Page 18 of Speed

“We just kind of know each other,” I lied, again. “Didn’t really hit it off. Nothing big.” I forced a smile that they accepted, mostly.

When the rush of people wanting to breathe the same air as Brody died down, he made his way to me. The hat now resting on some staff member’s head, his sunglasses tucked so debonairly into theVof his polo shirt. The dude looked like he’d stepped off the cover ofGQ,and that irked me to no end. It also made my dick perk up, which irked me even more.

“They said they wouldn’t share photos for a while,” he said, as if that mattered to us. “And hey, I hope you don’t mind me showing up like that.” He was talking to me alone, when my linemates pulled a Homer Simpson melting into the bushes. Then, he lowered his voice. “I really wasn’t stalking you. I’d just had a rough moment back in… look… I don’t know why, but I found myself driving here.”

“Cool. Whatever. You do you, man.”

“I thought that we could maybe talk after we raced.”

Talk. What the—Wait. Racing? “Are you shitting me?You’reracing? Here? With us?”

“They all want me to.” He waved a hand at the rest of the Railers, staring at him as if he were some godhead. “I can see that you’re not feeling that so?—”

“No, hey, I would love to race you.” What kind of jerk would I be to deny the guys the chance to race a Formula One legend? Or, more importantly, to Nik, someone who’d had sex with Jemima Wren. I waited as he processed. He seemed unsure of… well, everything. That uncertainty made him seem a little less asshole and a little more human. Just a little. Like the size of a dust mote.

“Okay. That’s fun.” He pushed out. The man looked as if he were about to have a dental extraction without any laughing gas. I felt that way too, so we did have that in common.

“Cool. Yeah. Fun.”

So very not.

SEVEN

Brody

The scentof fuel hit me when I stepped into the garage, sharp and familiar, tugging me back to the first time I’d ever karted as a kid. I could still remember the hum of the tiny engine, the way every vibration traveled through the frame, right into my body. Back then, it felt like magic—feeling the track through my ass, every bump, every weight shift, as if the kart was alive beneath me.

Now, standing in front of these rental karts, it wasn’t quite the same, but it was close enough to spark something in me. The karts were simple machines—two-stroke engines, about 15 horsepower, maybe two hundred pounds, if that. With a good power-to-weight ratio and a flat track, they could hit fifty or sixty miles per hour. It wasn’t Formula 1 speeds, but on a tight circuit, that would be fast enough to make it fun.

We put on the rental overalls, which were loose and thin compared to the tight, multilayered suits I was used to. These weren’t fireproof high-tech gear plastered in sponsor logos, but I barely noticed the difference, too busy watching Noah across the garage.

He laughed with a tall guy he called Blake. His voice was light and easy, and his curls bounced as he tugged his overalls over his legs. Now and then, his shirt rode up, revealing glimpses of skin—just enough to make my chest tighten and my mind wander.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of him, the way he’d melted into me that night as if he’d been waiting for it as much as I had. The kiss had been a battle, both of us fighting for control, for dominance, for something more than either of us was ready to admit.

I yanked the zipper up on my overalls, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened just watching him, and my cock plumped up—thank god the overalls were loose. This was supposed to be about racing, about losing myself in the track’s speed and thrills. But I could only focus on Noah and how he made me feel as though I was hurtling out of control—even when we were standing still.

“All right, Racer Boy,” one of the guys said, grinning like he’d already won. “How many laps do we get as a head start?”

“Ten?” someone else said, and the group laughed.

I smirked, walking along the row of karts, my hand trailing over the frames as I examined them. “Ten laps?” I echoed, shaking my head. “What do you think I am, a charity? You get five. No more.”

“Five?” the first guy said, crossing his arms. “You drive fast cars for a living, man. Five laps is nothing.”

“I did,” I corrected, the word slipping out sharper than intended. “I was a F1 driver. Big difference.”

That shut him up, and I stepped back, clapping my hands together. “All right, enough whining. Let’s get on with it. My face will end up all over social media as soon as we start, and I’ve got about an hour before everyone figures out where I am.”

The guys exchanged glances, excited. Maybe they knew they were about to get smoked, but that was part of the fun.

I climbed into one of the karts, the seat hard and unforgiving but oddly comfortable. With a pull of the cord, the engine roared to life, and the familiar vibrations traveled up through the seat, settling into my bones.

This. This was what I’d missed. The speed, the focus, and its freedom, and I was happy the g-forces here wouldn’t be enough to cause an issue. This wasn’t F1. It was fun.

Even if my grandfather somehow got wind of this through social media, I’d be long gone before that wily bastard could track me down.

I grinned, adjusting the straps and gripping the wheel. “Five laps, gentlemen. Better make them count.”

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