SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(82)

The garages in the pits were a hive of activity. Technicians buzzed around the sleek and colorful machines. The nearer to the center of the garage complex, the more bikes were on show and the more people in matching shirts milled about. By comparison, the teams towards either end, a few of which only had one machine, had as few as three people working on them.

The Repsol Honda garage seemed to be the most important. There looked to be hundreds of people in orange shirts doing important and technical things. Sam tugged my arm as she spotted one of the riders. He was distinguishable by the white and orange leather suit he wore, undone at the waist so the top fell down around his ankles. She was very excited because he was the twenty-two-year-old double world champion, Marc Márquez, who the sweet girl had a crush on. I recognized him as the short, high-cheekboned Spaniard I had to brush off last night before I hooked up with James.

And there he was in my mind again. Even in this hellishly hot and smoke-clogged pit lane, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I closed my eyes for a second as I relived the sensations his tongue gave me when he flicked it expertly over my clit, causing me to involuntarily thrust my hips against his face as his hands mashed and squeezed my tits. I could feel a satisfied smile creeping across my lips.

“Summer! Look out!” Sam screeched, dropping her clipboard to grab my shoulders and pull me backwards. In my daydream, I’d strayed too close to the back of one of the race bikes just as a mechanic started it up. The machine burst into life with a defining scream, made all the worse for me because I was only a foot from the tailpipes. The sound and the invisible wall of pressure shot straight through my body, shaking me to the core. My legs actually went weak, and although Sam had the gut reaction to pull me away, she didn’t have the strength to keep me upright. I felt myself dropping, but before I hit the floor, a pair of strong hands caught me around the waist and steadied me.

Someone called for a chair, and I was placed onto a hard plastic thing. Those hands let go of me. My head swam for a second, and when I opened my eyes, I saw James’ face again. I blinked and shook my head to clear it, but his face stayed in front of me and broke into a smile.

“Well, well,” he said. “Fancy running into you again.”





James



I was caught off guard while doing my pre-race amble around the garages, saying hello to all the other racers, wishing them luck and so on, when I strolled into the Repsol team’s space just as they fired up Dani Pedrosa’s bike. A corporate-suit lady standing too close to the Honda got knocked sideways by the shockwaves. It would’ve been comical if it wasn’t so dangerous. This cute little girl with a clipboard tried to save her, pulling her away in time, but accidentally pushed her so she fell over the generator for the tire warmers.

I was just close enough to step forward and grab her around the waist. Donald from Dunlop called for a chair, and I sat her in it. I caught her and lowered her down and recognized the smell. Even amongst the rubber, gasoline, leather, and oil in the garage, I smelled Summer. That fresh, sweet scent from last night, like newly gathered cotton candy.

She’d taken a hit, and it took a second for her to come back to herself. Her eyes opened, and she saw me crouched before her. She shook her head to clear it, then a small smile appeared on her lips.

“Que paso, James?” Marc asked, having come over to check out the commotion.

“It’s all good, Marc,” I told him.

“Are you well, senorita?” he asked Summer. I love little Marc, but he’s wasting the Latin Lothario act on her.

“I’m fine, thank you,” replied Summer. “Wait, you’re Marc Márquez, aren’t you?”

“Si.”

“Can you take Sam,” Summer pointed at the young girl, who had retrieved her clipboard from the dirty floor, “and show her where to get me some water?”

I smiled as young Sam could barely contain her excitement at being led away by Marc. She mouthed a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to Summer as they headed off on their mission.

“Aren’t you the matchmaker?” I teased Summer after they were out of earshot. I stood up, and she looked a little confused by my race leathers and boots.

“You’re a racer?” she asked.

“I am.”

“But…you’re so big.”

I smirked and was glad no one else was listening to our conversation. “And that’s why I’m not one of the title contenders.” I smiled.

Donald came over. “I see you’ve met James Spence, one of the privateer riders,” he said. I liked Donald well enough, but there was no profit for him in schmoozing me or riders like me that don’t have big factory contracts. “Are you okay, Summer?”

“Yes, thanks, Donald. I wish everyone would stop worrying over me,” she replied.

“How do you know each other?” I asked.

Before Summer could say anything, Donald piped up, “Summer’s going to be handling the PR for Dunlop’s Motorcycling Concerns.”

So much for us keeping it anonymous. I wanted to get her alone for just a few minutes, but it didn’t happen. She was taken away through the other garages, even though Sam and Marc hadn’t returned yet with the glass of water, and I had to head back to my garage because it was thirty minutes to race time.

***

The last few minutes before a race were always tense. Always. Lined up on the grid, helmet on, a pretty girl keeping the sun off of me with her umbrella, camera crews and reporters from various countries wandering up and down the grid. Keith was right—staring at Blake’s ass as he sat on his bike in front of me got very old, very fast. I tried to distract myself by looking at Suzi’s delicious butt as she stood next to him, keeping the heat off him, and that was better. But the more I looked, the more I thought about Summer again. My brain was completely occupied by her. I thought I’d never see her again, yet she had been on the track today. My heart had leaped when I’d realized who I was holding, and my mind had raced with the possibilities of us enjoying each other again.