “I can attest to that.” Her gaze cut up to Lacy, and she placed another kiss higher.
“I’m hanging up, Billy.” Lacy licked her lips while another kiss moved higher.
“No, you won’t. You’re my biggest fan,” Billy said.
True. She was. He was the love of her life. The thought of ever living without him in her world made her ill. Made her mentally buckle. Which is why she couldn’t watch him race. Why she couldn’t read the tabloids. Why she couldn’t even watch the news. Okay, so she occasionally snuck in some tidbits, but watching a race was completely out of the question.
Worse, her best friend was one of the biggest names in NASCAR. His life was on the ledge every time his engine roared to life. Through every blistering curve, his life balanced. Every wreck, every blown motor, every blown tire, his life was at risk. The lousiest part, it was Lacy who finally gave him the strength to stand up to his father, to demand that he allow Billy to go after his own dream. It was like she pushed him into that reckless career. If anything ever happened, she knew she would never forgive herself. Ever.
“You’re about to get a whole month of me in less than twenty-four hours. What is so pressing that it couldn’t wait?” Lacy slid her leg wider while Zoe climbed higher.
His silence snagged her attention away from Zoe’s pleasing lips. He never missed a chance to bust her balls unless he was in his feelings.
“Tick tock,” Lacy said, watching Zoe’s fingers slide up her legs.
“I need a huge, gigantic favor from you,” Billy finally blurted out.
“Huge and gigantic?” Lacy squirmed while Zoe pressed a kiss inside her knee. “Gabby would hurt your feelings right now for using two words that have the same definition.”
Billy chuckled. “That she would.”
“So what huge and gigantic favor do you need from me? While on vacation, don’t forget.” Lacy widened her legs as Zoe’s kissing climbed higher.
“A racer needs a little, um, revamping? I’m using Darlene’s word.”
Lacy arched a brow at his words. Billy never asked her for favors that included anything to do with racing. He knew better. And if his wife said it was revamping, that only meant that whoever it was was a total loser and needed a complete overhaul. “A racer?”
“Yeah. No one you would know.” He paused, which was a red flag. He always paused when he was dodging the truth. “Fresh photos. Maybe a new wardrobe. Plug a few things into social media for publicity. That sort of thing,” he added quickly.
“Uh-huh.” Zoe’s kisses were inches from Lacy’s crotch, and her insides clenched. “It’s Sebastian, isn’t it?” Lacy’s head swam with the thought.
Sebastian Andre was the biggest egotistical jerk-off Formula One had ever known. He’d advanced into the NASCAR world only two years ago. She’d had the misfortune of meeting the bastard while vacationing with Billy. His forward advances had been blatant and gross and not in the least bit arousing, if a man could arouse her, that is. Any woman who found his despicable flirting flattering, was either desperate or an idiot. Or both. A horny high schooler had more respect than he did.
Worse, her subtle refusal had only stirred his need to score. Was it every man’s dying wish to turn a lesbian straight? For sure it was Sebastian’s.
“Sebastian? Of course not. But would he be the worst client you could think of?” Billy asked, a hint of excitement in his question.
“I’m not responding to that. As big of a prick as he is, there could be worse.” She could think of a few others, but then she would have to admit that she had indeed picked up a few tabloids—or more—while at a doctor’s appointment, and read the highlights of the newest rookies. One being a woman, which should be exciting for NASCAR and women all around the world, except she had already stirred enough drama to get suspended before her first race. For sure she wouldn’t be back, which was great because Billy was gullible enough, and loveable enough, to take her under his wings and begin mechanically attempting to fix whatever mental issues she had. He was just special like that, thinking he could fix everything and everyone. That he could fix the world.
And then there was the British man, also second year in NASCAR, who had already caused a wreck due to irresponsible driving, and promised the new season would start with a bang.
Zoe nipped the inside of her thigh, her hot breath feathering against Lacy’s crotch.
“I would never ask you to—”
“I know,” Lacy said, terrified he would say too much. The memories were already nudging. “I love you.”
Zoe pushed Lacy’s legs apart and slowly teased her clit with the tip of her tongue.
>
“I love you, too, hotrod.”
“See you at the airport. Gotta go!” Lacy tossed the phone on the bed, wove her fingers into Zoe’s unkempt hair, and held on.
