SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance) (33 page)

It’s strange how hard it is to make small talk when you’re not allowed to discuss your past, your immediate acquaintances, or your job, which is kind of sad. So, after eating, drinking, and a little more flirty conversation, we had sex three more times. She finally finished me in her mouth, swallowing everything I had left.

This girl was amazing. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a night like this. Each time we finished, spent beyond exhaustion, it was never long before we were both aroused again. When we eventually succumbed to sleep, I imagined spending more time with her. I’d always resisted the idea of a relationship, knowing that anyone who spent any real time with me was going to get hurt. Any girl I committed to was going to want to change me, which I would resent, and want me to quit my dangerous hobby, which I would refuse to do. I’d react by becoming insensitive to her needs, and most likely, sleeping with someone else. Or she would.

However, something told me that none of that would matter with Summer. So I was really starting to wonder.

Summer

Waking up at six sucked. Waking at six when you didn’t get to sleep until four really sucked. James slumbered peacefully next to me. Or I may have killed him; I wasn’t sure. I crept into the bathroom, found my clothes and shoes where I left them, and borrowed his toothbrush. When I emerged, fully dressed, he was still unconscious. This made everything easier. I scribbled a note for him, took another look at his firm jaw, his broad chest, and strong arms, and felt my poor, aching pussy moisten again. Enough! I resisted the urge to take him in his sleep and left.

It was better this way. We may have clicked sexually, but I had no interest in committing to another man. Especially a rich, bad-boy racer who was going to be absolutely no good for me at all. Plus, I didn’t want any more to do with the racing scene, which he clearly loved. Nothing about us having a relationship would work outside the bedroom.

Speaking of which—wow. I had no idea what came over me. Well, apart from when he actually did come over me. I’ve always prided myself on my sexual expertise, but I can’t remember when I was last so hungry. I couldn’t get enough of his amazing dick. And it just wouldn’t stay down. I completely lost count of how many orgasms I had, several of which were the longest and most intense of my life. If sex was ever the primary reason to stay together, we would have it made. In the real world, however, we had to look beyond that. I felt like he didn’t want any more than one night, and I know damn well that I didn’t.

I grabbed my Mustang from the valet park and hauled ass home to change into something more businesslike. Around eight, I heard the phone ring while I was in the shower; I’d missed a call from Dunlop Tires. Donald wanted to meet today at the racetrack. I really wanted to avoid going there, but I’d have to bite the bullet and take a trip. How bad could it be?

I selected a far more business-like and appropriate outfit for today. Light gray suit jacket, matching above-the-knee pencil skirt, black blouse, and some underwear this time—a black thong that matched my bra. It was going to be a scorcher today, so no pantyhose. I’d just have to suffer in my two-inch Jimmy Choo pumps.

As I approached the circuit, the long, wide road that turned off the highway, I saw the billboards advertising tires, oils, and expensive watches. The gateway with its huge rising shapes of the spectator stands in the distance beyond it all set my mind flashing back. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that grew larger the nearer I got.

My mind thought of my father, smiling at me as he disappeared for another month. I saw my mother weeping the first two nights he wasn’t with us. I remembered the shouting and the fighting as I got older. I recalled the look on my mom’s face as she received the call telling us he had been killed.

My hands started to shake on the steering wheel, and my heart was pounding. I could barely breathe and quickly pulled over onto the wide grass verge. The line of traffic behind me continued through the barrier while I sat in my car. Tears welled up in my eyes. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t need this. I couldn’t face this place again, or anywhere like it.

I started to imagine my conversation with Geoffrey.
Hi, it’s Summer. I couldn’t bring in this major contract because I was too traumatized by my childhood to set foot on a racetrack that wasn’t even built back then.

That’s okay
, he’d say,
just relax and sit this one out. And don’t worry about the next one, either. I’ll give it to someone who isn’t a total candy-ass.

