Page 3 of Heartbreaker

With a deep breath in, I press the pedal to the floor, the engine roaring to life as I race toward the ramp. Up, up, up I go, but before I can force my body to perform the required movements to complete my signature move, my tires hit the ground again, bouncing hard. It was a good jump, and would score well in a competition, but it’s not a goddamn flip.

“Fuck!” I shout, hitting the steering wheel so hard that it vibrates through my hand and up my arm. Unfortunately, the aggression doesn’t even touch on the frustration sitting in my chest, weighing me down until I’m drowning in it.

It’s been two weeks since my accident, since the engine failed mid-flip and sent my truck nose-diving into the ground, and I haven’t been able to do it since. I spent my entire life living on the brink of danger, toeing the edge with barely a hint of fear, but I worry now that I’ve fallen, I won’t be able to climb up again.

But that kind of thinking won’t get me what I need, won’t help me crawl back up, so I blink, shake my head, and straighten my shoulders before lining up the trick again, determined to land it.

Unfortunately, an hour later, I still haven’t had the nerve to attempt it. One more try, I tell myself. One more attempt, and then you’re done. Despite my determination, I know the repetitive torture is only setting myself up for a mistake that will only make matters worse. I’m about to line up the jump one last time when I see it: a flash of blonde in the stands.

No one is supposed to be here. While stupid, reckless, and dangerous, I’m here alone, determined to practice without the prying eyes and judging looks. I paid off the guards to let me in and to keep everyone else out. But when I circle the track, keeping my eyes locked on the stands, it’s clear someone bypassed the guards, because Lana Carson is sitting there watching me.

The mere idea has my heart beating a bit faster in a way I’m not sure how to handle. Since the day she arrived, she’s mostly ignored me, except for the occasional opportunity to throw a barbed comment my way. Normally, I’d find it off-putting, preferring the easier option of women who throw themselves at me, but for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about the pretty blonde who knows how to drive a truck better than half the men here do.

But what the hell is she doing here? How did she get in, and how long has she been sitting there watching me? The next time I round the arena, I drive close to the barrier, making it clear I’ve seen her in the front row. I think I catch a smirk on her lips, her arms crossed over her chest as she watches, almost challenging me.

Whatever. She wants a show? I’ll give her a show.

Angling my truck before the ramp, I take a deep breath and floor it, bracing to land this flip. Not for Lana, of course, but it wouldn’t hurt my bruised ego to show the pretty driver what I can do.

When I miss it once more, I blame the distraction, which alleviates the irritated weight hanging around me just a bit. With a sigh, I park my truck. It takes a few minutes to turn off, secure, and detach myself from the truck, but before long, I’m sliding out and hopping onto the arena’s dirt floor. I start to move, unzipping my suit and pulling my arms out as I go, before sliding off my helmet.

Once it’s off, I point to her in the stands and give a quick crook of the finger. She looks around, a teasing look on her lips, before an eyebrow lifts. She points to herself with faux surprise. “Me?” she mouths. I can’t seem to fight a smirk as I point from her to the ground.

In the years I’ve worked both at Monster Smash and in the racing circuit for IndyCar, I’ve seen dozens of new and unknown drivers come in, some upsetting the rankings, others fading away almost as quickly as they came, but none have held my interest the way this woman has from the jump. Despite, or maybe because of, her uninterested attitude, I find myself desperate to know more, to learn something, anything, about the woman. This might be my chance to do just that.

She takes her time walking down the stairs before stepping to the railing above where I’m standing. She leans against the metal barrier, a pair of beat-up sneakers on her feet, a pair of jean shorts just barely visible beneath the oversized tee she’s wearing.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, crossing my arms on my chest after setting my helmet on a ledge as I look up at her. She lifts a nonchalant shoulder, looking around the stadium. I wonder if she’s picturing it filled with people, the way it will be tomorrow for her first official show.

“Watchin’,” she says, then blows and pops a bright pink bubble of gum.

For the smallest, wildest moment, I want to know what it tastes like.

A beat later, reality comes barreling in, and I push that thought away, running a hand through my sweaty hair, pushing the dark curls away from my face. When her eyes move to my biceps, my smile grows wider.

“See something you like?” I ask, the confident, cocky grin that’s gotten me very far in life spreading on my lips.

She lifts a shoulder, letting her eyes roam me shamelessly. “I’ve seen better.”

“Don’t lie,” I say, giving her my best grin. “It’s not very attractive on a woman.” It’s meant to irritate her, to get under her skin, but it doesn’t. In fact, she’s so unfazed by me, so perfectly collected, that I find myself desperate to know what she’s like when that carefully curated “I don’t give a shit” persona finally cracks.

“Good thing I’m not trying to be attractive, I guess.”

I let my gaze travel over her the same way hers did me, taking in her long, toned bare legs that disappear beneath the hem of an oversized tee. It’s old, worn, and clearly well-loved, and it hangs on her body in a way that hides the curves I know lie beneath. Somehow, I think this is even hotter than the skin-tight race uniform she wears.

Everything about this woman is attractive in a way I don’t think I’ve encountered before.

It’s a problem.

A big one.

Because if there’s one thing I desperately do not need right now, it’s someone like Lana Carson tempting me, distracting me, making me forget the real reason I’m here: to rehab my image, to race in the only way I can right now, and prove to my father and the of directors for Deluca Racing that I’m a changed man.

That means it’s time to create distance the only way I know how to: by pissing her off.

It’s a skill I honed over the years, turning myself into the bad-boy asshole of IndyCar to create a barrier between myself and anyone I felt needed one. And I can’t think of anyone I need a barrier with more than this woman.

“Where’d you get that thing, an ex?” I tip my chin toward the shirt. Her brows furrow as she looks down, inspecting the article of clothing.