Racer
“You weren’t at the gym today.”
First thing my dad says when I meet them for lunch at a restaurant by the gym I usually visit.
“No.” I meet his irritated gaze. I’m like a carbon copy of the guy, except he’s got two dimples, and I’ve got one. He’s also hard for fighting. I’m hard for cars. Not that he knows what I still do with my cars.
Leaning over to kiss my mom on the cheek and rumple my eighteen-year-old sister’s hair, I glance at my mom while she sips her tea. “Tell Dad to cut me some slack, huh?”
“Cut your son some slack, Remy.”
He grins and leans back in his seat. “I will when he stops being a pussy.”
“I like speed, all right. Wasn’t that the point of you giving me this lame-ass name.”
My mom gasps. “Your name is beautiful. It’s unique.”
My dad shoots me a glare. “What did you want us to call you? John?”
“Tate. Just Tate.”
He smirks. “Baby, tell John here that I expect my son to train daily. No excuses.” He levels me a look. “Take something serious for once.”
“I pulled weights this morning and ran 7 miles before you even woke up. That would make most of my friends’ fathers ecstatic.”
“What would make me ecstatic is for you to fight a fight. Fight a fight, and I’ll get you your dream car.”
I raise my brows. “You don’t mean that. A white Aventador?”
He nods.
My cock gets thick thinking about it.
“Bribery?” my mom asks, raising her brows.
“It works.” I can hear the grin in his voice.
I grin too.
Iris groans and sets down her napkin. “I need to go to the restroom.”
“I’ll go with you,” my mom says.
My dad regards me for a moment.
“I know that look,” he says, after a long while.
“What?”
“There’s a woman in your life, not a girl.”
I sip the glass of water the waitress sets before me, aware of Dad watching me. “She’s the one.”
Dad looks at me, laughs softly.
“Don’t fucking laugh about this.”
“It’s amusing.”
“The fuck it is.” I scowl, then grin and chuckle, shaking my head. “I just met her and I know it sounds crazy but I know it somewhere here.” I punch my gut.
“When I met your mom, I knew from where I stood in the ring. No such thing as too soon to know.”
I drag a hand along the back of my neck. “Right thing to do would be to stay away. But I’m not going to. She just offered me a try on an F1 car.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” I hold his incredulous stare. “I want you to be okay with me racing F1.”
Iris and my mother return to their seats, and I can tell from the look in Mom’s eyes that she heard me crystal clear.
“You know I don’t want you racing,” Dad says.
“You want me fighting; I don’t want to do that.” I lean back and drape an arm along the back of my chair, eyeing him in silence. “Her name is Lana, she’s with HW Racing Team.”
“That team still exists?”
“Barely, from what she says.”
“Racer …” Mom interjects. “You’ll be away from home, with nobody you know, putting your life on the line—”
“I’m going.”
My mom’s eyes widen.
“You going because you want to race, or you want the girl?” Dad asks.
“Both. I’m racing; and I want the girl.” I look at him. “Tell me it can happen for me like it did for you. That I can find someone to get me. To take me, as is.”
Iris blinks at that, just staring at me. “Did I miss something?” she asks out loud, but I keep staring at my dad until he replies.
“I wish nothing more.”
I exhale. “This is the girl. The one I’m going to marry. The one whose life I’m going to completely ruin.” I chuckle, he laughs, then we both fall sober.
“Let her get to know you. And then she can decide what the ‘right’ thing is,” Dad says.
I exhale, standing up as I look at Mom and Iris. “I need to pack.” My eyes focus on my sister’s. “Come to one of my races?”
“I don’t know if I can watch.”
I scowl but rumple her hair. “Wuss.”
“Bully.”
She stands and hugs me goodbye, and I hug her back, not saying anymore. Iris always tells me I’m emotionally unavailable. I’m just not used to expressing shit. I always tell her that she should already know. So with a smile, a hug, and a don’t get into trouble look, I go and kiss my mother, tell her I love her, and hear her whisper, “Come home in one piece.”
I nod, and my dad walks with me outside.
“Take care of Iris for me.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“I fucking mean it,” he growls.
I clench my jaw. I exhale, unclenching my fingers. I nod.
He part grabs, part slaps my jaw. “Good.”
He smiles at me, and I can see the pride in his eyes, the pride and the damn concern that appeared from the moment I was diagnosed with bipolar 1.
I push that out of my mind as I fire up my Cherokee, pull out, and head to my apartment to pack.
I’ll be working with her. Touching her is not a good idea. But I don’t know that I could do that. Fucking want to do that. I can still feel her warmth in my fucking hands. Taste her in my mouth. Remembering makes me hard as iron.
There’s something inside of me screaming her name. Something like I’ve known her my whole life. Something the moment I locked eyes on her that whispered, you’re going to marry this chick. This girl is going to own you, and you’re going to own her, and that’s that.
