Page 57 of Rear View
That smirk deepened. “Good to know.”
We headed east of the city. Beyond the apartment buildings and skyscrapers stood the snow-covered peaks of the foothills, sheer ice-cliffs dotting their sides. At the road’s edge, dried leaves clung for dear life to the frosted trees, while small cracks and potholes littered the pavement.
Before long, he pulled us up to a back entrance of the raceway. The Hawthorne Mountains loomed ahead, switchback roads zigzagging their way to the top. A motorized chain-link gate blocked the way. Putting his window down, he brandished a key card and set it to a sensor there. It beeped, and the fence opened wide.
“Is this where you practice?” I asked.
He gave a sharp nod. “Unless we’re doin’ the simulator, then most of the time, yeah.” Pulling us onto the track, he parked and thumped the wheel. “Your turn.”
Twisting my hands together, I took it all in. Oh, God.His Jeep was so pretty and pristine, and I was about to drive it and what if I wrecked it and he hated me and—
“I won’t make you do anything you ain’t comfortable with, alright?”
I let loose a calming breath. “Alright.”
He hopped out and I followed, curving my way around to the driver’s side. He waited by the door, his piercing stare on me as I closed in. He locked his grip onto my waist, and I squeaked, my body warming when he effortlessly lifted me in.
“Now,” he said. “Push your ass into the crease where the seat meets the back. You’ll get a better feel for the turns, bumps, shifts or slips of the machine.”
I wiggled my way there.
He flicked a panel to my side. “Use these buttons to adjust your position.”
Pressing the first one, I edged it closer to the pedals. And closer. And closer.
When I was done, he gestured in the general vicinity of the steering wheel. “You know where the signal lights are, yeah?”
I pointed. “There.”
“Down for left, up for right.”
My head bobbed.
His questions weren’t loaded. There was no subtext or mocking. He was simply setting a baseline of what I did or didn’t know and where he needed to start. He was thorough, methodical. And I wondered if that translated to other facets of his life.
He gestured to the pedals. “You remember which is which?”
I tapped each with my boot as I answered, “Clutch, brake, gas.”
Leaning in, his chest pressed against my shoulder as his hand landed on the shifter. “Let’s do like last time. Left foot on the clutch, the other on the brake.”
I fought to focus past his hot and overwhelming presence. “Done.”
He dropped the shifter down, then maneuvered it from side to side. “This is neutral.” He moved it up to the left. “First gear.” Then straight down. “Second.” Up and slightly to the right. “Third.” Straight down. “Fourth.” Up and farther right. “Fifth.” He glided it back to neutral. “Got it?”
I repeated what he’d said in my mind a few times. “I think so.”
“Good girl.” He closed the door, and my heart stutter-stepped, my gaze following him as his tall, broad frame closed in on the passenger seat.
The vehicle dipped under his weight when he took his place. “Turn it on and put her in gear.”
“First?”
“Yep.”
The engine growled and there was a soft thunk as I did. My hands shook when they wrapped around the leather of the wheel. I’d thought about hanging out with him. About how utterly good he made me feel, but never about humiliating myself.
“Now, ease down on the gas while you ease back on the clutch.”
