“We’re done here,” King says to Manny, then leads me out to the SUV, and we climb in. I unwind my earbuds from around my phone and pop them in my ears, selecting my Peaceful playlist, and before I know it, as I watch the lines on the highway blur around us, I lean my head against the tinted window and drift off to sleep.
• • •
“Adrienne,” I hear whispered. “We’re here. Wake up.”
I blink my eyes open and see I’ve fallen forward in my seat. King and I are practically touching as he leans over me, nose to nose. I jump back and get tangled in my seat belt.
“Wh-What?”
“We’re here.”
I look up and see we’re at my house. It’s dark now, and even though I’ve slept all the way from Los Angeles, I still feel exhausted. Today was a high of highs and had some pretty low lows.
“Okay,” I say before climbing out of the car.
I stand quietly obedient while King makes sure the house is safe, and then when he lets me in, I go to the kitchen and pull down a wine glass, then grab a bottle of wine and a water bottle from the fridge.
“Hungry?” he asks me, and I didn’t realize he followed me into the kitchen.
“What? Oh, no,” I answer. “I think I’m just going to take a hot bath and go to bed.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I could fix something quick.”
“No, no. It’s been a long day. You’re off babysitting duty. Have a good night, King.”
And then I grab my wine and my water, scurry around him, and head up the stairs. I close my door, flip the lock, and drop my forehead down to press against the cool painted-wood surface. What the hell is going on in my life? The need to get a grip, to gain control, is overwhelming.
I stand up, take a deep breath, and move into my bathroom. I set the wine and the glass on the counter and turn on the taps to fill the tub, crack open the water bottle, and chug the cold water. I unravel my braid and pull my heavy hair up into a messy knot on top of my head. Then I strip off my clothes and put them in the hamper. Maybe I would do better if there was a little more neat and orderly in my life.
Then again, maybe not.
I pour myself a glass of wine and grab the bottle. I step over the edge of the tub and sink down into the hot water. I take a sip from my glass and let the crisp, fruity flavor burst on my tongue, and it all seems to overwhelm me. The win, the gunfire, and the undeniable knowledge that King thinks I’m all right enough to fuck but other than that does not find one thing about me likeable.
I set the glass on the floor next to the tub and lean forward, wrapping my arms around my drawn-up legs, and I drop my cheek to the top of my knees. And then I press my eyes closed in an effort to shut out the events of the day, but it’s no use.
I unwillingly let the first teardrop fall.
And then the next.
And the next.
A sob bubbles up from my chest, and I finally give in and just let myself cry until I have nothing left. Then with a hiccup, I climb out of the now cool water and towel off. I pull on a tank and pajama shorts, forgetting all about the abandoned wine in the bathroom, and I tuck myself in and find a fitful sleep.
I do it all, never knowing that King stood on the other side of the door, at war with himself.
Chapter 8
The Dames
Ican do this. I have to do this. I’m playing a dangerous game.
I press the flat of my palm to my belly to quell the butterflies that flit and flap around inside as I stare in the dressing room mirror. This is my part to play. To show the world I can be both a sex symbol and a champion. I cannot just show up in jeans and sunglasses and smile at the crowd like a man can. I have to catch their eye first and then show them I deserve a seat at the table of the world’s elite racers.
A tiny pair of red boy shorts with a checkered flag waistband covers my behind—barely. I think they might be at least two sizes too small. I looked for a tag, but it had been cut out. A black satin push-up bra has my breasts hoisted so high I feel like I’m about to suffocate. And last, a cropped red jacket in the same red with a stripe of checkered flag material down the length of each arm. I pull the zipper up to cover my breasts and step into a pair of sky-high red patent leather platform stripper pumps.
My dark hair is curled and fluffed in a just-been-fucked kind of way, although I’ve never looked this good after being with a man. The makeup around my eyes is dark and sultry, and my lips are slathered in a glossy red. My nails are filed, sharpened, and lacquered a bright red to match. Part of me feels like I don’t look like me at all.
The other part of me is hoping to… shake some things up.
