SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(73)
“Good morning to you,” I said. She giggled.
“I think I’m going to shower,” she said. “I did do all the work. Again.”
I detected a note of resentment in her voice. Whatever. If she didn’t like it, she could suck it. Ha-ha. Too late! As her naked form disappeared into the bathroom, I reached over the big white bed for the phone. I ordered bacon, ham, scrambled eggs with salmon, croissants, coffee, and orange juice to be brought up. Suzi eventually came out of the shower in a hotel robe, rubbing bits of her hair with a towel, just in time to answer the door. Perfect. I tossed her my wallet, which she deftly caught, and she tipped the room service guy.
“Do things always seem to work out like this for you?” she asked, a sly smile creeping across her lips.
“Generally, yes,” I told her. I looked at the clock: 8:30. “Shit, I have to be at the circuit in an hour. Can you eat and run?”
“Sorry, James.” She turned to me and opened her robe. My cock twitched again at the site of her full, firm breasts, her slim waist and taut stomach, and that gorgeous, shaved mound between her heavenly shaped legs. “This does not happen by accident. I need an hour, at least, just to do my hair.”
“Well, I have to get going in thirty minutes,” I said, scooping some eggs into my mouth with a fork. “Can I trust you won’t steal anything if I leave you here?”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “I need to get to the track, too,” she complained.
“And?”
“You drove me here, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” I saw what she was getting at. I tossed her the keys to my Gran Turismo Convertible. “I’ll get a lift with Keith. Have you ever driven a Maserati before?” She looked at me like I was stupid. “Well, just be careful with it, please?
***
I called Keith; he was about to leave. I told him he might be my team manager, but I was the team owner, and he’d damn well wait fifteen minutes. He told me ‘bollocks’ in his English accent—which, I think, means ‘yes, boss’—and hung up. Sure enough, when I got to the parking garage twenty minutes later, he was sitting in his rental Chevy with the engine running.
Today was free practice in the morning and final qualification in the afternoon. My team, of which I was the only rider, was not going to do that well. We’d be lucky to make fifteenth on the starting grid, and we knew it. The point was that I was lucky enough to have the money to run my own team in Moto GP, the premier motorcycling race series, and ride in it. I wasn’t as good as Lorenzo, Márquez, or Rossi; I never claimed to be, but at the back—and it was the same in almost every motor racing class—there were always a few privateer teams that had their own little title chases going on. Most of us didn’t have the factory backing or the unlimited budget of the main Honda and Yamaha teams that played around at the front. I did, because my family’s fortune ran well into the billions, but we didn’t have access to the top-shelf parts and equipment the championship teams used.
But I loved it, and I would never do anything else. I was thirty-seven, though, and probably one of the oldest riders on the track, so I didn’t have many seasons left in me. I had the love and respect of some of the best riders in the world, and I got to ride around with them on Sunday afternoons, making sure I stayed out of the way as they flew past.
Keith was my team manager—JSR, or James Spence Racing. I had a mechanic named Ray who Keith brought with him from England, and they had a couple of assistants, Nick and James, or ‘Other James,’ as he was known. We had a full-on bike transporter crammed with spare parts and two race bikes, as well as a little chill-out room and a small kitchen, and that was about it. A tiny setup when compared to something like the factory Honda team; they had twelve guys just to look after the engine in one of the two race bikes they run. The cost ran about two million bucks to race each weekend, depending on how far we had to travel. Worth it, in my book.
“Was that Suzi you disappeared with last night?” asked Keith in his deadpan voice.
“It was,” I replied.
“You know she was assigned to Blake?” he pointed out.
William Blake is a UK rider without two pennies to his name who just happened to be my direct competition. I knew Suzi was assigned to be his grid girl—one of the pretty ladies who would stand on the grid in a small costume to shield us poor riders from the elements with a large umbrella. I also knew Blake had taken a liking to her.
“Really? I had no idea the girls had been assigned yet.” I smiled. I didn’t especially like Blake, but I never missed the chance to get a psychological advantage over a rival. Especially when it was such a pleasure to arrange.
“Of course you didn’t,” replied Keith.
***
We parked up at the Circuit of the Americas track just south of town and wandered into the pits to find my team. The sun and a clear blue sky were overhead; as yet, it was too early for the sticky, shirt-drenching temperatures we could expect this afternoon. Team JSR was all set up in its garage, with my number-one bike looking vaguely malevolent on its axle stands. Black with red race wheels, the bike was a picture of tiny, sharp purposefulness. Its 1000cc engine could produce over 220 brake horsepower, which was crazy to imagine. That, in a package that weighed just 350 pounds, plus me, meant we could scream along at more than 200 miles per hour on state-of-the-art suspension, tires, and brakes. It was not quite the pinnacle of motorcycle technology—that was over in the Repsol Honda garage at the center of pit lane—but it was the next best thing, and the bike was worth about twelve million dollars.