Chapter Two
Kip Sellars, known to most as Sellars, to the rest, Asshole, downshifted and turned into the on-ramp. The convertible top was open, filling the car with cool night air. For now, the space beside her was empty. She hoped to fill that vacant passenger seat at the next nightclub. The bar she’d just left offered slim pickings for what she was looking for tonight. An easy lay. Yet not too easy. She didn’t want a drunk falling into everyone’s lap. Nor did she want the one girl the entire bar had already fucked. Something in between. A girl that would give her a little eye teasing while she kept her distance. While she waited for Sellars to take the first step. To take the lead. But at two in the morning, that would be hard to find. Hours of party life would ensure most of the ladies were already too drunk or had already been taken. Hopefully, the next club would provide what she so desperately wanted tonight.
The roads were practically empty. Peaceful. Where she could be one with herself. Alone with her thoughts. With her demons. Just the way she liked it.
She pushed the pedal, and the ’69 Yenko Camaro obeyed with grace by smoothly surging forward. The motor purred in acceptance as she merged onto the highway.
The speedometer slipped past seventy, seventy-five, eighty. Without encouragement, the images of her past flooded her mind. The speed of the back road race of her past, the adrenaline for the finish line, and Sarah’s laughter as she stood in the opening of the sunroof, her arms outstretched to the night sky, head thrown back, begging Sellars to go faster, faster, faster. She was the most beautiful creature Sellars had ever known. Magnificent to the core. Daring, yet simple. Sharp-tongued, but sweet like the sound of waterfalls. She was everything. She had been Sellars’s everything.
Sellars pushed the pedal harder as the harsh images stabbed at her mind. Eighty-five, ninety. The guy she’d been racing, Mark Hammonds, was two car lengths behind her. Where most people normally landed when she raced them. She was good. Speed didn’t bother her. It enveloped her. She’d been born to be behind the wheel of a race car. Behind the speed of mustangs. There was no adrenaline rush higher than when the world was a blur around her.
The memories pulled her deeper. To Sarah’s shocked scream. And then to the deer darting into view.
Her heart had skipped as she instinctively slammed the brake and jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, away from the large beast. The sound of tires squealing bounced and echoed against the pine trees lining the road. Both cars skidded into a spin. Round and round, the world had spun around her. And then the incredible sound of crunching metal as the car slammed to a stop.
When she awoke, screams filled her mind. Far away. So far away. A male. Bellowing. Not Sarah. Sellars had opened her eyes to a film of red. Warm liquid poured from her scalp and down her cheeks. Pain wrenched her chest as she attempted to look around.
Realization slowly crept in as Mark’s voice grew louder, clearer, panicked.
Pinned against the steering wheel, Sellars focused on the passenger seat. A single shoe lay against the fabric. Sarah’s black pump.
Sellars’s heart jammed as she attempted to shove against the steering wheel. Pain wrenched down her back. “Sarah!”
“Don’t move, Sellars!” Mark yelled from beside the car.
Sellars struggled to look around at him. His T-shirt was blotched in blood, and a crimson line ran from a gash across his forehead.
“And for God’s sake, don’t look.” He choked out a sob as his gaze swung toward the front of the car for a brief second.
His soft-spoken words were nothing more than an invitation. She craned her head against the shrilling pain in her head and ribs to look out the shattered windshield.
Across the hood, lay Sarah. Her beautiful tanned legs reached back to Sellars. A single black pump rested against the crumpled hood. A lone headlight gave enough light to the scenery. The front of the car was embedded in a tree. And so was Sarah.
Sellars growled with the memory of her own screams, of the pain those screams evoked, and jammed the pedal to the floor.
Eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five. She entered the Fort Pitt Tunnel of Pittsburgh on a blur. The engine’s whine echoed against the curved concrete walls as she reached one hundred miles an hour. The speed, the wind, the sound and feel of the power beneath her, always pushed her deeper into her memories. Closer to Sarah. She clung to the pain of that night. She deserved it.
She’d killed Sarah. She’d killed the love of her life. All for the sake of a cheap thrill. All for the sake of Sarah’s laughter. To give Sarah what she wanted. She wanted the speed as much as Sellars had. What she wouldn’t give to have her back. To hear that sweet voice once again. To curl up in her arms beneath that old oak tree on old man Harris’s farm overlooking the pond. They used to skinny-dip there. They made love there. So many times. There they’d made plans for their future. Sellars would do as her father expected. She would go to that nose-to-the-sky college and study medicine. Sarah would follow. She could be a waitress, maybe a bartender. She didn’t care what she had to do as long as she could be with Sellars. Sarah hated school. Despised books and exams and people. She hated people the most. But God, how she loved Sellars.
