Beyond The Checkered Flag (2 page)

“Well, hello to you, too, sugar.” Bobby Wayne couldn’t
believe she was freakin’ here. And bulldozing her way past him. “Hey! You just
cain’t walk into my house!” But sure enough, Bobby Wayne, Lauren,
and
her damnable suitcase, which was banging off his bum knee, were headed into the
doorway three wide. And not only that, she –
and
her suitcase - beat him
by a tenth of a second, giving him a lousy third-place finish.

She spun around. “
Our
house, Bobby Wayne. If it’s
our
dough-wahr,” she dissed his accent. “It’s
our
house.” She pushed by him
when he tried to block her. There was a time when she couldn’t get close enough
to him. When their bodies came together like a red-hot, bang-the-fenders, full-out
race to the finish.

“Oh, my god! Oh my god!” She was running around the grand
entryway like a hyped-up hamster in a hamster ball. “
Ohmygod!
”

“It’s not that bad.” It was awful, but Bobby Wayne wasn’t in
a mood to be agreeable.

“Oh my god!” Lauren pushed her hand up into her lush mop of
dark brown hair. The hair he loved to have teasing across his bare chest. She
stared at the floor, the one illuminated way too brightly by the overhead
chandelier. Of course, even if the light was snuffed and the room cloaked in
darkness, the boldly-painted floor could not be missed. Or ignored. That was
the beauty of fluorescent paint, he supposed. And the bane.

“Oh my god, oh my
god!
”

“Is that all you can say?”

She lifted those golden brown eyes to his. Eyes that used to
soften to the color of warm honey when she looked at him were now flashing like
the sparks of metal scraping metal. “What have you done to
my
house?”

“
Our
house,” he corrected her. “We jointly own it
together, remember?” And that, foolish as it was, was the one thing he clung
to. Even more than the constant worry he might not race again.

Lauren would
never
give up this house.

“You— you—
you
—” She sputtered her outrage like a
blown engine spurting oil. “I can’t believe you did this!”

“I
didn’t
do it.” It was a technicality, but he needed
all the help he could get. It was unforgivable what he’d allowed.

“There’s a
victory circle
painted on
my
parquet
floor!”

The huge red circle surrounded by a neon yellow circle and
flaming black and white checkered racing flags had been painted on
their
parquet floor by his ex-wife number four. “Our,” he corrected her again. “It’s
our
floor.”

“Oh, my god! My god,” she went on. Like a damn broken record.
As irritating as Doctor Sadistic was when he said over and over again with
every checkup Bobby Wayne went back for,
you will not race again, Bobby
Wayne.
Even though
everybody
knew –
especially
Bobby Wayne –
that he
would
race again.

“Oh, my god,” she was still going on. “Oh, my god! My
god!
”

“You said that already,” Bobby Wayne snapped. “A half-dozen
times.” Hell, Bobby Wayne had said it a hundred times since that night he’d
walked in to find Lauren’s beautifully renovated home trashed. Barbara Jean,
ex-wife number four, may have called it interior designing, but it was tacky.
Even for him. And he loved NASCAR.

And Lauren wasn’t supposed to be here seeing it before he
could heal enough to get back to the track so a renovation expert and his crew
could come in and fix the mess.

“Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Ohmygod!” She ran to the steps, the
Italian marble ones, which made up the grand staircase. The staircase that
dominated the entryway now painted flat black to look like an asphalt track,
complete with a neon yellow warning stripe running down the outside edge of each
step.

“Will you quit saying that?”

“They’re Italian marble, Bobby Wayne –
Italian marble
put in this house before the Civil War!”

“I
know
.” He knew. He’d been standing by her side, his
arm draped possessively over her shoulder, her arm wrapped tight around his
waist when the realtor had walked them through the house explaining its
history, selling them on it even though it would need renovated. The turn of
this century had not been kind to Harrington House and it had fallen into
disrepair.

But Lauren had looked up at him with those honey-colored
eyes. And when she said, “This is a house generations of one family lived in,”
her voice soft and full of awe. “I want that, Bobby Wayne. I wanna home like
this for us.” Hell, he’d have bought her five Harrington Houses just to have
her looking up at him like he was everything she ever wanted and needed. 

She wasn’t looking at him like that anymore.

And it was his fault. He should have gone after her. And he
sure as hell shouldn’t have brought another woman into their house.

Her hand went to her chest, fisting right between her perfect
breasts. The ones rapidly rising and falling – up and down, up and down with
every frantic gasp of air… Like they used to when he made love to her, when he
held them in his hands, his fingers stroking over her pebbled nipples as they
both rode a wave of ecstasy.  When she gasped out his name in pleasure as she
came apart in his arms. “Oh, my god! Oh, my—”

“
Jee-suz
, will you quit sayin’ that?” And he needed to
quit staring at her breasts. At the ones he knew would fit perfectly into his
hands. And he needed to forget all the good times. The woman had walked away
from him for
crissakes
! She’d broken his heart. “Give it a rest, will
you?” he told her.

