His grin stretches wide with pure, unfiltered wickedness. “You.”
“Yeah, right.” I laugh at the ridiculousness of his comment, thinking he’s joking. He isn’t. Sobering instantly, I reply with a resounding, “No.”
That damnable smirk increases in wattage, telling me yes.
Apparently, my kids are on Team Fallon. “Mom, you’ve got to! It will be epic!” Charlotte gushes.
“No.”
“A hundred on Liz,” Julien loudly declares, not helping matters because it starts a free-for-all of enthusiastic bets from the crowd that has gathered.
I look at the puppy dog expressions on the faces of my children. “I’m not doing it.”
“You should totally do it,” Marcus says.
“I drove the truck here. I don’t have a car.” It’s a dumb, futile reply that I know is doomed to fail when Christopher dangles my car fob in front of me.
“Your car is literally right over there.”
Fuck it.
I snatch the fob from his hand and glare at Fallon. “You still owe me a yacht from the last race I won.”
He lifts me in his arms and kisses the ever-living hell out of me. “I think I can do much better than that.”
I really am out of my mind.
My fingers curl around the steering wheel, knuckles white as I take a steadying breath and focus on the track in front of me. The crowd becomes darkened silhouettes in my periphery, their cheers muffled by the idling engines of the two Hellcats at the starting line.
Looking over at Fallon, I grin when our eyes meet through the window glass. Pressing down on the clutch pedal, I pump the gas to rev my engine a few times, the resulting roar a thunderous growl that sends vibrations rippling through my chest.
He shoots me a sexy, half-tipped smile as if to say,Bring it on, Kitten.
I blow him a ribald kiss using my middle finger, and he throws his head back and laughs.
Charlotte saunters onto the track like she’s owning a figurative catwalk. Curving her fingers and pressing them together, she makes a heart and mouths,You are a badass.
I know my children love me, that’s a given. But seeing their belief in me, that they’re proud of me and cheering me on, is one hell of an ego boost.
“Ready!” she yells, and the crowd responds with a wave of excited shouts and cheers that reverberate through the night air.
My blood pulses hot, adrenaline rushing through my veins. It’s a heady feeling that only amps me up more.
She points at Fallon. “Set.”
A cacophony of whistles erupts, the sound swelling to a deafening crescendo that pulses through the car’s windows.
When she raises her arms above her head, every muscle coils taut like a spring. I barely hear my own breathing over the drumbeat of my heart.
Dropping her arms, she shouts, “Go!”
Tires spin, kicking up dirt in violent bursts, the sudden G-force of acceleration throwing me back against my seat as I fly past her, and the world blurs at the edges as I race to get to the first turn ahead of Fallon.
He quickly catches up, his car a rapidly approaching phantom in my sideview. With his souped-up HP, he has the advantage. But I have years of experience…and Ryder. I imagine him there with me, sitting in the passenger seat, his voice tellingme exactly what I need to do. “Alive,” by P.O.D., starts playing in my head, and my vision tunnels on the sharp corner up ahead.
Flying past on my right, Fallon surges forward and slides into the first curve like he was born to handle this track. I keep my grip firm as I feather the throttle, my rear tires slipping into the slide. Every trick Ryder taught me has me easily countering the sideways motion and powering through the curve on a drift that sends dirt in a plume behind me.
We barrel into the straightaway, rapidly approaching the second corner, our Hellcats neck and neck. Every bump in the dirt jolts through me, but I hold steady, forcing my focus on the track ahead. My fingers dance over the gearshift as I downshift, my tires spitting up debris as I slant into the curve. Fallon is right there with me, his headlights flashing in my side mirror before he pulls even again.
