Page 19 of Battle Scars

I chug back a big gulp of coffee before placing my mug on the bathroom counter, then race into my closet, stripping off my pajamas as I go. I pull on panties and a sports bra, yank a pair of spandex shorts up my legs, and then pull a lavender ribbed tank top down over my head, making my way back into the bathroom. I grab a brush and yank it through my hair then drop it to the countertop and scoop up a hair tie, gripping it between my teeth. I plait my hair down my back in a French braid. It’s too hot to leave it down on the track, and it gets in the way. Since a ponytail doesn’t fit under my helmet, this is my style of choice.

I brush my teeth, scrub my face, and slather on some moisturizer and sunscreen before running back to my closet to grab a pair of Chucks and slide my feet in. All of my gear and my suit are stored at the track.

The last few sips of now cold coffee get dumped down the drain and I run the water in the sink to rinse it away. Then with the stoneware in my hand, I race back down the stairs. When I get to the mouth of the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks, because something about the view in front of me is wrong.

Gabe is in a pair of worn jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt that is so tight across his broad shoulders it should be illegal. He’s leaning against the island, scrolling through a phone, and by the leopard-print case, one can only guess it isn’t his phone.

I know exactly whose phone it is, because it’s mine.

He notices movement at the doorway and looks up. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Is that my phone?” I ask the obvious.

“I asked you a question,” he says, his deep voice rumbling.

“I could say the same,” I snap as I come unglued from where I stand. I make my way over to the dishwasher, where I put my mug in the top rack and turn around.

His face is carefully blank, but his eyes are… heated. It sends a shiver down my spine and a tingle to an unwanted place.

“Go fucking change,” he orders, his voice low and firm. He’s not yelling but this is almost worse and I don’t like it at all.

“Excuse me?”

“I am not leaving this house until you put on something else.”

“Fine,” I reply, feeling embarrassment heat my face. “Then don’t leave. I’m not even sure that I need you.”

“Oh, you need me,” he responds, his voice quiet… ominous. “Now go change.”

“No.” I dig in my heels for a fight. “I wear this every day so I can have something under my fire suit. I’m not changing just because you don’t like it.”

“Well, I’m not having my men walk around with hard dicks in their pants because you want to get in touch with your feminist side and parade around in front of them dressed like a stripper.”

“That was notably sexist,” I reply quietly. What I do not voice is the fact that he’s hurt my feelings… again. There’s a fine line in this business between being labeled a capable woman who is sexy as hell and one who does things she shouldn’t have to in order to move up the ladder. I’m a goddamned professional driver for one of the most elite racing teams in the world. No one screams at male drivers if their bodies are attractive, why should I be labeled?

Someone else’s reaction to me is not my problem.

“Babe.”

“What?” I snap when he breaks our stare down.

“Do I look like I care?”

Sometime during our tête-à-tête, he straightened to his full height that’s more than a little imposing and folded his arms over his chest. Intimidating, yes. But I’m not changing my way of life for his bullshit hang-ups. If his guys can’t control their dicks, that’s not on me.

“I think I don’t care,” I reply. Then I race around the island on the far side of him, snatch my keys off the hook by the door, and run toward the garage.

Two steps down from the house, Gabe hooks me around my belly with a strong arm and hauls me up off my feet. Argh!

He holds me to him with one arm and beeps the locks on his key fob with the other before flinging open the front passenger door of his SUV. He tosses me onto the seat and orders me about with a tersely spoken “Stay,” and then he slams the door closed before walking back to the house to lock the door. Even with the obvious level of his anger on the rise, his movements are still fluid and catlike. This man is a predator and not a plaything. I would do well to remember that.

I sit in the front seat with my arms folded across my chest, silently fuming while I stare out the front windshield.

He makes his way back to the SUV and climbs into the driver seat. When I open my mouth to let him know I am not playing these bullshit games, he slices a palm through the air and holds it out to me.

“Don’t spew a bunch of bullshit at me,” he growls. “I’m here to protect you. I am not here to pamper and spoil you. And by the look of you, you don’t have any want in that department, fresa.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”