Hot Finish (21 page)

Turn the page for a special preview of Erin McCarthy’s next Fast Track Novel,

The Chase

Coming March 2011 from Berkley Sensation!

“I
bet he’s as bad in bed as he is on the track.”

Kendall Holbrook looked at her friend Tuesday Jones cautiously as they sat on the boards in pit road watching Evan Monroe lapping the track on a test run. That was one particular driver’s sexual prowess she did not want to discuss. “Do you mean bad-good or bad-bad?”

“What?” Tuesday cocked her head and frowned. “There is no bad-good.”

“Yes, there is. You could have meant that he’s a badass. That kind of bad.”

Her friend shook her head, making her dark hair slide forward. “No. No badass. Bad is just bad, as in he sucks. I mean, he can’t drive for shit, and any man who can’t drive certainly can’t f—”

Cutting her friend off, Kendall said, “Okay, I get it!”

“Which is really too bad because he is phenomenally cute. What a butt! That’s not a bad ass. That’s a good ass. A delicious ass.”

“I never noticed.” Liar. She was a huge, jumbo, giant liar. Not only had she noticed Evan’s butt, she’d seen it naked a decade earlier when she’d been young and stupid and had thought dating him made an ounce of sense. It hadn’t.

But she could definitely say that Evan had not been bad-bad in bed. He had opened her eyes sexually, or technically had rolled them back in her head, the first man—boy, really—to have done that.

“You must be talking about his butt, because you can’t deny that you’ve noticed his driving is less than stellar this season.”

Kendall waited until Evan’s car roared around the track in front of them. “Oh, that I’ve noticed. This is the worst season of his career.”

Speaking of which, would it be considered evil if she admitted that a small part of her was just a little gleeful that the man who had broken her heart was down on his luck? Nope, she didn’t believe it would be. Just ask any woman who had been burned by a two-faced man and she’d be on her side. Besides, it’s not like she wanted him to die or anything.

Wait, did she?

No, no, definitely not. She just wanted him to not be the successful golden boy for once.

“I feel sorry for him,” Tuesday said. “It’s like he’s so used to being good, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

“I don’t feel sorry for him.” God’s honest truth there. Kendall had fought and clawed to get where she was, and Evan had just breezed through life, the son of a racing legend, sponsors falling in his lap. “Have you listened to the man? His ego can stand a hit or two.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind comforting him.” Tuesday pushed up her sunglasses and gave a naughty grin. “Come here, sweetie, let me comfort you with my hands on your bare butt and your—”

Again, Kendall cut her off because she knew Tuesday had no barriers or concern for the fact that a dozen people were milling all around them. But then again, Tuesday was in the media, and didn’t have to answer to the same public relations czars.

Not that image was first and foremost on Kendall’s mind. She just didn’t want to hear Tuesday’s graphic description of fictional sex with Evan. Why, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like it mattered anymore who Evan slept with. It hadn’t for ten years. But still. Just still.

“I thought you said he probably sucks in bed.”

Tuesday dangled her feet off the wall, her boots scuffing the wall. “Oh, I would just make him lie there while I took whatever I wanted. My submissive sex slave.”

“Oh, Lord.” Kendall rolled her eyes. “If you think Evan Monroe is down with being submissive, you need to start wearing a helmet.”

“Wearing a helmet when? I’m not a driver.”

“Wearing a helmet when you’re walking because clearly you banged your brains up somehow if you think that man would just lie there and do what you say.”

“And how do you know so much about what Evan Monroe would or wouldn’t do?”

Kendall couldn’t see Tuesday’s eyes behind her sunglasses but she recognized that tone. Her friend was suspicious and tenacious in ferreting out secrets. It’s what made her an amazing racing journalist and gossip blog writer, known online as Tuesday Talladega.

Striving for nonchalance, she fought the urge to tug on the front of her jacket. “Come on, it’s obvious. He’s a walking egomaniac alpha male. Like every other driver in the series.”

“Mmm-hmm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was more to this story.”

God, she was going to blush. Twenty-eight years old and she was going pink in the cheeks. “No story! And don’t you dare write me into your blog, speculating about me, or I will egg your house. I know where you live, you know.”

Tuesday just laughed. “Please. You would not. And you know I won’t gossip about your personal life. Unless it’s really, really good.”

“That’s reassuring.” Kendall had read Tuesday’s blog many times. Her friend was snarky and biting and raised questions that got people thinking, and not always in a positive way. She did not want to be on the receiving end of that wicked pen. Or keyboard, as the case may be.

Shifting on her feet, Kendall gave in and yanked at the front of her fire retardant jumpsuit. She was starting to sweat. Glancing at the track, she noticed Evan was pulling in to pit and talking to his crew. His brother, Elec Monroe, was already pulling onto the track in his number 56 car.

“I’m kidding,” Tuesday said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I do talk about your career, but I have to. Everyone would notice if I omitted discussing the most intriguing bit of news to hit stock car racing in years. A
female
driver in the cup series, hello, it’s a major sound bite. But I’ll never trash you, scout’s honor. I am a loyal friend.”

Tuesday didn’t sound offended, but Kendall still felt guilty that she had implied she couldn’t trust Tuesday. “I know. You are a good friend, and I’m damn grateful to have you around to keep me sane. But I don’t want to be the biggest news to hit stock car racing just because I have a uterus.”

“I don’t think it’s your uterus most men are concerned with. It’s your vagina. Va-jay-jay. Your man hole.”

Nothing like saying it like it was. Kendall was about to tell Tuesday exactly what she thought of the expression
man hole
when she heard a strangled laugh from behind her. Great, someone had heard them.

“Is this what happens when we let a woman driver into the cup series? Instead of chassis and boiler plate restrictors, we talk uterus and va-jay-jay?”

Oh, freaking fabulous. That wasn’t just any someone. That was Evan goddamn Monroe. Right behind her.