Fueled

I can feel it.

That complete certainty that hits you like a fucking freight train on very few days in your life. I have it today. I feel it today. It’s in the air circling around me as my head flickers here and there through what I need to do today when I hit the track and the rubber connects. Stay clear of Mason—the fucker’s got it out for me—like I knew he had his sights on that barfly last year. It’s not like he was waving a flag or anything staking his fucking claim. Bad blood is never good on the track. Never. Stay high and tight through turns two and three. Binders light. Pedal heavy. Bring it in low on one. I keep repeating my responsibilities in my head, over and over. My way of making sure that I don’t have to think down the chute. Just react.

Today I’m taking the checkered flag, and not just those dick hardening panties that fucking Rylee has on. Sweet Christ, am I claiming that flag. But I can feel it. Everything feels right with the world, and shit, maybe I’m being a pussy but that right feeling started when I woke up with Rylee wrapped in my arms, head nuzzled under my neck, lips pressed to my skin, and heart beating against mine.

Right where she’s supposed to be.

I take a bite of another of my pre-race superstitions—a Snicker’s bar—and look up to search her out. She’s sitting quietly out of the way toward a corner, and her eyes lock with mine immediately. Her lips form that shy smile that turns me motherfucking inside out, and instead of the fear that usually snakes through my system, I feel settled. At ease. Can you say fucking pussy to the whip? But you know what? I’m okay with it because I’m pretty sure she’ll be gentle with me. Won’t crack it too hard. Well, unless I want her to.

“Wood?” I turn and look at Beckett.

Now Becks on the other hand is still going to hand my ass back to me in a hand basket once the stress of this race is over and he realizes it’s minutes before a race and I’m thinking about my fucking voodoo pussy. My fucking Rylee.

I flash a quick smile at Ry before I turn to Becks. “Yup?” I say as I stand and begin the routine of zipping up my suit.

Getting ready to race.

Getting ready to do the one thing I have always loved.

Getting ready to take that motherfucking checkered flag.