The air vibrates with anticipation around me as we walk through the pits. The guys are checking and making sure that everything is in order and ready for the green flag, but let’s face it, they’re just busying their hands to keep from looking nervous. And I f*cking love that my crew gets nervous about a race. Lets me know they care about it as much as I do.
I should be nervous, but I’m not. I look over at Rylee beside me and squeeze her fingers that are laced with mine. She's the reason that I’m not. F*cking Rylee—the balm to soothe all problems: nerves, nightmares, broken souls, and healing hearts.
My new superstition number one—her beside me.
She smiles at me, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, and the sexiest f*cking smile on those lips.
Out of habit I walk over to the car where it’s parked in front of my pit row designation and rap my knuckles on the hood four times. Superstition number two down. Rylee looks over at me and quirks an eyebrow. I just shrug in response.
Superstitions are stupid f*cking things but hey, whatever works.
“Why the number thirteen?”
She’s referring to the number on my car. My unlucky, lucky number. “It’s my lucky number.” I tell her as I wave at Smitty passing by.
“How unconventional.” She smirks at me, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair and tilting her head to the side, her eyes steadfast on mine.
“Would you expect anything less of me?”
“Nope. Predictability doesn’t suit you.” She shakes her head and drags her bottom lip through her teeth. F*ck if that’s not sexy. “Why thirteen?”
“I’ve defied enough odds in my lifetime so far.” I lean back against the car behind me. “I don’t think a number’s going to change my luck now.” And it’s the date of the day my Dad found me. The thought unexpectedly flashes through my head, but I don’t say it—just think it—not wanting to put a damper on the moment.
I tug on her hand and pull her against me, needing to feel her. The soothing balm to my aching soul. She lands solidly against me, and I swear more than our bodies jolt.
My f*cking heart does too. It jolts, trips, falls, tumbles, freefalls—no that’s not it—it crashes into that foreign f*cking feeling pulsing through me.
I lean down, needing a taste of her. I slant my lips over hers and revel in her sweetness. The move of her tongue. The taste of her lips. The scent of her perfume. The quiet moan she sighs into me.
The claiming of my heart.
My God. The woman is my f*cking kryptonite. How did this happen? How did I let her own me? More importantly and f*cking shocking, I want her to own me.
Every f*cking piece of me.
Game over baby.
She’s my motherf*cking checkered flag.