Home > Racer (Real #7)(8)

Racer (Real #7)(8)
Author: Katy Evans

She narrows her eyes as she thinks about it.

“You’re late,” she says with that princess-like, bossy tone that somehow turns me on.

I just smile and make her watch me head to my car.

I’m testosterone-laden and as pumped as it gets every time I begin, and I’m high on my own power when I end.

I’m going to fuck her like she’s never been fucked tonight.

Soundlessly I walk to my mustang. It’s nicked by her, and I suppose that’s why she got off with it. Because it’ll have a thousand more nicks by the time I’m done tonight. And because she looked tired, tired, beat-up, and about as lovely as a bird with a broken wing.

Dozens of footsteps hurry behind me as I reach my mustang.

“Holy shit!” the girls cry.

“Bring your camera,” the guys say.

Yeah, they’re pumped about it.

Because I’m good. Because nobody is as good.

I grab the door, climb in and take the seat, waiting for it to fuel me, fill the void that keeps growing in me no matter what I do—pissing me the fuck off. Nothing satiates me, nothing fills me, it’s the curse of being a Tate—one I inherited from my father.

But I’ve got this.

And suddenly, I’m wired up because tonight, I’m going to have her.

Preston fires up next, and we let the engines steam.

I eye my car not only because she’s beautiful, but because of what she can do.

She’s all red body, black seats. Four hundred horsepower. (I did some modifications to take her to this level.) A beauty. She’s raring to go.

I shift, pull up an inch closer to the starting line—line up next to him.

I feel him glancing at me, I glance back, giving him my best eat-shit smile. Ten … the count begins.










The squeal of tires on asphalt. Pedal to the metal, the seat vibrating beneath me as I step it. Easy first—and she’s purring. Shifting gears, I head down the narrow road, and pick up speed, my foot down harder as I shift again.

We’re neck to neck.

I’m hitting 100 mph. 120 mph. 150 mph.

We’re fucking fast now. Trees flying past my window. Preston bumping up against my side. I swerve lightly and lock our wheels together. Shove him off the road. Destabilized, I swerve and straighten with a screech. He loses seconds.

Up ahead, there are headlights, like beady white eyes coming at me.

I keep my feet on the pedal, swerving right as the truck passes, dust piling up in a cloud behind me. My heart is racing a thousand miles an hour, and I want it to race even more.

Preston comes up, attempting a pass. He gyrates and bumps me to the side, sending me spinning.

“Fucker.” I let go of the wheel, let her spin before I grab her back in my hold and recover control.

I’m fucking pissed now.

I pull up behind him and kiss his bumper. We meet eyes through his rearview mirror, and I smile menacingly, pressing the last way into the pedal to kiss the fucker harder.

He swerves—I swerve the other way and pass him until he’s eating my dirty air. I push harder to get away so he can’t use my draft, my eyes up ahead, where I pull up the parking brake and spin to turn.

I release it and speed back to the parking lot, my mind on that finish line—and on fucking sexy crash-into-my-cherry-mustang Alana waiting in the crowd.

Is she like my fans who watch me? Whose pussies get wet from the excitement? Whose nipples turn hard as fuck by the time I climb out of the car and give them a glance?

My cock is thick again. It’s been acting up since I met her, and it’s only been intensifying with each second she breathes even in my zip code.

Yeah my dad is a man who goes after what he wants. You can say I’m cut of the same cloth.

I want her beneath me tonight.

I screech to a halt. I turn her off, then ease out of the car, breathing hard. I hear the shuffle of feet as girls scramble to get closer, meanwhile the guys shove their way forward too, including Henley.

“Insane, you’re a ridiculous beast!!” Henley yells.

I raise my arm and slap his hand. He also places my bets, and the wad of cash he shoves into my hand is 30,000-dollars thick.

Yeah it feels good to stuff that money in my back pocket, but not even winning feels as good as the drive.

The moment I hit that pedal, I’m alive.

And tonight I feel drunk with it.

I scan the crowd and look for her—my eyes finding her in the same spot I left her, her mouth gaping wide open. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want to fucking kiss the shit out of that mouth. Tonight my prize is her.

My eyes stay on her, my gut roiling with hunger. I smile at her; her eyes widen a little bit, and she blinks.

“We’ve got you a prize … show you what champions …” I’m hearing Henley say.

I start walking forward, feeling crazed like I’ve never felt crazed in my life, my eyes, hands, mind, even the hot, adrenaline-buzzed blood pumping in my veins, all pumping for her.


I’m still reeling. While people approach him, he cuts a path straight to me, his gaze penetrating and target-like; making me want to bolt.

His lips do that little upward tilt they do that seems so sexy, and for a second, I feel like I’m lightheaded.

I gulp, and then feel mad at myself for acting like some idiot as fucking devil-Racer Tate reaches me, throws himself into a seat next to me, and turns to look at me expectantly with the most gorgeous grin on his face.

I don’t know what to say.

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