“You know what?” She spun around, blasting him with an arctic
glare. “Why don’t you just run up to the top of those stairs, Bobby Wayne, and
take a flying leap off them! That’ll give it a rest.”

He snorted. “Been there, done that, sugar.” He pointed a
finger to the skin still knitting together over his right eye. “Have the
stitches to prove it.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as she took a good look at him. She was
the only woman he’d ever known who could see past the NASCAR god to the mortal
man hiding behind the larger-than-life image. And he looked away before she saw
his biggest fear. And the fact that no matter how mad he was at her for walking
away from him without allowing him to explain, for ruining his racing season,
for pushing him into a rebound marriage he hadn’t wanted, he freakin’ still
loved her.

He needed her to leave. He needed her to stay because,
damn
,
he missed her. He was half a man without her. And the half he’d been had been a
pretty shitty excuse for one. And he needed to fix the mess he’d made of her
home, which was exactly why he needed rid of her.

Damn! He’d gone full circle in less than 3.5 seconds.

He didn’t need the major distraction that she would be. And
he sure as hell didn’t want to face her when he wasn’t at the top of his game.
And he was about as far from the top as a man could get.

“Why aren’t you out on your A to Z tour?” he took a shot of
his own. And far away from him, he wanted to add. He was supposed to be
concentrating on unscrambling his head, getting back behind the wheel, racing
for the cup and the unprecedented title of winningest driver.
Ever
. Not
being blindsided by foolish hope she’d come back to him and he’d be whole again.

Her face drained of any color, and just as quickly, flushed
with the heat of anger. “Oh, you had to go for the jugular, didn’t you?” Hurt
made her voice waver and Bobby Wayne had no idea what the hell that was about.
Or even what
she
was talking about. She was country music’s biggest
star, touring all over the country, living the Nashville dream.

“Why aren’t you racing?”

Talk about going for the jugular. “What, you don’t follow me
on Twitter, or Facebook?”

She didn’t say a word. Just grabbed her suitcase. And he had
his answer. Hell, he had his answer a year ago when she’d walked away from him
without a backward glance.

“Hey!” Bobby Wayne yelled as she marched up the stairs like
Sherman marching into Atlanta. “Where are you goin’?”

“I drove non-stop for twelve hours. I’m goin’ to bed.”

“Oh, hell no, you’re not!”

She arched an eyebrow like she was still lady of the manor.
Her eyes skimmed over his beat-up body. “And you think you’re gonna stop me?”

“Sugar, I am just gettin’ started.” And
damn!
if Bobby
Wayne’s dick didn’t twitch at the thought of starting things up again with
Lauren. Of getting down and dirty with her. Of laying her out over those
god-awfully painted steps. Of ignoring every warning sign she was hurling his
way and licking and tasting every delectable inch of her until she screamed out
his name. And then plunging deep into her, over and over and over again, until
he forgot all the hurt she’d inflicted on his heart and on his soul.

She was long and leggy with a pile of wavy dark brown hair,
small breasts and a lean body he’d never been able to get enough of. Three days
max, even when she’d been touring. They were only separated three days before
she was chasing him down between shows to whatever track he was at. And the
same went for him. When he should have been at some track testing, or at the
garage, he was on a plane to wherever she was. And somehow they’d made it work.
For a year and a half. And they’d been happy –
blissfully
happy – until
she’d walked away from him.

“Where are you goin’?” he yelled, as he made his way up the
long staircase behind her.

“I’m goin’ to my room.”

“It was
our
room,” he corrected her. And if she
thought the downstairs remodeling was bad, she’d have a coronary when she got a
look at the master bedroom. “And it’s not
your
room anymore,” he yelled,
hoping to spare her the agony of the rest of Barbara Jean’s interior decorating
disaster.
By sucker punching her?  
His conscience reprimanded him.
Way
to go, Forsythe,
it added.

She stopped. Spun around. Her lips were pressed tightly
together.

And before she could rip into him, he said, “Hey! You left
me, remember?” Christ! He never forgot. He’d never been able to forget no
matter how many women he’d banged. Didn’t matter he’d married another one and
supposedly moved on. It had always been Lauren.

She turned back around, nearly running down the hall.

“Dammit!” He ran up the remaining stairs. She was still
running from him. And he was still running after her.

This is the
first
time you ran after her,
the irritating voice of
reason mouthed off inside his head. To which Bobby Wayne mentally mouthed back,
shut the fuck up!
Even though it was true; he hadn’t gone after her.
He’d been too mad, too hurt.

“Oh my ga-awd!” she wailed.

One step from the top, Bobby Wayne stopped. Wearily leaned
against the mahogany bannister. Dropped his head to his chest and cussed. She’d
obviously found the master bedroom renovations.

