SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance) (30 page)

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.

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.

When I looked up, I was distracted by someone further down the bar. This guy caught my eye and smiled when he saw me looking at him. And it was quite a smile. White teeth, full lips, and a strong jaw, lightly coated with stubble so natural it must have taken him hours to get right. At least he’d avoided shaving slashes or stupid lines into his beard. I hated that. Still, I liked what I saw and give him a sexy smile back.

“You know, you’re really very attractive,” Donald managed to slur at me. I would get no work done with him tonight. Good thing I had booked a room here. I could catch him at breakfast.

“And you’re pretty hot stuff yourself, Donny,” I told him, which earned me a satisfied grin. Clive apologized on his peer’s behalf, but I wasn’t really listening. I had lost sight of the guy at the bar. Oh well, guess it wasn’t meant to be. I wouldn’t want to hook up with a racer, anyway.

Just getting to the track itself would be hard enough. Too many bad memories of my dad. Plus, if my father’s behavior was anything to go by, some arrogant racing dick would never be faithful, anyway.

James

Attending the pre-race dinner seemed like fun on paper, but I’d done too many over the years. Still, I had to go. Keith, Ray, Nick, and Other James always looked forward to it. Free food, free booze. Ray and Keith got to take their wives out, and Nick and Other James got to try to pick up grid girls. I wasn’t relishing it, this time especially, because of my fling with Suzi. She would expect to hook up again, which, I’ll admit, I was not opposed to, but if we didn’t, she would not sit quietly if I tried to connect with one of her contemporaries. There would be drama, and I loathed drama. Which was exactly why I stayed single.

First of all, I hadn’t yet found Ms. Right. Secondly, Ms. Right Now was likely to cause trouble when she realized I was not going to settle down with her. I rarely went on second dates. It was always a one-night thing with me, and I made sure all parties were agreed on that point up front. I was not trying to get out of a commitment; I simply didn’t want a commitment at all. As long as she understood that, we’d be fine. Obviously, this didn’t mean I wouldn’t sleep with the same girl twice. It just meant we both had to understand it was never going to lead to a relationship.

I could tell Suzi was looking for something more from me. Her eagerness to stay in my room and the affectionate way she greeted me at the circuit when she returned my Maserati all pointed to her envisioning a relationship in our future, despite our agreement. No, tonight was going to be a little awkward.

Anyway, we had all worn our best monkey suits. Ray’s looked like it was from the seventies, with its huge ruffled shirt and big collar. He used to have a decent one, but that one had earned its place in history when covered in red wine by former World Champion Nicky Hayden at last season’s Portuguese Grand Prix. Nicky had been apologetic and immediately had another DJ sent to Ray; this monstrosity had been in the box. Even Ray found it funny, which was rare for our taciturn technician. I’d been meaning to take him out to get a new one, but we just hadn’t had the time. I think he secretly rather liked the thing.

I arrived to find my team enjoying themselves. Keith and Ray were in deep conversation about English soccer while their wives, Diane and Sharon, laughed and whispered together. I didn’t see their two assistants immediately, which meant they were either at the bar or trying to hook up already. The four at our table let out a big cheer as I walked up to greet them. The lovely wives really had pulled out all the stops in getting dressed up tonight. I complimented Sharon’s daring green dress and Diane’s sparkling diamond earrings, then looked around for Suzi.