Accelerated Passion (3 page)

Well, if she caught anyone checking out her ass, there’d be hell to pay. She wouldn’t tolerate that from her mechanics, and the sooner they learned that, the better.

She sighed and shoved her bag into the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Was she Dean bloody Cudditch? Hell, no. Why would anyone want to check out her ass? She wasn’t in love with herself, not like he was.

She walked into the shop. The car was off the ramp, ready and waiting. A sleek silver creature with a blood-red tail fin,
Cudditch
and the sponsors’ names—
Sky, Johnny Walker, Hilton
—written in black down the side.  The super-soft tires were already in place, and a couple of the team, including Paul, fussed over the nose cone.

For a moment, she paused to admire it. It was so much more than a machine. It was a thing of beauty. A triumph of engineering. A wonder of the modern day.

“Have you ever driven one?”

A deep voice by her right shoulder caused her to turn sharply.

Dean stood beside her, also in his race outfit.

“Yeah, sure.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What was your experience of having all that power between your legs?” He tipped his head and bit his bottom lip.

“Technically, the power is beneath your ass, and I coped with it just fine.”

He bit harder on his bottom lip, pushing the blood from it so it paled.

“What?” She knew he was stopping himself from saying something—something about her ass, no doubt. He’d likely had a good look at it as he’d walked up behind her.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“Worried I might sue you?” She frowned.

“Babe, two things you should know about me. If I want to say you have a nice ass, I will. It’s worth the risk.”

“Do not bring my ass into the conversation.”

“I didn’t.” He smiled as though butter wouldn’t melt. “You did that.”

Damn it.

He nodded at the car. “And the other thing to remember is risk is what I thrive on.”

“Are you telling me you’ll risk the car today?”

“I risk that car every time I drive it. But they’re calculated risks. The odds are in my favor. It’s a game of cat and mouse, but I’m the cat.” He stepped a little closer. “Though I’ll confess, the faster I go, the nearer to death I am, the more alive I feel. And there’s nothing, nothing on this earth as good as feeling alive.”

“Frankie, will you come and look at this?” Paul called.

She glanced his way. “Sure.”

“Nice to be wanted,” Dean said and nodded at Paul.

Frankie studied his face. Was he being sarcastic? What kind of response did he expect of her? He was wanted, clearly, by every woman for miles around.

Except by her, of course. She didn’t want him.

“I heard Farrah’s been kicking off about his position.” Jake walked up to them, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Ha, because he’s not in pole.” Dean chuckled. “Serves him right for driving like a fish on qualies.”

Frankie wandered off. It was clear the Farrah and Cudditch feud was still on-going. Likely would be until one of them retired…or worse.

“Hey, Frankie, babe,” Dean called. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

“Ha, I don’t need luck. I’ve got the skill.”

“Call me babe one more time, and you’ll need a whole fucking pile of luck to end the day with your nuts intact.”

For a moment he looked shocked then he burst out laughing.

How dare he.

“Yeah, I’ll remember that.” He shook his head.

Frankie tutted and stepped up to Paul. “Asshole,” she muttered.

“Talented asshole,” Paul said with a grin.

“Mmm…”

They spent the next few hours running checks. Outside, the hum of the crowd grew louder as it increased in size and the excitement built.

Dean hovered around. He spoke to Eric then wanted details of the wing positions. He munched a chocolate bar and had photographs with some big wigs from Sky who were on a tour.

Frankie concentrated on her work and tried her best not to be constantly conscious of his whereabouts. But it was hard. It was as though an energy followed him around, drawing her gaze to him like a magnet.

She wondered what kind of night he’d had. If he’d sought out the glamorous blonde groupie, what was her name? Hannah. For a good romp in the sack. Perhaps her friend had joined in. He certainly didn’t look tired. In fact, he looked perfectly fresh and raring to go. His spirits high.

Eventually, it was time to get onto the track and for the race to begin.

Several mechanics, including Frankie, pushed the car into the pit, stopping it within the blue lines shaped like a box.

