by Candi Heart
Racing Hearts
By
Candi Heart
Copyright 2017© Candi Heart
Copyright 2017© Pinard House Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover By Design
Copyediting by Amabel Daniels
Content/Line Edits and Formatting by C.J. Pinard
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Racing Hearts (Curvy Hips and Sexy Lips, #1)
Chapter 1 | Charlyse
Chapter 2 | Tyler
Chapter 3 | Charlyse
Chapter 4 | Tyler
Chapter 5 | Charlyse
Chapter 6 | Tyler
Chapter 7 | Charlyse
Chapter 8 | Tyler
Chapter 9 | Charlyse
Chapter 10 | Tyler
Chapter 11 | Charlyse
Chapter 12 | Tyler
Chapter 13 | Charlyse
Chapter 14 | Tyler
Chapter 15 | Charlyse
Chapter 16 | Tyler
Chapter 17 | Charlyse
Chapter 18 | Tyler
Chapter 19 | Charlyse
Chapter 20 | Tyler
Chapter 21 | Charlyse
Epilogue | Charlyse
Book 1—Racing Hearts
Book 2—Walking Dick
Book 3—Love Handles
Book 4—Big Escapes
Book 5—Sweet Treats
Chapter 1
Charlyse
FLAT ON MY BACK UNDER the 1985 Trans Am, I wheeled the creeper closer to the exhaust manifold. Fumbling around blindly for my wrench, I huffed out when I couldn’t locate it on the ground. I could have sworn I had just set it down.
“Where the hell is it...?” I murmured under my breath. I didn’t want to have to wheel myself out and try to find it. It was hard enough to get in and out from under the car for a girl my size.
Sighing, I gave up and wheeled out, and then stood up and stretched my back and neck. I really needed to convince Dad to get the shop another lift. It would be so much easier to work on these cars with one, but they were all being used at the moment. Trans Ams were very low to the ground as it was. Shaking my head when I spotted the wrench on the ground near my pink, beat-up creeper, I reached down and snatched it up, annoyed.
The hood was popped so I decided I’d go back to the manifold later. The air filter on this thing needed replaced; I would do that while I was standing here. I didn’t understand why someone would buy this old thing and then not want to restore it themselves. I wasn’t even sure whose car this was, anyway. Probably some wealthy collector. It was the type of job we took when we didn’t have actual race cars to work on.
As I was removing the bolts, I heard, “Char, you have a phone call!” over the loudspeaker. Of course, this caused me to startle, and I whacked my head on the hood.
“Dammit!” I yelled, rubbing the top of my head.
I stalked to the messy front office and glared at our new receptionist, Allie. She smiled at me and said, “Line two.”
I looked down at the two-line phone, its beige color mostly black now with grease smudges. I clicked the blinking button and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Guess what I have in the email box right this minute?” came Colton’s excited voice.
“I don’t know,” I replied, sounding bored. “Your STD test results? Please tell me they were negative for herpes.”
He snorted. “No.”
“What? It’s positive?”
“No, bitch, not that. An invitation to the Dalton Enterprise’s pre-season gala at the Dalton Mansion!”
My stomach turned over. Dalton Enterprises was the name in racing, and while we had worked on cars for them before, our little mechanic’s shop had never received an invite to their big yearly party. Colton, my best friend, who was more like my brother, ran the administrative side of our shop. He was also a very talented driver and had won quite a few races. He just didn’t like getting his hands dirty.
“Wow,” I breathed. “When is it?”
“This Saturday night.”
Nothing like waiting ’til the last minute, I thought. I also thought it odd we’d gotten an invite at all. But, the company’s patriarch, Jason Dalton, had just passed away, so maybe that had something to do with it. Regardless, I was definitely game.
“Sweet, who’s invited?”
“It’s addressed to Dad and his employees.”
“Nice.” Then I thought about something. “You’re not going to bring her as your plus-one, are you?”
Colton made a scoffing noise. “No, not speaking to her.”
“For now,” I said under my breath.
“I heard that. Now, when you get off work, go out and get yourself a dress. After you shower, of course.”
I laughed. “Bye, Colt.”
He hung up and I went back to work on the car.
THE REPAIRS TOOK MUCH longer than I had anticipated, and after stripping out of my coveralls and scrubbing my hands, I went into the office to grab my purse. As I was flying out the door, the phone rang.
Allie had long since left, so with a sigh, I picked it up and hit the button. “Owen and Sons, can I help you?”
“Is Owen in?” a female voice asked.
I smiled. “No, he’s gone for the day. May I take a message?”
“No, thank you. I’ll call back later.”
I grinned as I hung up. My dad and his women. It was too bad he’d never had any sons. He’d inherited the shop from his father, Owen Cruise, Sr., who’d opened it when my dad and uncle were teens. It was all our family had ever known.
