Page 56 of Revved up & Ready

“It’s for always.”

Always. Sometimes I think he forgets there’s no one else around to hear him.

He tilts his head toward the closet. “You want me to find something for you?”

“Oh, no. Sorry, I—just give me a second.” Feeling his eyes on me, I grab the first t-shirt I see—a bright yellowRace Nakedshirt. When I change, I realize it barely hangs past the black undies I hadn’t remembered beingquitethis cheeky.

“My beddingisnicer than yours, for the record,” he says, peeling back the covers for me.

“It is not,” I argue again, twisting to avoid pointing my ass at any mirrors as I slide under the sheet.

“No, it’s not,” he admits, “But it made for a good story, didn’t it?”

“It did.” I smile. I enjoy pretending with him more and more lately.But sitting next to him in his bed doesn’t feel much like pretend.

He runs his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back, pausing for a moment as deep copper strands slip past the tattooed letters on his knuckles.

“What does your hand say?” I ask.

He pulls it down in front of his face, like he has to look to remember, then holds both hands out to me in loose fists with his thumbs touching. “Braaap.”

“Braaap?” I repeat, wondering if I heard him correctly.

“Yeah, it’s the sound a motorcycle makes when you rev it.”

Altogether, his fingers spellB-R-A-A-A-A-P-!

“Wait, seriously?” I ask, finding it particularly ridiculous to have an onomatopoeia for an engine rev tattooed on his knuckles.

“Seriously,” he answers, wiggling his fingers so the letters move in a little wave.

Taking one of his hands in mine, I trace my fingertip over the dips and rises of his knuckles. “Braaap. It’s kind of cute, actually.”

“I’ll take cute,” he answers, his smile almost boyish.

I wonder if he’ll answer questions about more tattoos.Every other time I’ve been tempted, it felt too invasive to ask, but now, sitting together in his bed, the situation is inherently vulnerable.“How about the one under theB-R-A-A? Why get a horseshoe on your hand?”

Cam doesn’t hesitate. “The horseshoe is because I’m a lucky motherfucker. It’s myjobto race motorcycles,” he chuckles, as if the idea is surreal. “There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of racers out there who would crush it on the track if they had the same opportunities I’ve had.”

For me, motorcycle racing would be a literal nightmare of a job. It’s easy to forget that for him,the opposite is true.

“Braaap is there partially because it’s funny, but mainly because it represents the most important thing to me,” he continues. “The horseshoe is to remind me how lucky I am that itgetsto be important.”

I set his hand down and look up, finding he’s shifted closer. His head tilts toward me, his eyes locking on mine with a heat I’ve never seen before. A flutter runs through me.He doesn’t usually look at me like that.Hell, I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me like that.My eyes drop to the wide line of his lips.It’s been a decade since I had a first kiss, but that’s what this look is, right? He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me.

Swallowing thickly, I tap the bird on the back of his wrist. “And what about this?”

His mouth opens into an oversized smile, followed by an amused chuckle. “You looking for a tattoo tour?” he asks.

“Atattour?” I respond, snorting at my own terrible pun.

He gives me anoh-my-god-you-adorable-little-nerdlook and says, “I’m down, but you have to share with me too.”

“Cameron.” I tilt my head toward him. “You know I don’t have any tattoos.”

“Sure,” he answers, his eyes tracing from my face down to my t-shirt-clad body and further. “Buteverybody tells a story.”

I look down at myself—the exposed parts of my arms, my hands, the shape of my hips and legs under the blanket—and shrug. “Not sure what story there is to tell.”

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