Page 188 of First in Line

This is Jackson’s room. His “home away from home.”

The teams’ motorhomes are more of a European thing, but Wesley made a point to have one for the three US races. It’s my understanding it was also driven down to Mexico for the Grand Prix there, and Canada, too. I’m sure this will start a trend among the other teams, who are always very competitive.

As I enter the room, I can’t stop myself from feeling like an intruder. But this man and I have been intimate in so many ways, he won’t mind.

The space is neat, tidy, and impersonal. This was designed to be practical, not warm or homey. It almost looks like a boat cabin, with everything built in and optimized, as well as a long, flat daybed. There are still some touches of Jackson in there. His scent lingers in the air, probably from the hoodie draped over the chair’s backrest. And there are some of his things on the small desk.

As I come closer, I see a picture of him and his parents, which must have been taken recently during a race weekend. And tucked into the frame, the old Polaroid photo of us, about to head out for the homecoming dance.

My eyes are still on it when hurried footsteps resonate in the hallway. I turn around just in time to see the door open. Jax appears behind it, his phone in hand. My first thought is that Wesley sent him, like he said he would, but Jax’s surprise when he sees me contradicts it. He had no idea I was in here. Not with the way he practically gawks at me.

Amused by his bewilderment, I smile and say, “Hi, Hot Wheels.”

A few beats pass before he regains control of his tongue. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

“In Vegas. In my room.”

I nod. “I wanted to talk to you, so I came with Cynthia and Yasmine. Then we came to the Altron motorhome and stumbled into Wesley, who brought me here so I could wait for you.”

“You came all this way to talk?”

“I considered calling, but it felt wrong to do this on the phone. This is a conversation we should have face-to-face.”

“You could have called and let me know you were coming.”

I nervously rubbed my forearm. “A small part of me worried you might say no. Which I realize was ridiculous, given what you just said to the press.”

He visibly tenses all over. “You watched the press conference?”

“Yes.”

“Evie, I’m so sorry. I lost it, and I shared way too much. If they come at you again, I’ll—”

“No, it’s okay. I… I really liked what you said. It was all perfect, Jax.”

I can see the way his shoulders sink with relief. But not entirely. To ease what I can guess is the rest of his concerns, I say, “I’m sorry I did it again, Jax. Froze you out and walked away.”

“At least you came back this time. Like you promised.”

“I did. Because I’m so tired of pretending I don’t know what I want. What I need.”

He stiffens again, enough for me to notice. “Which is?”

“You, Jax, and the life that comes with you. The racing, the traveling, the sponsor events, your ridiculous schedule, your fame… I want them because they come with the lazy afternoons in the house in Tuscany, the sensual evenings on a Spanishbeach, the playful road trips across borders… All that makes youyou. And I love every single part of you, Jackson Reyes. I have since I was fifteen.”

His smile is so big and so bright that he looks ten years younger. For a split second, I see the kid he used to be. The one who so easily won over my heart.

When he motions to take me into his arms, I don’t even try to stop him, needing it as much as he does. Moving in perfect synchronicity, we reach for one another to exchange a desperately intense kiss. One that feels long overdue and tastes like home and the promise of forever.

This feels right, as it always has. From that first kiss in our high school parking lot to this moment, kissing him has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Despite the years together and apart, that fact has always remained true. And it forever will.

What started as a kiss full of hope and love evolves into something greedier, spurred on by our respective need for one another.

I cling to him while his powerful arms hold me close, our mouths devouring one another’s, our tongues bold and eager for more. I missed him. My Jax. My Hot Wheels. My husband. I missed him in my very soul. I’ve found my way back to him, and I’m never walking away again. I’d rip my heart out of my chest before I do.

Because it’s never enough, our hands get involved, palming, gripping, and fondling. I haven’t felt this alive in three months, and I suspect the same goes for him. Being in his arms again is exhilarating, like being on a rollercoaster, like free-falling. He’s mine. He’s been mine for fifteen and a half years. And he’ll be mine until the day we die.