SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(74)
The day’s chores involved a bunch of technical and mechanical tasks that I let the boys handle, and an hour later, I was out on the track. I always felt so free out there. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to think about except ‘brake, lean in to turn, accelerate, brake again.’ Despite the roar of the engine and the deafening wind noise, it was so peaceful. Unless someone got past me, then it was time to take action.
Everything would suddenly become about competition, chasing your target, seeing who could be braver on the brakes, who was prepared for disaster just to corner a little bit faster, who was ready to risk life and limb for a just fraction more speed. Racing was intense, exhilarating, terrifying, and liberating all at once. I’d been doing it for more than twenty years, and I had never tired of it.
At the end of qualification, my leathers were heavy with sweat, my hands were numb, and my whole body ached from the extreme forces I’d subjected it to. But the adrenaline coursing through me meant I felt no pain, couldn’t keep the smile off my face, and couldn’t stop talking. I hadn’t done badly at all. I was in eighteenth place for the start tomorrow, and I didn’t crash the bike, break anything, or hold up any of the fast boys as they had come past. A good result for us, except for the fact that Blake was in sixteenth position.
“You know what this means?” I said to Keith as the results were posted.
“It means you’ll have to look at his flabby arse the whole time you wait on the grid before the start,” he quipped.
“Exactly.”
“Then you’d better get a shift on and pass him.”
Summer
I quite liked the Four Seasons, although it was a bit pompous for my taste, but the staff did bend over backwards for you and the food and scotch were pretty good. The valet parking attendant handed me my ticket in exchange for my keys before I stepped into the opulent foyer of the grand hotel. A definite gold and beige theme dominated the décor, with the odd brown and white longhorn print thrown in because, hey, Texas.
A pretty blonde girl behind the reception desk pointed me in the direction of the banquet hall, and I was suddenly in the middle of a full-scale party. The two bars, one at either end of the room, were nearly three deep in places, and the dance floor entertained enough swaying couples to make the swing band playing on the stage behind it a worthwhile investment. Empty and half-drunk glasses littered maybe fifty white cloth-covered round tables throughout the hall.
I also spied some extremely young and pretty men here, all in expensive suits with bracelets, cufflinks, Rolexes—you name it. All the trappings of earning a seven-figure salary while still under twenty-five. Of course, with those trappings came the girls. A huge collection of amazingly attractive girls surrounded the young men, and with them, some seriously high hemlines and plunging necklines. The ones in designer couture and real diamond jewelry were the wives and girlfriends of the racers, and the ones in less lavish fashions were the grid girls and hangers-on.
Further around the room, the executive types, the team managers, and sponsor reps mingled—mainly older ladies and gentlemen, along with a lot of less well-dressed men and women of all ages that I assumed were mechanics, technicians, and the like.
I spotted my client by the bar and walked up with my hand outstretched.
“Donald Jackson? Summer Hayes,” I said, flashing my most alluring smile.
“Well…what can I say?” He shook my hand, and I picked up a definite Boston accent. Lines showed around his eyes below his salt and pepper hair, and I’d have said late forties, slightly overweight but probably a player in his younger days. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Drink?”
He was drinking whisky, good. “Scotch. Single malt, please.”
“Glenfiddich okay?”
“Lagavulin, sixteen-year-old, if they have it.” We talked slowly, fencing. He introduced me to the other two people he’d been in conversation with. The brunette in her late thirties and a business suit was from an engine oil manufacturer, and the big, African-American guy represented a brake pad company. They were all suppliers to the top teams and got to live this rock-and-roll lifestyle throughout the season.
However, Donald was testing me to see if one, I was just a pretty face, and two, there was any chance he might get me into bed. His slight leer and overpowering attempts at charm were obvious. He signaled the barman with his left hand, all very smooth, but I spotted his wedding ring, though he still was clearly comfortable flirting with me. Fucking men. It was one thing to presume a young hot chick like me would be remotely interested in his aging fat ass, but that he had a wife as well, and no intention of remaining true to her, pissed me off.
My smile remained fixed as I sipped from the glass he handed me. It was good. Warm and peaty. It took the edge off of my silent fury nicely. My decision to stay free from all that commitment bullshit was spot on, though. No chance of ending up like Donald’s poor wife.
As the small talk flowed between us, he won a prize in my head for managing to mention sex three times in the first ten minutes of our conversation. He was not suggesting we do it, not directly, just getting it out there, planting the seed, testing my comfort with the word as well as calculating my sense of humor.
By the second drink, I was trying to switch gears to go over a few business points. He seemed to be far more interested in talking to my chest. I had no way of knowing how many he’d had before I'd arrived, but his not-so-subtle innuendos and bad puns meant the drinks must have taken their toll. We adjourned to the nearest free table, and Clive, the brake pad man, had to stop Donald from falling and managed to help him into a chair. I was forced to stumble with him.