Goddammit! I was better than that. I’d never let anything in this job faze me, never backed down from a challenge. That’s why they paid me. I was not going to start crying off now, like I’d seen so many other ‘strong women’ do in the past. I wasn’t going to be a victim of anyone’s mistreatment. Not a partner, a client, not even the things my father put me through.

I checked my face in the mirror, wiped my eyes without messing up my makeup, gave myself a stern look, and shoved the Mustang into drive. I floored it back onto the tarmac, throwing up great arcs of mud and turf from my rear tires as the big engine hurled me forward. An expensive silver sports car, I think it was a Maserati, had to brake hard to avoid me as I slewed out in front of it. I waved an apology.

At the gate, Dunlop’s PR team had left my tickets for me. The guard found an all-access pit pass and paddock parking pass in an envelope marked for me, handed them to me, and waved me through. It was race day, and the place was packed. Motorcycles of all sizes, shapes, and colors lined the roadways. Cars and trucks parked in the fields, and buses shuttled people back and forth from the parking lots to the circuit. After waving my parking permit at a few different marshals, I was directed to a space at the bottom of a 250-foot-tall tower. I looked straight up and saw an enormous observation deck high in the sky. The whole track must have been clearly visible from there.

As I got out of the car, the smell hit me. Nowhere else in the world smelled like a race track, yet each one smelled the same. The smell was hard to describe; it was like sun-melted tarmac mixed with the smoke from heated rubber, high-octane fuel, a hundred different fried foods, cigarettes, and beer: a heady, masculine smell that was irresistibly evocative to people who grew up around it. When I heard a couple of unbelievably loud engines roar by at a million rpms, I was back with my dad again. Only this time, it was exciting and fun. He was winning, the team was celebrating, and I wore a big smile on my face as I remembered those happier times before I was old enough to realize what was going on.

I’d phoned Dunlop as I drove through the gate, so there was a pretty, smiling PA called Sam waiting to greet me. She took me across a footbridge that ran over the track. I almost yelped in surprise as a motorcycle flashed under us at high speed before braking hard and leaning almost horizontally to disappear around the turn. As I closed my eyes and calmed my breathing, Sam giggled at my reaction. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one, with a short blonde bob, light skin, and a tight, white Dunlop t-shirt lashed to a pair of high, firm breasts. I just knew Donald had something to do with hiring her, even though I was sure I hadn’t seen her at the dinner last night. She made small talk about the circuit and the races. She liked one or two of the racers, she admitted with a slight flush to her cheeks, so she stayed in the Dunlop Moto GP division to follow them around.

For a second, I was tempted to ask if she knew James and what he did, but I decided against it. I shouldn’t be thinking of him or trying to find out anything about him. I should keep it a mysterious, preserved memory. Plus, another part of me didn’t want to hear how he might slut around with girls like her—or anything else that moved.

The bridge descended into another tarmacked area with a row of high-tech and posh trackside suites lined up and facing the raceway. A big Dunlop flag hung outside the third one, and there was Donald, chatting with some other suits. He turned to me as I approached

“Ms. Hayes,” he said, a slightly pained expression on his face, “so nice to see you again. I’m very sorry about last night. Far too much celebration, I’m afraid.”

“Please call me Summer, Donald.” I gave him one of my flirtiest smiles. “And rest assured, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve gone a little overboard and regretted it, I certainly wouldn’t need to make this deal.”

We both laughed politely. I was introduced to the members of his team and we actually discussed my PR proposals and did some proper work in the comfort of these converted garages for a while, despite having to raise our voices or stop talking altogether from time to time as the race bikes roared by on the track.

Lunchtime rolled around, and I was treated to chicken, smoked salmon, crudités, and white wine, courtesy of Dunlop catering, before Donald announced we should take a tour of the pits. The race would start at two, so I guessed I would have to man up and visit the track itself.

An oversized golf cart turned up, and I got in with Donald, Sam, and a couple of other execs, and it whisked us over to the pit lane. It had to be a quarter mile from where we were, around the middle of the track, so I was glad I didn’t have to walk it in my heels.

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.