Page 13 of Hook Up

Greer Hammond. Eight years ago, she was in my arms, and those were the happiest moments of my life. I was only gone fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen minutes too long. By the time I returned, she was gone.

Worse than Cinderella at the ball.

I waited a couple of weeks, certain she would get in touch with me, but she never did. Then the racing season started, and it seemed no matter how often I tried to call Greg to finagle his sister’s number, we never connected. Let me tell you, time zones are a bitch.

Finally, after months and thousands of miles of travel, I spoke with Greg, my determination at an all-time high. I knew what I wanted and no matter how much shit he gave me; I was a man on a mission. Greg was thrilled to chat and fill me in on all the family gossip. Namely, that Gigi was dating a med student, and it seemed serious. He figured they’d get married soon.

The woman who claimed she wasn’t built for relationships was now firmly entrenched in one. And it wasn’t with me.

I didn’t care to hear anything more about Greer after that.

My mother still jokes with me occasionally about my feelings for Greer Hammond, but I claim it was a childhood crush. Nothing more. We both know I’m lying.

I dated a few nice women over the years and although I cared about them, it was never near the intensity of my feelings for Greer. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Hell, my feelings for Greer were likely more pie in the sky than based in reality. Who knows? We might have spent a week together and ended up hating each other.

Besides, I haven’t seen Greg or Greer in years. That’s how it works, right? You don’t intend to drift away from each other, but time and distance do their worst to break the bonds that once held you tight.

Greg and I still speak occasionally, but I never ask about his sister. Even when he slides in her name, I steer the conversation to an alternate topic. As I said, I don’t want to know about her wonderful life. A life without me.

Instead, we focus on his work as a mechanic, or his latest automotive gadget that’s guaranteed to make a car faster, smoother, or more economical. With cars, the man is a genius, even if some of his ideas are borderline ridiculous.

With Greg, I’m his buddy, Ryder. Not Ryder Gray, the international racing superstar that graces the covers of magazines. There’s peace in that knowledge. His friendship is genuine, and even though he knows how much money I make, he’s never asked for a dime. Not one loan, not one favor.

Okay, maybe one.

He called a few weeks ago, asking me to be the best man at his wedding. True to form, Greg bucked tradition, opting for a wedding in Vegas. To quote him, a weekend of drunken debauchery in Sin City.

I declined, even though I know it hurt Greg. It’s not that I don’t love my friend, but I couldn’t show up and have Greer walk in, her husband and children in tow.

It’s safer to exist in my sphere of denial.

Not that I don’t think of my Gigi, wondering how her life turned out.

Wishing for one more chance with her. This time, I’d never let her go. No matter what. Hell, I scoff at the idea of marriage, but I’d march Greer’s ass down the aisle so fast her head would spin.

But it doesn’t matter.

Some wishes don’t come true.

To be fair, my current girlfriend is no slouch. She’s literally the former Ms. America. Not too damn shabby. But aside from looking good on my arm, there’s nothing there.

Mandi and I have an agreement. Love is secondary when you’re a celebrity; a sad but true fact. The world doesn’t care if you have a happy life, so long as it looks fabulous.

Mandi and I look fabulous together, and it was fun for the first few months. Until she started hinting around about a ring, and I know that is one plank I’m not walking. I often wonder how much longer I can delay the inevitable breakup because the glitter wore off months ago.

A little boy tugs my sleeve, jogging me back to the present. “Can I have your autograph?” He hands me a piece of paper and I sign it with a smile. Kids always make me smile, especially since I remember being that boy with stars in his eyes.

Now, I’m the star.

“It’s a trip, isn’t it?” Colton questions, busy signing his own share of autographs. The man is a racing legend, even if he hasn’t competed in years. He’s also my mentor and the big brother I never had. Without his help, I doubt I would have made it this far.

Colton moved from the driver’s seat to team ownership a few years ago—a far safer position physically but a hell of a gamble financially. Lucky for him, his racing tenure earned him connections. Connections with bottomless pockets. Those pockets helped him finance an F1 team.

That is a monstrous feat, and although we lack the funding of Mercedes or Ferrari, we have something else. Me. When I’m behind the wheel, I can’t lose, and I’ve proven it time and again, claiming title after title.

When Colton first approached me about joining him, I was flabbergasted and immediately on board. It was a challenge, and let’s be honest, I thrive under pressure.

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