“Oh my god! Ohmygod!”

“Will you stop sayin’ that!” he yelled, as he limped down the
hall to the bedroom he’d shared with her. And with Barbara Jean. Well, it had
been shared with Barbara Jean until he’d called out Lauren’s name while buried
seven inches deep inside the other. 

“Piston lamps, Bobby Wayne? Embroidered silk sheets with your
car’s number?”

“Hey, those sheets are pretty cool.”

Her eyes got all squinty. Like she was sighting him down the
barrel of Olivia Harrington’s antique hog leg pistol, the one he hoped to hell
was still displayed on the wall in the study.

“And I see why you like them.” She flung an arm wide. “They go
so nicely with your little racecar-shaped bed!” 

He frowned as he stared at the custom-built metal bed Barbara
Jean had made for them. It didn’t look like a racecar. Did it?

“Oh my god! Diamond-plated chest of drawers and dressers?”
She stepped from the dressing room that was part of the bedroom. “What happened
to the antique walnut dresser with the marble top?”

The rare, one-of-a-kind original piece from the Civil War era
had cost Bobby Wayne fifteen-thousand dollars. The look on Lauren’s face when he’d
had it delivered to the house had been priceless. Her way of thanking him had
been a hot, steamy night of lovin’ he’d never forgotten. Or experienced with
anyone else since.

“You know what?” She put a hand up, palm out. Hurt brimming
in her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”

“Lauren.”

She ignored him. Grabbed her suitcase and stiffly crossed the
room to the door.

“Lauren.” He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “I’m sorry.” It
seemed inadequate. He was sorry for letting her go. And especially sorry for
bringing Barbie into their home and then not being around enough, interested
enough, or caring enough to stop the woman before she’d destroyed what Lauren
had so painstakingly created.

Lauren wouldn’t look at him. She lifted one delicate
shoulder. “You said it,” she softly told him. “It’s not my home.” And the pain
in her voice, the hurt trembling from each word hit Bobby Wayne harder than
that damn wall at Talladega. She pulled her arm free. Head down, she slowly
walked toward the door.

“Don’t… Don’t go,” he begged her. He uncurled her fingers
from the suitcase handle. Sat it back down on the floor. Gently turned her
toward him. “This is your house.” He pulled her closer, his breath caught in
his throat, waiting for her to give him something. Anything. She stepped
closer, albeit reluctantly – or maybe guardedly – and his heart beat fast just
the same. And then he pulled her a little closer still, always pushing the
limit, until his groin brushed against the soft juncture of her thighs. And he
got hard like he always did anytime she was near. He pressed into her wet heat
once, then twice, and she sighed, melting over him. He dipped his head until
his mouth was just a kiss away from hers. “You drove all the way from
Nashville, sugar. Stay.”  

She lifted her head and the air surrounding them grew thick
with anticipation and want. And Bobby Wayne’s breath caught in his chest as he
watched a battle playing out in her eyes. One he didn’t understand. One that
didn’t make sense.

She should be pushing him away. She’d walked away from him.
Yet she breathed out the breath of surrender. And her hand tentatively slid up
his arm. The simple touch of her fingers brushing against his skin and his dick
got harder. And he wanted so badly to lay her down on that bed and rewind the
past year.  To remind her of everything they’d had, of everything they’d been
to each other. Of everything they could still be.

“Bobby Wayne,” she whispered his name and he loved the way
she said it, all bunched up and fast. And then her eyes caught fire like they
used to when she surrendered to the passion and hope ignited in his chest. And
her hand slid up over his shoulder, up his neck and into his hair. “I never
could resist you,” she whispered, right before she touched her lips to his.

His mouth closed over hers and he kissed her back. She opened
her mouth wider. Their tongues tangling together, sliding over, wrapping around
each other, picking up where they’d left off a year ago. Her hands slid down
his back to his ass and she was hauling him closer and he was pulling her
closer, grinding into her.

And too damn quick, she pulled away from him. Her chest
heaving, the look in her eyes tortured. “I— I can’t— I can’t do this,” she
whispered, and her voice broke. 

What the hell was going on? How could one mind-blowing kiss
cause so much pleasure for one and so much pain for the other? She looked ready
to cry.

“Lauren,” he reached for her arm. “What’s—”

“I can’t.” She pulled away. “I just— I— I can’t do this.”

“Do what, sugar?” There was a time when it was all they did.

A single tear escaped to slide down her cheek. She wrapped an
arm around her middle as if she were in pain. She pressed a trembling finger to
her swollen lips.

Real concern and dread built inside him. “Tell me what’s
wrong.” If she was sick, he had a fortune. He’d give it all to her. Pay someone
to invent a cure for whatever ailed her. He reached for her arm.

She pulled away again. Looked up at him with the saddest eyes
he’d ever seen. Her lips trembled.

“I want out, Bobby Wayne. I need out.”