“Where’s Dean?” Frankie asked, glancing around.

“Dunno,” one of her mechanics said.

Damn it, now she needed him, she couldn’t find him.

“He’ll be behind the tires,” Jake said.

“What?”

“Over there.” Jake nodded.

To the rear of the workshop, the spare tires were stacked neatly on rolling stands that came on and off the truck. There were more softs, plus intermediates and wets should the weather turn.

“What’s he doing back there?”

“Go see.” Jake nodded as though it were no big deal.

Frankie was confused but went in the direction of the tires just the same.

As she got nearer, she caught a glimpse of him through the gap in the rubber.

The soles of her boots were silent as she peeked around the tall rack.

He’d bowed his head, his shoulders were rounded, and he held a crucifix against his lips.

On the floor in front of him, drawn in vivid white chalk, was a cross.

She looked back up at his face. His eyes were closed, his long lashes resting on his cheeks. He appeared deep in concentration.

For once, he didn’t look as though he were about to come out with some smart ass remark. His face was serious, humble almost.

“Dean.”

He opened his eyes and glared at her.

“We’re ready for you.”

“Fuck.” He frowned at the cross.

“What’s up?”

“You interrupted me.”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” He rubbed his fingers over his brow.

“Er, are you’re praying?”

“I’m about to dodge a fiery death, drive within a whisker of meeting my maker. Is a prayer beforehand really so weird?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’ll be there a.s.fucking.p. okay.” He shut his eyes again and touched the crucifix back to his lips.

“Yeah, sure, whenever.” She backed away. “No rush.”

That wasn’t true. There was every reason to rush. He needed to get in, buckle up, and head onto the track. But he knew that, right? Dean had been there, done it.

By the time she’d arrived back at the car and put on her own safety hat, Dean was strutting at her side.

Jake passed him his helmet.

“One for the road,” Paul said, handing him a peanut.

Dean took it and popped it into his mouth. Whilst chewing, he pulled up his fire-retardant mask then slammed on his helmet.

Frankie watched as he nimbly slid into his seat and was assisted with not just the five-point seatbelt but also with the steering wheel that slotted into place after he did.

The car was a hive of activity as last-minute checks were carried out.

Dean nodded then gave the thumbs up.

The mechanics stepped back, and the signalman turned his board to
first gear
.

A low rumble vibrated around the pit as Dean drove into the moving lane.

Frankie stepped into the space the car had occupied and watched as he crawled onto the track. The sleek machine joined the other cars, which sat like growling animals waiting to pounce. He moved past them, past Farrah, and took lead position. He was one of the last to arrive in the line up.

“Everything to race for,” Paul said, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“Absolutely.” Frankie watched as an official with a
One Minute
sign walked amongst the drivers. “Let’s hope he does it.”

“No reason why not. He knows this track inside out, great weather, the car’s a dream.”

“What’s with the peanut, by the way?”

Paul chuckled. “Ah, he’s a superstitious son of a bitch. Has to chalk his cross and pray behind the tires then eat one shell-less nut before he puts his helmet on.”

“Shell-less?”

“Yeah, and I mean shell-less. It can’t even come onto the track grounds in its shell.”

Frankie stared at Paul, wondering if he were having her on.

“Seriously,” Paul said, holding up his hands. “That’s what it is.”

She sighed. Drivers could be a weird bunch. No doubt he had to masturbate the night before as well, and that’s what he’d been referring to in the restaurant. What had he said, something about playing with himself?

A deafening roar filled the air. The crowd erupted. The scent of rubber and fumes blasted in a hot wind toward the pits.

Frankie’s heart tripped. It always did. The thrill, the excitement, the terror, it got to her.

She glanced at the team. They were on the ball, setting up for a pit stop. Engine starter was on standby in case of a stall, new tires in place, high-speed airguns prepared for action, jack ready to go.

The noise faded a little as the cars became more distant, weaving around the first bends.

Frankie went into the workshop with a few of the other members of the team and looked at the screen.

Dean had held his pole position as they’d gotten away.

Only fifty-two laps to go.

