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Franco had removed his sunglasses and was unfolding what looked like a large snowsuit from a compartment in the garage. The only light was a flickering one overhead. The sun spilled onto the raceway, where the team was getting everything ready.
His eyes flickered at her as he unfolded the suit, then climbed into it. She watched with confusion and wonder as he tucked his legs inside a full-body, foil suit.
“What is that for?” she asked, trying to fill the void.
Franco did a little jump to pull the suit up and over his arms, then swiftly zipped it up to his chin. She could tell he was already in the zone, a place where he loved to be, where passion rippled through his skin like an avalanche.
He smiled as he spoke, pulling on thick boots that also looked like they belonged in the winter season.
“It’s a fireproof suit,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Even shifters don’t like being on fire.”
Her heart sank in her chest. She had been so caught up with the meeting, their discussion at the gym, and then his strange announcement that she had completely been lost on the imminent danger his career path presented. And what was even worse was that he gave her a wink before grabbing a red-and-yellow-flamed helmet that sat on a shelf over her head.
“Oh, my God,” she muttered.
Franco tucked the helmet under his arm, looking like a superhero climbing out of a spaceship or fighter jet. Her head met his chest, draped in the fireproof suit decorated in what seemed to be his team colors.
Franco placed a hand on her shoulder again, his musky scent calming her, but only briefly. She summoned the courage to meet his eyes, which indeed did sparkle, but she knew it wasn’t for her.
It was for the race. For the adrenaline, for the fever of the risk.
“I promise you that all is going to be well,” he said. “The story we tell ourselves is where every victory and loss begins. If you already think you are going to fail, you already have.”
Violet blinked up at him, her mind and body awry with chaotic considerations and sensations.
“Uh-huh,” she said dryly.
Franco smiled. It was a childlike smile. It seemed not to fit the face of a masculine man who loved racing cars for a living. It was nearly jolly, maybe even a bit oblivious.
He then surprised her by reaching up and tapping the side of her skull lightly and speculatively. Violet still held onto her purse like it was the life raft keeping her afloat.
“A lot of my training relies on the mental game of racing. It is what can stop you from winning. What I believe is that the only thing that is really in the way is yourself.”
The entire world evaporated as his arm rested on her shoulder, the only hand with a pointed finger settled against her temple. Violet could barely ingest his meaning because, standing there in the garage of the Eden Speedway, she felt his body against hers for the first time since their short dance the night before.
Even if it was tempered by a thick fire suit, she felt the muscles, the skin, the radiating tension between them like pulsing embers. Violet was positively captivated, lost in his essence, the dark, mysterious sea of his eyes and being.
She could only nod along as he tapped her head again, then swiveled around, tucking his head into the helmet, leaving her to stand on her own two feet like a marionette with the strings cut.
“All right, let’s do this!”
Everyone on the team clapped as the suicide door of the car rose, and Franco climbed inside his chariot. He spoke a bit with the pit crew before closing the door, waiting for the barbed-wire gate to be parted for his practice run.
Violet found a way to move her legs and get closer to where the car sat. Franco started it, then revved the engine, roaring to life in the early hours of morning light. She could see him in the helmet he had put on, his eyes facing the road, focused in a way few people in the world have been able to master.
“Okay, everyone,” the man with the clipboard announced, hands in the air, elated. “Let’s have a good run and remember, good thoughts only.”
Franco revved the engine again in response, the sunlight twinkling over the windshield. The gates were opened, the pit team went into position, and everyone suddenly went silent.
Her heart rattled between her ribs in that solemn moment. Her tiger cried out for Franco. It meant everything in the world, not just to Franco but to his team as well.
A loud alarm bell sounded, and within barely a millisecond, Franco’s car soared onto the track. The engine howled as he moved faster than lightning. The adrenaline was contagious as the pit team watched him disappear from their line of sight.
There were screen and computer monitors inside the garage area, and a few of the team members moved to observe them. The man with the clipboard regarded her, his own eyes flickering with excitement.
“You can watch him swirl around here,” he said, pointing at the screens. “My name is Cornel, by the way.”
She shook his hand, wondering what on earth she had gotten herself into.
