Page 18 of When Hearts Surrender

Excitement sizzles from the large crowd of bystanders and other racers, the women wearing tiny articles of clothing showing more skin than runway models for the summer resort collections, the men in various sports and leather jackets I know cost more than a month’s rent for any of the apartments in the area.

A few girls nearby have their phones in the air, the flashes illuminating their pouting lips and sexy poses as they take selfies. Several couples are plastered next to their cars, hands roaming over their clothes, mouths devouring each other.

I scan the crowd, noticing a few famous models and actresses, beauties of all shapes and sizes, but my body doesn’t stir, my cock not even twitching in my pants, another unfortunate, regular occurrence for the past year besides losing my muse for my art.

Gritting my teeth, I start to turn my head toward the settings in the front panels of my car, my eyes skimming over the sea of naked skin, glittering gems, and dark fabrics.

Until I seeher.

A woman, standing on the outskirts of the crowd, looking as uncomfortable as a patient right before a rectal exam. Pale, flawless skin, without a stitch of makeup on, large, doe-like eyes, the color I can’t make out from the distance, and thick, shiny black hair tied up in a high ponytail. She’s gnawing on her lip, her eyes darting left and right, a deer in the headlights, her feet tapping a nervous rhythm on the ground.

While she’s wearing a short dress like many women around her, a slinky black number ending mid-thigh, she carries herself like she’s wearing an elegant ball gown. She has an aura of sweetness I can almost see and taste.

My chest seizes, riveted by this woman in front of me. There’s something about her that prevents me from looking away.

She’s breathtaking.

A redhead nudges her and speaks into her ear. She shakes her head and the other woman laughs. They murmur to each other and suddenly, I see her straighten up, the little deer growing a backbone in front of my eyes. She frowns, her lips pressing into a firm line.

What are you doing here? What are you thinking about?

Someone raps the roof of my car, interrupting me from my perusal of the mysterious woman.

“Maxwell, I thought you couldn’t make it tonight.”

Glancing at the interloper, I smirk, my shoulders loosening. “Last minute change of plans.”

I motion to the excited crowd gathering around us. “Great showing tonight. No complaints so far?”

Jack’s eyes sharpen, the jovial smile sliding off his face as he leans in. “None. Attendance is up, and folks are excited about this new route. We’ve checked in with the commissioner and he’s directed his officers to other areas of the city during our race.”

It’s no surprise Jack has everything handled, including making sure the NYPD won’t give our members any grief. After all, the commissioner is a member at The Orchid as well.

Jack Szeto started as a club promoter but quickly climbed up the ranks by being excellent at generating hype and capturing the particular tastes of the capricious billionaires in our circle. He’s now the Director of Entertainment at The Orchid and occasionally frequents the races to “get a pulse” for the events himself, as he says.

I nod, satisfied with the turnout, and rev my engine again, enjoying the smooth purring of the cylinders. “I’ll see you on the other side then.”

“Will do. Good luck tonight, not that you need it.” He doles out a lazy wink, transforming into the party-hard playboy right in front of my eyes, which is now a costume he wears since he’s head over heels in love with his girlfriend, Sarah.

My eyes rove to the spot where the alluring woman was standing moments ago, but she disappeared. A mysterious ache forms in my chest, and I frown.

After closing the windows, I press a button on the side panel, and the infamous aria, “Nessun Dorma” from Puccini’sTurandot, erupts from the speakers.

I sway my head to the sweeping drama of the song and the lyrics, listening to the Italian tenor playing the main male character, Calaf, sing about his character’s love for Princess Turandot and his desperation for her hand in marriage pushing him to challenge her to discover his real name by dawn. If she fails, she’ll marry him, but if she succeeds, he’ll be killed.

To experience such a desperate, tumultuous love for someone else. To be willing to die for this person.

I swallow, a fruitless attempt at dislodging the lump in my throat.

To love with your whole body and soul…

It’s a thirst I can’t quench and will never be able to.

Thoughts of Sydney drift into my mind again—her laughter when she won a game ofScrabbleafter we finished our papers for twelfth grade English class. But even then, I’d never felt a fraction of what Calaf felt for Princess Turandot.

Just then, I hear the announcer mumble something about racers needing a passenger.

Fuck. This again? They do this every so often to change up the races.

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