Page 13 of Heartbreaker

“You could have; you’re just too stubborn. You’re not some unknown driver anymore, like you were when you were eighteen. I warned you the press would follow you no matter where you went, but you wouldn’t listen.” I bite back a dozen arguments, but before any of them can slip through, someone calls his name in the background.

“I have to go. Just… try and stay out of trouble, okay?” my dad says, exasperation in his tone,

“I’m always on my best behavior,” I say, attempting to sound light and uncaring, the way everyone expects me to be.

“I’ve heard that before,” he grumbles, then lets out a deep sigh. “Love you. Don’t do anything too stupid.”

“I’ll try. Love you too.” The phone goes dead before I throw it onto the bed, irritation brewing in my veins. It’s bullshit because I unknowingly got wrapped up in some scandal, so I can’t do what I love. Instead of racing, I have to spend the next year being on my best behavior. And when I say out loud that someone is fucking with me, no one believes me. Why would they? To them, I love the drama, live for the spotlight.

That’s the major flaw of creating the persona of the bad boy of Indy all those years ago.

All I’ve ever wanted was to race, to be behind the wheel, to hear the roar of the engine and feel that adrenaline in my veins as I take a turn a bit too close, the thrill of passing someone in a death-defying move. My earliest memories are at the track, spending summers on the road with him while mom was off on some trip, when he’d let me drive late after everyone else left, the lights of the track the only thing illuminating the way. I knew even then it was what I wanted to do with my life. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I had it for a moment, until my own ego and I needed to prove I was more than people’s worst expectations of me.

Instead of dwelling on things I can’t change, I head to the hotel gym, determined to work off this irritation stewing in my veins. Even though I’m not racing, I’ve made sure to maintain both my exercise and practice schedules for Indy, another reason I haven’t been out partying. Even if I weren’t trying to be on my best behavior, I wouldn’t have the time, not when I’m essentially working two different jobs. In the mornings, I practice with the Monster Smash crew, making sure I’m attentive and aware of everything they need from me; in the afternoons, I spend at least an hour on the race simulator, maintaining my skills however I can. It’s not the same as being in a car, racing against other drivers, but it’s good to keep my skills sharp, since there isn’t always a local track to practice on.

I’m standing near the weights, preparing for my next set of reps, when she enters: blonde hair in a high ponytail, a light purple workout set hugging every curve of her body, shorts that cup her perfect ass in a way that should be illegal for public viewing, and legs that go on for days. She’s wearing socks with little frills around the ankles and white sneakers, and her ponytail swings as she walks toward a treadmill in the corner, a pair of giant headphones on her ears. She stares at her phone for a bit before smiling, setting the treadmill to her preferred settings, and then begins walking quickly, arms swinging, mouthing the words to a song.

For some reason I can’t quite understand, I’m completely infatuated with Lana Carson. She’s only been here for two weeks, but I find myself looking for her every time I walk into the arena. I thought it would fade, but she seems to be another wrench in my carefully laid plans, a distraction I very much do not need. Late at night, when I’m bored and reminiscing about all the ways I got myself into this shitty predicament, I’ve taken to researching her, desperate to learn a bit more about the mysterious woman.

That’s how I know she grew up racing dirt bikes and ATVs, getting trophies while touring with her older brothers and dad, a former all-star motorcyclist. According to a motorcycle magazine, his wife left soon after their daughter was born, and he left the circuit to raise the three kids himself. Despite her obvious skill, she stopped racing altogether when she turned eighteen. That’s when she went to college and seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, aside from the occasional social media post. Her account was a personal one, posting sporadically about travel, nights with friends, and random food pictures, before it transformed overnight after the announcement that she would be driving Heartbreaker.

I watch her as I move through my workout, alternating between weights and the punching bag. Every few minutes, she changes something—the speed or the incline—but she keeps moving on her treadmill, ponytail swaying to what I think might be the beat of a song. It’s not until I nearly drop a weight on my foot that I realize I’ve spent the last ten minutes or so completely focused on her.

Maybe it’s time to stop before I injure myself.

Though I could use some cardio…

Without thinking further, I rack the weights before moving across the nearly empty gym, stopping right in front of her treadmill. She looks down at me, a bit shocked to see me, before rolling her eyes. I smile at her irritation.

I love how annoyed she is by my mere presence.

It must be some kind of illness, though I’m not interested in seeking out a cure any time soon.

“Can I help you?” she asks, slipping a headphone behind her ear.

“You look so pretty when you’re annoyed with me,” I say, unable to resist pushing her buttons.

“Then I must be drop-dead gorgeous,” she deadpans.

“You know you are, but if you want a compliment, you just have to ask.” She’s breathing heavy as she glares at me, that ponytail swinging behind her.

“What do you need, Rome? I’m kind of busy.”

“What are you doing over there?” I ask, finally giving in to my curiosity.

“Strutting.”

“What the hell is strutting?” She’s panting, walking fast now at a steep incline, but can hold a conversation.

“A type of workout.” I tip my head to the side, a small smirk on my lips meant to bother her further.

“I don’t think it is.”

“Just because I’m not doing boring weights doesn’t mean it’s not a workout. I used to be a fitness instructor in college, and I taught classes on it.” The look I give her is equal parts confused and entertained before I start ticking items off on my fingers.

“Champion dirt bike rider, a fitness instructor, monster truck driver. Is there anything you haven’t done?” She looks over at me, lips parted by her panted breaths, another image I have to fight not to picture in a completely different setting. God, maybe I really am the asshole everyone thinks I am.