And in between all the studying and tests and cramming information into her brain, the weekends could be spent on the racetrack, doing what she knew Sellars loved the most.
“Give your parents what they want because they love you in their own controlling way. Be happy you have someone who cares about your future. But love yourself just as much. When school is over, you can go after that racing career.”
It was touching how she thought the world worked like that. How she truly believed that Sellars could do both. That she thought school would be over in a flash, degree in hand, and that she could walk away and step right into a racing career. If only the world were that simple.
Fact was, Sarah had no one but the grandmother who took her in when no one else wanted her. She wasn’t forced to go to school. She wasn’t forced to abide by curfews. She had no clue that in twelve years, possibly longer, her window into the racing world would be gone. Not to mention, with all of her time being spent with her nose in a book, there would be little to no time left to race, even if only for fun. Especially for only fun.
“And you’ll climb higher. To NASCAR. And you’ll be a doctor and a badass race car driver. We’ll have the perfect life. And I’ll be waiting for you right there, where the flags drop, every, single, time. Because I’m yours until I take my last breath, Miss Sellars.”
Sellars burst through the opening in the tunnel to the breathtaking view of Pittsburgh across the Monongahela River. The images of that ugly night faded as she took in the beauty of the night lights. The pain eased with the silhouette of the high-rises. She backed off the pedal, coasted across the bridge, then took in several calming breaths.
Desperately, she needed that nightclub. That woman. That fuck. A woman who would make her forget her ugly past, if only for a little while. Even though it was hypocritical. She liked being close to those thoughts. Close to the memories of Sarah. The good ones. The tranquil memories of better days. Of the only good days she had.
She knew that wasn’t true. She’d had great days. The day she walked away from college and confirmed she was the true black sheep of the family, knowing her father would never speak to her again. The day she packed her duffel bags and left the dorm without saying good-bye, Pittsburgh bound, on the heels of Mark, who was the only person who could understand her disturbed behavior because he’d witnessed her turmoil in all its ugly glory. The day she signed up for racing school. All the days of winning races. The first day she raced for Formula One. And the day she was accepted into NASCAR, and then arrested four days later, and then suspended before she could ever put her feet on the asphalt.
Yes. Suspended.
For street racing. And if she didn’t keep her nose out of trouble during the down time, she might never set foot inside another race car.
She cared about that. Her career. Having it stripped away by some suit and tie who didn’t know a damn thing about her, pissed her off.
If only she could care what others thought of her. She couldn’t think less of herself after what she’d done to Sarah, so their opinion mattered very little to her. They hated her rough style of racing. They hated her aggressive behavior on the track. Their hatred made her more reckless. As long as they hated her, they would leave her be. And that, they did.
Of course, their desire to stay away from her had more to do with her reputation off the track. She was a bad girl. Cared about very little. Thought of no one but herself. And wasn’t a stranger to handcuffs.
Jailed for drunk and disorderly conduct several times, street racing, obviously. It didn’t help that she’d been caught in the alley beside a club with her hand up a woman’s skirt. Turned out to be a racer’s wife. A NASCAR racer, of all things. How was she supposed to know who the woman was? How was it her fault he wasn’t living up to his expectations in the bedroom? He should have thanked her instead of promising war. Sellars wasn’t the only person his unhappy and unfulfilled wife had been screwing. She surely wouldn’t be the last.
But now she was on the shit list. Despite the fact that her grandfather was one of the biggest sponsors in NASCAR. Her biggest sponsor. Only one of three decals left decorating her car.
She should have known no one would take her serious. Should have known they would never believe that she’d gotten herself to where she was, without him.
She’d given up her family to wear that helmet. She’d raced her way into Formula One. All by herself. She’d even stayed when she never really felt like herself, or even comfortable. She had a mission, and a goal, and her uneasiness paled in comparison to reaching that checkered flag.
And then one day she was invited to a NASCAR party on the Bristol track in Tennessee where the guys would take their wives or girlfriends for a light spin around the track for brownie points. For scoring rights.
