Page 22 of Race to Me

He looks at me like he’s never heard those words before, and a crooked grin spreads on his face—but only for a moment. “My place isn’t far from here ... want to go?”

The breath squeezes from my lungs. He wants me to go to his house? Does he want me to stay the night? “I thought I wasn’t allowed.”

Foster chuckles, pushing my hair out my face again. The wind is picking up. “You’re not. We’re just getting my car and then I’ll take you home.”

∞∞∞

During the ride to his house, the only thing I can think of is the way he kissed me, the way he touched me, and the way it made me feel.

I hardly realize we’ve stopped until he shuts off the roaring bike. “I’ll only be a sec,” He helps me off, and I stand on the wet ground, looking at his home. Cars and bikes riddle the driveway, and music booms from inside.

“Is this a frat house?”

He smirks at my question, saying, “Fuck no. Me and my racing guys live here.” His hand interlaces with mine, and he takes me to his garage. I’m surprised by the two cars that sit inside with covers over them.

“Which one is yours?” I ask, gesturing to them.

He takes the cover off the one closest to me, unveiling a shiny muscle car. “They both are.”

“What is it?” I raise my voice; the pounding rain has returned.

He pats the hood, replying simply, “A 1970 Chevelle SS.”

I nod my head, and he opens the passenger door. “So, you race this too?”

“No, this is my everyday car. I race the Cuda.”

I giggle at the name, and he tells me he’ll be back. As I slide into the seat, a familiar hint of cedar and leather whirls around me. With a black interior and trimmings, this car fits him perfectly.

My fingers glide over the glove box, and I’m about to open it when Foster’s door swings open. He climbs in with the leather jacket in his hands before handing it to me with a grin. I smile back, but then I realize she had to come over for her to give it back. “It was on my bed,” he replies, as if reading my mind. “I’ll talk with her tomorrow.”

I frown. She was in his room and is obviously allowed to be at his house. “So, does she go on your bed often?” I wring my hands as I ask.

He grips the steering wheel tighter. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Quickly, I decide I’d rather not know, and I shake my head. He hits a button, the garage door opens, then he turns the ignition. His car roars to life beneath us.

“Why is everything you own so loud?” I exclaim, wrinkling my nose.

Foster grabs the shifter and changes gears. “Sorry we can’t all have Range Rovers.” He gives me a smile.

“You call me rich, but you have all this.”

“Your kind of rich and mine are different. I race ... that’s why I have these.” He winks.

During the ride, whenever he’s not changing gears, his fingertips lay dangerously close to my exposed thigh. I don’t know what to say to him; the tension between us seems to grow the closer we get to my house.

Do I invite him in? My parents aren’t home, so no one would know ... but would he even want to?

∞∞∞

Finally, we reach my side of town and pull up to the gate. “The code’s 9812.”

Foster feigns innocence. “Not good with numbers.” he lies, giving me a sweet smile. “Guess you’ll need to enter that info yourself.”

Rolling my eyes, I slide my body over his and extend my arm out. His warm hand slides up the back of my thigh, and I forget the code for a moment, lost in the way his hands feel on me. “Are you not good with numbers either?” he breathes, his voice low and rugged, reminding me of the deep tremble of his motor.

I slide back down, but this time, he holds me flush, making me sit in the middle seat. His wrist rests against my leg while his hands work the shifter. My breathing grows heavier when he shifts down and his thumb grazes my inner thigh.

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