“There’s a crash on the hairpin,” Paul shouted.

“Shit, who is it?” Frankie peered at the screen.

“It’s Mercedes, Vittrosi, I think.”

The car was spinning but slowing, the front left tire clearly blown. It bounced against the cushioned barrier. Some pieces flew from the front and narrowly missed landing in the crowd. One more spin, and it came to a halt. A posse of emergency workers raced over, fire extinguishers gushing white foam the moment they reached the car.

“Jesus,” she muttered. Crashes always sent a chill up her spine. Even though the drivers were well-protected, things were still too close for comfort.

“Where’s Cudditch?” Jake asked.

“He was way ahead when it happened. Farrah is still biting his heels.”

“Gonna be like that the whole way.” Frankie glanced out at the track as the safety car sped past. They’d all have to slow and maintain position while the debris was cleared up. “As long as this doesn’t turn the tables. Mess up his concentration.”

“Nah, he’s solid.” Jake took a slug from a can of Red Bull. “Takes more than that to shake him.”

But the crash did shake Dean, and he lost to Farrah on a corner as soon as the race re-started.

“Fuck it!” Jake said, chucking his empty can into the trash.

“Loads of time for him to regain that distance,” Frankie said, popping a stick of gum into her mouth.

Several laps later, Dean pulled into the pits. The mechanics were at the ready. Like a wonderfully planned trapeze act, tires were changed, the tail adjusted, and a piece of wreckage was pulled from the air intake. It all took less than three seconds.

The signal went, and Dean was back on track, tearing up the gears in hot pursuit of his nemesis.

“Go on…” Frankie said. “Do your stuff.”

But Dean didn’t do his stuff. Farrah’s lead extended to the point he had no hope of catching him. By the forty-ninth lap it was obvious that unless Farrah had some catastrophic engine failure, Dean was going to have to be content with second place.

“Fuck, he’s not going to be happy,” Paul said as he busied about.

Frankie spat her gum into a nearby bin. “Neither is Eric.”

“I ain’t so worried about Eric,” Paul muttered.

As the final lap got underway, she told Paul what a great job the team had done. They were efficient, disciplined, and gaining any extra nanoseconds to speed them up was going to be a big task. The mood was sombre, though. They’d deserved to win. They all felt it had been stolen from them. Points were all well and good, but first places were what they wanted.

The chequered flag waved. The crowd cheered. Farrah raced over the finish line with Dean a split second behind him.

Twenty seconds later, Dean pulled into the pits.

As soon as Jake slid out the steering wheel, Dean was up and out of the car. He practically crackled with annoyance. His shoulders were tense and raised around his ears, and his strides long and fast.

He dragged off his helmet, tugged at his mask then threw both at a nearby mechanic who caught them with a grunt as they collided with his belly.

“You,” he said, pointing at Frankie. “Come with me. Now.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes flashing.

Frankie glanced at the team. They were all standing still, staring her way. None of them looked like they’d swap places with her.

“The car,” she said, pointing at it. “Guys…”

“Yes, of course,” Jake said, turning back to it.

She frowned and followed Dean. He was pacing toward the small office she’d used to get changed in. Once there, he opened the door and held it wide so she could step inside.

“What’s up?” she asked, folding her arms. She had no idea. The pit stops and tire changes had been seamless. The car ran like a dream. She’d fulfilled all her responsibilities.

He slammed the door. A skinny blind that covered the glass on the upper section rattled.

“You. That’s what’s fucking up.”

“What the bloody hell have I done?” Had she heard him right?

“You…” He shoved his hands behind the back of his head, clasped his fingers there, and stuck his elbows out to the side. “You interrupted me.”

“I did what?” Now she was really confused.

He turned, paced to the wall, and kept his back to her.

Despite the tension of the moment, she couldn’t help admiring the way his outfit stretched across his broad shoulders, and how his snug suit hugged his buttocks.

Several seconds later, he turned to her again. If she’d thought he’d be calmer, she’d been mistaken.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She indicated the door. “And if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”