I gesture between us. “This. We can’t do this.” I slide off his lap where I can still feel his hard cock. I move to the end of the futon as to not be tempted to continue with…whatever the fuck we were going to do. “We are competing against each other for the championship, the Cup spot. It can’t be allowed—right?” Dean is still just staring at me, not saying anything as I ramble, my mind fully wrapping around what we were just doing. His eyes are still stirring with infatuation, but I see a familiar look—determination. The same look he gets before each race.
Dean leans back in, but still keeps a bit of distance between us. “We don’t need to do anything. It was just a kiss,” he says calmly. How the hell is he so calm? I’m freaking out over here. We are rivals. We hate each other.
At least, that’s what I thought before this moment. Is it just a kiss? Can it be just a kiss?
I don’t have the answers I’m so desperately seeking. This can’t happen again, that much I know for sure. Dean slides a bit closer, but I pull away.
“Look, we can leave that up here in my apartment if you’d like. No one has to know, and unless you want it—unless you ask me to, it won’t happen again.”
“How did you get an apartment above the shop, anyway?” I ask, curious.
“It’s cheap and has easy access to the shop, so it’s a win-win, really. Everything I’ve wanted.”
“Everything you wanted,” I parrot softly, taking in his words and the full meaning behind them.
“I’ve dreamed of racing full-time since I started racing. Since Daniel’s death…” He trails off for a second, looking away, composing himself. “Getting into Cup is everything,” he admits.
I nod in agreement at his admission. Getting into Cup is everything, even if our motivations are different, they are both to prove something. To prove that you are more than your last name, more than just the underdog and to honor someone who meant everything to you.
It goes silent between us. Only our now slow breaths filling the small studio space.
Dean stands and asks, “Shall we finish the truck?” He offers me his hand to pull me up from the futon.
“Er—yes. Let’s do it,” I say warily. I don’t take his hand, for fear that I may pull us back together. He lets his hand drop, getting the message.
We finish the job on the truck without saying too much. The air is charged between us, both thinking about what happened upstairs, but choosing not to bring it up again. Leaving it up there as Dean suggested. There is a notable shift between us that neither of us wants to acknowledge.
Dean slides into the cab of the truck, ready to fire it up to see if all of our hard work has paid off.
“Alright, fire her up!” I prompt. The engine starts to turn over, but sputters and dies. “Give it some gas!”
He tries again, giving the truck just a bit of gas, and it roars to life. Engine loud and slightly shaking under the hood. That might be a project down the road if he’s not careful. But I’ll save that information for another time.
“Alright!” he exclaims, turning off the truck and waiting with his hand up for a high five. I give it to him, ignoring the zing that zips through me from the contact. He takes a step back, as if reminded of what I said earlier:nothing can happen between us.
“Thanks for your help. It would have taken longer on my own.”
“It’s no big deal. Just helping a friend.” I look down at my shoes. Are we even friends? Do friends kiss each other like that? He looks shocked at the term, but smiles anyway, that dimple showing again. It only seems to show when he’s around me.
“I’m starving, want to grab a bite?” My stomach chooses that moment to loudly grumble, and I chuckle.
“Maybe we should clean up first,” I suggest, glancing between our dirty attire.
“Pick you up at seven?”
“Sure.”
On the way home, my mind wanders to how Dean’s lipsfelt on mine, how much I wanted him—needed him. I wiggle in my seat at the memory, heat pooling between my thighs. I do my best to forget. Though it seems impossible to do so.
We are rivals. Period.
After a much needed shower, I’m trying to decide what to wear for meeting up with Dean. We didn’t decide on a place to go, just dinner. It’s not like this is a date or anything, so I shouldn’t need anything fancy—right? No, definitely not a date.
I pick up my phone to video call Cindy, reinforcements are required. She answers as she is lying on the couch in sweatpants, the glow of the TV illuminating her pale skin and dark hair.
“What’s up, Reg?”
“I need your opinion on an outfit,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual.
