Racer
We’re in Mexico and have only Brazil to go, and then the final in Abu Dhabi. I’m geared up to put up a good fight for the championship and heading out early in the morning to the track with my girl at my side when a group of fans spot me at the hotel lobby.
“Ay, Dios, es Racer Tate!”
“Ohmigod, Racer!”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Yeah, sure.” I grab her pen and scribble down my name, then do the same for the other two.
“You’re my favorite driver,” one gushes.
Beside me, Lana prickles with jealousy.
“Nice girls,” I say as we head out.
She presses her lips tight.
“They seem to think I’m a pretty good driver,” I point out.
“Marry them, then.”
I run my knuckles down her cheeks and cluck as I shake my head somberly. Yeah, I want her to know she’s it; and there’s nothing that will change that. “I can’t do that. I’ve been promised since before I was born to the first girl to crash my cherry mustang.”
Lana nibbles on her lip, and I can tell she’s doing that to keep from smiling. I love this girl like crazy. I can’t get enough of her scent. The feel of her. Taste of her. Teasing her. Making those green eyes widen with shock or delight, and especially with love and lust for her man. Her man, aka Racer fucking Tate.
I’m prepping for the upcoming races, exercising more. I’m trying to get some good sleep, eat right, keep my monsters at bay, have no more surprises.
The standings show me in second place.
Her brothers? Yeah, they seem to be more and more okay with me and Lana being together.
I’ve grown to admire them, appreciate her family. I don’t want to disappoint them. Hell I don’t want to disappoint my own family. Or me. Especially … I want my crasher to always have reason to be proud of me.
