SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(101)

I happened on the Repsol Honda garage, and there was the young PA, Sam, massaging the shoulders of her new star racer boyfriend. She saw me and excused herself. She was so happy, enthused about how well things were going between them. She asked me about James and I told her we were working on it. We gossiped about anything we could think of until we were told we were in the way.

I promised to catch up soon and continued my walk. Four doors down, I found myself at the garage of the English rider who James referred to as Blake. He was younger than James, but the sour look that occupied his face most of the time, coupled with a big chin and a receding hairline, meant he was never going to be called attractive. He didn’t say anything to me—why would he—but then I heard a petulant voice behind me.

“I do hope everything is going well for you two.”

I turned around and the brunette stood there, arms crossed, foot tapping, though stunning. It was such a shame her insides didn’t match her outsides.

“Suzi, isn’t it?” I asked, cordially “Look, I’m sorry you got hurt, I really am, but you’re young and you’re amazingly beautiful. Why are you so hung up on James? There are so many other eligible men in this pit lane alone. I mean, you’re with Blake now, right?”

“Ha!” she snorted. “He wishes. He’s been chasing me since Austin. He’ll do pretty much anything for me.” She leaned in to me, lowering her voice conspiratorially. I could smell alcohol on her breath and noticed that her eyes appeared worryingly wild as she spoke. “In fact, he thinks if he does me a favor in this race, I’ll actually let him fuck me. Shh!” She giggled, putting a finger to her lips.

Holy crap. A sinking feeling opened up in the pit of my stomach. I turned and walked back to the JSR pit, nearly colliding with people I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice. Surely she wasn’t that crazy. However, all the evidence pointed to the contrary.

Technicians had been wheeling bikes out of the garages for the last few minutes, and now, the riders were jumping on and roaring off to line up at the start. I picked up my pace and trotted to our garage. Then, as desperation started to take over, I increased my pace to a run.

I sprinted up to Ray. “Where’s James?” I yelled above the noise of the screaming engines. “Where is he?” Ray pointed to James’s black bike as it disappeared onto the track. “We have to warn him. Blake is going to try something dangerous. Suzi has him eating out of her hand. James is going to get hurt! We have to tell him!”

“No way we can reach him now,” Ray yelled back. I was too late.





James



Accelerating out of the pit lane onto the track, enjoying the shrill chorus of the motor as it powered up through the rev range felt as awesome as it always did. I stood up on the pegs and shook my body to settle my race suit more comfortably around me. I sat back down and popped the clutch to haul up a little mini wheelie. Showboating like this is frowned upon by the race organizers, but I was sure no one would be too upset. I was on cloud nine, feeling high as a kite about Summer and looking forward to a great race, enjoying one of my highest Moto GP starting positions ever and, even more, looking forward to seeing Summer, spending some quality time together, and making some proper life plans.

At this moment, though, I needed to concentrate. Even though we were cruising around to line up at the start, daydreaming about Summer meant I’d just carved up Dovizioso on his factory Ducati as he was trying to pass under me. He shot me a look, and I held up my hand in apology. He shook his head and powered off down the straightaway. That was bound to cost me a few drinks later.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by the buzzing sound of someone else’s bike riding too close. As I rounded the turn, he planted himself on the inside line, so close to me his engine was right by my head, making my helmet vibrate. I couldn’t see who was dicking around on the formation lap, but he was an idiot. We weren’t under starters orders—why the fuck was he pulling such a risky maneuver? We brought our bikes upright, and as we exited the turn, I saw Blake’s blue and green livery on his customer Honda. I focused a death stare at him, but he gave me the finger and accelerated. He really was an asshole. Maybe he was still pissed that I hooked up with Suzi and he didn’t. Whatever his problem, it was on, so I raced after him.

Like he would have had a chance with Suzi, anyway, whether I’d got in the way or not. And then I remembered Summer pointing them out yesterday. It had slipped my mind that we’d seen them together, looking like they were talking about us, and there was no earthly reason for her to be here unless Blake brought her from Austin. There was definitely something going on that I’d not been told about, and I hated when that happened.

I was being childish, but chasing Blake down was fun. We both nailed it hard out of turn nine, a ninety-degree left-hander, and scythed through the little S-bend after. Going hard in third gear into the open, sweeping turn eleven, Blake sat up a little and slowed. Figuring he’d had enough of being a jerk, I pulled level on his outside and set myself up for a smooth line through the sweeper. But instead of letting me pass, Blake sped up to stay alongside me. Now I needed to tip my bike into the turn, but he blocked me, forcing me to go straight on. I realized what was happening too late to brake before my tires hit the slippery red and white edge of the track. The asshole was trying to kill me!

I must have been nearing 130 mph as he pushed me off the track, and I ran out onto the grass. The bike started bucking over the rough surface, nearly throwing me out of the saddle. My heart was in my mouth as I tried desperately not to upset the delicate balance. I told myself to relax, to stay loose. It was entirely possible for the bike to run straight on through the dicey and uneven grass, engine brake slowing it enough for me to bring it back under control and allow us both to avoid disaster.