As I drove home, I again considered changing careers. I mean, I’d always wanted to work on cars and had been happy when Dad trained me when I was just a young teen. But it wasn’t very ladylike, and sometimes I got called a dyke and other rude things. Especially here in Texas, sometimes people here were asswipes with no filter. Not that I wasn’t used to it, it just got old and made me roll my eyes.
Once I reached my little condo on the northeast side of Austin, I slogged through the door, exhausted, and showered. As excited as I was about the upcoming party this weekend, I was in no mood to go out and shop.
After ordering a pizza, I went online pulled up Google, and typed in party dresses. With my dark auburn hair and medium complexion, I usually looked pretty good in dark-green, so I searched for dresses in that color when a popular clothing company’s website appeared. I was usually leery of ordering clothes online, especially because some of the plus-size stuff varied so much, but I just didn’t have the time or energy to go out and find one.
Spotting a gorgeous emerald-green number, I was happy to see it wasn’t too expensive and they had it in my size. It looked beautiful on the model wearing it on the site, so I added it to my cart and paid an extra twenty bucks to have it arrive by Friday.
Well, that was easy, I thought, chuckling.
Deciding to surf the Internet until my pizza arrived, I began to wonder if my city had gotten onboard with the whole grocery delive
ry thing. I’d heard of bigger cities offering this service from the local grocery stores, but this was Texas. With a shrug, I said, “What the hell,” out loud, and typed in grocery delivery.
The first three results were for the top grocery store chains in my area with information about delivery. “Yes!” I whispered to no one. As I was about to click on the first one, a fourth search result caught my attention:
Curvy Lips and Sexy Lips website offers information on grocery delivery to make your healthy food shopping easier...
Intrigued, I clicked on the link. A colorful website greeted me with a large banner which read: TRY FREE FOR THIRTY DAYS. It promised that if I wasn’t satisfied with the results of the diet plan, I wouldn’t be out any money.
Diet plan? Hmm. I could use a diet plan. Someone or something to tell me what to eat when, because Lord knew I was horrible at cooking and chose to eat out most of the time. As I looked around the site, it had tons of info on exercise routines, gyms, and health food stores in my area, and, of course, customized diet plans. I decided to sign up and see what they could offer me.
When the doorbell rang, I went to answer it. I knew I’d better enjoy the pizza, as I doubt that would be on the website’s diet plan.
Chapter 2
Tyler
“YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN this, Ty. Your father would have taken the deal.”
Son of a bitch.
I gritted my teeth. It was a low-blow, but not something I hadn’t come to expect from all the bottom-feeders sleazing around since my father’s untimely death. Idiots like this one were a dime a dozen. Kyle was the eldest son of Evan Smith, a dumb asshole who’d squandered his chances at wealth by fucking over the very people who were ensuring a regular payday. Now he’d sent Kyle to try to gather as many scraps as he could for his fallen empire.
Whatever made this kid think Dalton Enterprises was the right door to knock on for that shit was beyond me, but I’d entertained him for ten agonizing minutes. Business was business, and I told myself to always hear someone out. You never knew; they could have something I never thought would be investment-worthy before. Plus, this was Evan’s kid. Not Evan himself. Could be the kid was cleaner, smarter, and worth the trouble. At least, that had been my original line of thought.
Unfortunately for him, that last, fatal line had told me everything I needed to know about Evan’s heir-apparent. The apple hadn’t even left the branch, let alone fallen from the tree.
Grinning, I made a show of ease, overpowering the poorly asserted lump of muscle Kyle was attempting to flex over what was amounting to be an overly costly dinner for a business deal he didn’t have the intelligence or charisma to seal.
“I’m sure if that were true, Dalton Enterprises would have gotten in bed with your father’s company a long time ago. I might still be a tad green, but dear old Dad’s blood still runs strong my veins. Do yourself a favor, man. Get the fuck outta my sight.”
Nothing else needed to be said, and it was clear by the expression coloring Kyle’s face that he now knew he’d said the wrong thing. The exact wrong thing. You want to talk shit about how I’m running Dalton Enterprises? Knock yourself out. Feel the need to criticize the team? Write a book. But no one in their right fucking mind was going to pimp out my old man’s name and memory for money.
I wasn’t running Dalton Enterprises for money. I had more than enough of that. My merch and business model had long since profited me into my own hard-earned independence. I was in this to keep my father’s name clean, plain and simple. As long as I was fit and able, I’d make for damn sure it didn't climb into the cesspool with the snakes—fixing races and unfairly leveraging drivers. Dirty business would kill racing if that particular virus made its way into the sport’s main artery.
I couldn’t and wouldn’t allow that for Dalton Enterprises. Not while I was around to do something about it. My father taught me early on about honor, and it was a lesson I’d taken to the deepest recesses of my heart. I doubted I’d have much of a soul without it. Honor and integrity kept the less-controlled aspects of my character in line. I was grateful for that.
Kyle had the grace to look embarrassed, but there was a small storm of anger brewing in his eyes I could tell he was trying hard to hide. He cleared his throat. “I’ve obviously upset you, Tyler. I’ll leave you to your dinner. On me. I’m, uh, sorry for your loss.”
