Home > Racer (Real #7)(5)

Racer (Real #7)(5)
Author: Katy Evans

He starts shoving his way for me.

I tug my shirt a little, feeling undressed, needing a reminder that there’s actually a pretty decent amount of fabric covering me.

His intense eyes drop down my stomach, and a bevy of butterflies go off there. This is so not appropriate, Lana …

The testosterone around him is so off the charts that if we’d been in a closed space, we’d all grow muscles.

He starts smiling as he approaches.

“What is this? Role-play today? School teacher slut—” someone is saying about my cropped top and long skirt.

“She’s not a whore,” he breathes, angry.

He comes to stop before me, frowning because of the comment, but his eyes devour me.

Flat out devour me with a single look.

I take a hesitant step forward.

“You ready for the race of your life, Alana?” he asks. So gruff, so male.

His eyes … I feel the urge to look away, but I can’t, as if his eyes just trapped mine. The color is a swirl of blue and grey and specks of black, but mostly blue, mostly electrifying blue. I’m still as uncomfortable as I was a nanosecond ago. It’s just an eye-connection, nothing really. I glance away, and he eases back, and so do I. He’s leaning back, watching me.

“You’re late,” is all I can say, already feeling as if I won’t stand for tardiness if he works on my team.

He stares at me wordlessly, then smiles in amusement and heads to his car, giving me a look before he climbs inside and slams the door shut.

My breath is all but gone, and so is obviously my mind, because I react really strangely to this guy, and he’s a manwhore and a law breaker, and here I am. Still. Hearing him fire up his car and wondering what he’s doing to fire up something in me.


5 minutes ago…

I hear the siren well before the cop car lights flash red and blue in my rearview mirror.

I’m a damn idiot thinking I’d get away with it this time.

Exhaling with a growl, I pull over to the side of the road on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Turn down the music, then drum my fingers as I watch through the rearview mirror as the cop straightens his belt and walks over. Fucker, get over here already.

The guy probably knows I’m in a hurry (hint: I was going 29 mph above the speed limit) and is taking his goddamn time. Rankled and intent in rankling him back, I take my time too as he stands out the window. Then, after a while, I slowly click the button and lower the window. I suppose a smirk’s not the way to greet a cop but I can’t fucking help it when he stops me every damn time my wheels are spotted around here.

“License and registration, Tate,” he says.

“You already know I’ve got both.”

“Yeah well I want to see them again.”

“For the twelfth time? Must look pretty in my license picture.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Tate,” he growls.

I pull my hands from the steering wheel, reach into the glove compartment, then my wallet, and hand them over.

“You up to mischief again, Tate?”

“Not especially.” I grin.

He does the same dance we always do—checks the paperwork, clucks as he shakes his head.

I pull out a hundred-dollar bill, place it between my index and middle finger, and shove it out the window. “You might want to catch a beer for the next half hour. In fact, make it an hour. Invite a few buddies. On me.”

“Man … you’re really pushing it.” He pockets the money. “Don’t be so eager to go to the grave.”

“Nah. I’m immortal.” I grin.

He laughs, then shoots me a scowl and walks away. I fire up the car and screech away, switching gears as I speed off the narrow road, hitting it hard as I glance at the time. Two minutes to the race, still a couple miles to go.

I push on faster—never wanting to be in a race like I want to race this one. Because she’s fucking there. I can feel it in my bones, and I want her to know who the fuck the best driver in the world is.

Fucking me.

I pull into the parking lot where the crowd of usuals snap up at attention when they watch my car pull in.

They squeal and wave.

Preston’s car is already lined up—ready.

I park mine and leap out through the window.

Adrenaline courses in my veins.

I crave this shit. It’s in my DNA, in my very damn bones. I need it like air. I need it like I need a heart.


I scan the crowd for her. Fucking couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wanted her here as hard as I wanted to race. Where the fuck is she?

I hear Henley approach.

“Tate? You ready?”

I spot Preston across the street, surrounded with girls, drinking.

“That’s gonna be his third,” Henley says to me.

I keep my eyes out for her, and suddenly I see a speck of light brown hair and green eyes.

She’s gaping at me.

I kinda like it.

Female hands are on my abdomen, stroking. Wanting. Purring in my ear.

“A little tension release before the race, Tate?” one of the girls whispers.

I feel my lips hike up at the corners. Yeah, I don’t reply. My mind is on racing now.

But my eyes …

My eyes are on her.

Honey hair, light-green eyes, a fucking wet dream. My muscles tight, I’m ready. But I can’t keep from walking over, my heart pounding as I envision claiming her as my prize, feeling her melt beneath me, tasting her mouth beneath mine, letting her show me all the favorite places of her body while my mouth shows them all some TLC, Racer-style.

“What is this? Role-play today? School teacher slut—” I hear some asshole say.

“She’s not a whore,” I growl, angry, shoving my way to her as she watches me, wide-eyed, in both interest and concern.

I warned her to stay away; she should’ve. But she’s here now, and I’m so ready to blow her fucking mind off, I can already taste her on my lips. Feel her with my goddamn hands.

“You ready for the race of your life, Alana?” I ask, my voice gruff.

I’ve got a hard-on, and it’s for her.

My dick swells with speed, yeah I get hard when I race, but it’s never swelled like this before.

She narrows her eyes as she thinks about it.

“You’re late,” she says with that princess-like, bossy tone that somehow turns me on.

I just smile and make her watch me head to my car.

I’m testosterone-laden and as pumped as it gets every time I begin, and I’m high on my own power when I end.

I’m going to fuck her like she’s never been fucked tonight.

Soundlessly I walk to my mustang. It’s nicked by her, and I suppose that’s why she got off with it. Because it’ll have a thousand more nicks by the time I’m done tonight. And because she looked tired, tired, beat-up, and about as lovely as a bird with a broken wing.

Dozens of footsteps hurry behind me as I reach my mustang.

“Holy shit!” the girls cry.

“Bring your camera,” the guys say.

Yeah, they’re pumped about it.

Because I’m good. Because nobody is as good.

I grab the door, climb in and take the seat, waiting for it to fuel me, fill the void that keeps growing in me no matter what I do—pissing me the fuck off. Nothing satiates me, nothing fills me, it’s the curse of being a Tate—one I inherited from my father.

But I’ve got this.

And suddenly, I’m wired up because tonight, I’m going to have her.

Preston fires up next, and we let the engines steam.

I eye my car not only because she’s beautiful, but because of what she can do.

She’s all red body, black seats. Four hundred horsepower. (I did some modifications to take her to this level.) A beauty. She’s raring to go.

I shift, pull up an inch closer to the starting line—line up next to him.

I feel him glancing at me, I glance back, giving him my best eat-shit smile. Ten … the count begins.










The squeal of tires on asphalt. Pedal to the metal, the seat vibrating beneath me as I step it. Easy first—and she’s purring. Shifting gears, I head down the narrow road, and pick up speed, my foot down harder as I shift again.

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