Licking his lips nervously, Kyle affixed the middle button of his blazer. Then he took a quick glance around the swanky restaurant before darting his gaze to me again. Giving me a curt nod, he made his way out, quickly and purposefully. I almost felt sorry for the kid. His father was probably going to knock him around a little for fucking this up, but there was nothing to be done about it.
The kid was lucky I didn't knock his ass out. I’d have done it, too, even in the middle of Solomon’s, in the heart of Austin’s famed city tower. It wasn’t the many eyes set around the candlelit tables, picking at insanely decadent entrees and desserts, that had halted my hand. Whispers I didn’t mind. Rumors were even good for business in my line of work. It was the kid himself I’d given the barest pass to. Because I knew men like Evan Smith had known those fucked-up words that had made my blood boil didn't come from Kyle’s mind. They were practiced and planted there by his joke of a father. If anyone deserved to have his nose caved in, it was Evan himself.
PUNCHING THE BUGGATI into a jump on the second ramp, my eyes narrowed to slits with the engine roaring in my ears. My skin beaded with sweat as it began to yield to the hellish temps inside the car, but God, I loved this. Needed this. It was the only time I could truly think clearly.
There were no lies on a clean racetrack. No phony smiles and high-priced suits. No beauties with painted smiles and subzero hearts. Just me and the truth in my guts. Me and my own sense of power. It was a power I loved to push as far as I possibly could. It was the only time I truly felt alive.
Shit, it was the only thing that had brought me back from the edge of darkness and grief when my old man had suddenly died of cardiac arrest one cold March afternoon. Without warning; without even the barest hint that he’d been sick. One day the fifty-seven-year-old was here, the next he wasn’t. Maybe that was why I couldn’t keep myself out of a race car or off a bike when the thousand-dollar suits started to feel a little too tight on me. I was a good businessman—one of the best, actually, because I didn’t cower easily and seemed to have a propensity for never feeling true fear.
But business wasn’t what drove me—not by a long shot.
I’d get a minor burst of adrenaline from closing a deal or finding the next up-and-coming driver, but it paled in comparison to a victory lap after beating out ten of the fastest fucking drivers in the game.
“Dammit, what are you doing out there?”
Nick. Ever the father hen.
“What does it look like?” I answered casually into the helmet’s mic.
“Tyler... don’t you ever check the time? Hello, the shindig tonight? Remember that little party we have?”
I snorted. “Like I’m in a rush to deal with shiny suits and fangirls right now—”
Nick cut me off. “The team will be disappointed if you don’t make an appearance before the midnight race.”
Sighing, I increased my speed, carefully gripping the wheel, tightening my control on it before the car went into a spin on the last lap.
Nick was right. He usually was.
I decided I’d gotten enough aggression out with the last few golden laps. Unfortunately, I still had a job to do. Going to that kickoff party, while the hobnobs circled the swanky layout of the Dalton Mansion, wasn’t just for me, as loath as I was to admit it. You couldn’t not show up at your own event in time to show the predators in gator shoes how serious you were about the business you were running. It was very bad for business. Even I knew that.
The race car industry, like anything that came to earn money over time, was all about schmoozing now. Whether you made the best stock cars, had put out th
e word that you were looking for a motor fuel endorsement, or you were proving to be a shining member of one hell of a team, these parties were created to ensure that people with real money had a chance to leverage you for their own gain.
I couldn’t stand that fact, but Dalton Enterprises was what it was because of racing.
Formula One was its lifeblood, and that could never be forgotten. It would be like forgetting Dad.
After slamming the door to the Buggati behind me, I removed my helmet and held it under my arm, turning to look at the Dalton Track. It was a short track, definitely not made for more than practice runs and product testing. But it was infused with memories from as far back as I could actually remember. A grin rounded my cheek.
Hell, even as the sun was setting on it, and I was the only person standing there overlooking it, I could still close my eyes and drown in the scent of popcorn and cotton candy from the machines. The ones my father had installed for the in-house events the company used to sharpen their racers (while indulging their families with a little extra recreation). Forcing myself to swallow the emotions threatening to overtake me, I slowly blinked my eyes open and redirected my focus.
The pre-season party wasn’t going to attend itself, and getting nostalgic and emotional wasn’t ever going to bring my father back.
Chapter 3
Charlyse
I FROWNED AT MY REFLECTION in the emerald-green knee-length bustier dress. My eyes flicking over to the cell phone sitting on the lavender coverlet my half-made bed was currently drowning in. I had him on speakerphone while I’d slipped into the dress I’d bought—via mail order.
“God, Colton. This just... isn’t me.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
Colton had that distracted tone in his voice, like he was flipping through racing magazines while he talked to me, his mind a million miles away at the moment. It had been like this for several weeks now, and I knew the exact name of his affliction: Alyssa. An arrow to his heart he just seemed to enjoy the pain of getting shot with over and over.
