For as long as I can remember, from March to October, my Saturday nights are usually spent at the track. Even after I had the boys, that’s the one thing I did with them on Saturday nights. They love it and eventually sweet-talked my mother, who ran the kitchen at the track, into letting them work the concessions with her.
It’s not like they do any hard labor. They hand people candy and chips when they order them. I too, worked the concession stands when I was a kid.
Believe it or not, it was my first job thanks to Mike. He hired me when I was sixteen.
Just like I believe in chores, I believe in kids understanding the value of having a job, showing up on time and doing your job right. Now if only I had a job, but that’s beside the point at the moment.
I’m onto something here. We’re there at the track around three, a little later than I had anticipated, but the gates don’t open until four so we’re technically still on time.
“Where’s Ridge?” Grady asks the very moment we step inside the gates of the fairgrounds where the track is.
“Probably around here somewhere,” I tell him. I close the gate behind us and lock it back up. There are about twenty people wandering around in the parking lot, and the pit lot is nearly completely full. In the distance, you can hear the hum of the engines, the smells of methanol and burnt rubber.
Cash breathes in deeply and smiles, a little bit. “When am I going to be old enough to start racing quarter midgets?”
I think I told you this, but my brother is a big-time sprint car racer. If you’ve never seen one of them, they’re an open wheel car with a wing on the top. Well, Cash, he thinks Uncle Tyler is pretty much the coolest person on the planet and wants to be just like him. My boys idolize my brother. I mean, I get it. He’s a badass racer in a sprint car. If you’ve never seen a sprint car, they scream mean. And if you’ve never heard the sound of a sprint car running wide open on a half-mile dirt track, you’re not living if you ask me.
Austin doesn’t want Cash racing though. Naturally, because Austin was never interested in racing, his sons can’t be. It sucks, really. There’s nothing worse than your kids wanting to do something, and one parent is against it.
“We’ll talk about it again soon, bud.” I ruffle his hair as we walk toward the ticket booth where I’m working tonight. I’ll be helping in the concession stand with Tori and my mom later tonight, but I promised my dad I’d do tickets first.
As you can see, it’s a family affair here at the speedway. Even though Mike owned the track, my family has always been heavily involved.
Cash stops walking. “Am I going to be able to or is dad never going to allow it?”
“I don’t know. We’re not talking about this tonight.”
His precious yet defiant eyes find mine. “That means no.”
I smack the side of his head lightly. “Lose the attitude, little man.”
Cash hates to be bullshitted. Grady, he’ll go along with whatever you tell him to do. He’s that kid that if you said, let’s go jump off a bridge, he’d be terrified, but he’d do it regardless of the consequences because you asked him to.
Cash, he wants to know why, and then why leads to another why and all the details. What bridge? How high is it? What’s the probability of breaking a bone?
Every. Single. Detail.
Even after you’ve talked until you’re blue in the face about everything that can or might happen, he’s still not convinced. He once asked me to draw him a map to the grocery store because he wanted to know the exact streets it took to get there so he could count the steps. We literally live three blocks from the only grocery store in town.
Can you tell we’re a lot alike? Maybe in different ways, but I see a lot of me in his actions.
And don’t, under any circumstances, tell Cash maybe. To any question he asks. He’ll blow up on you and say, “Maybe is not an answer. Just say no.”
He’s the weirdest kid I know, and I love him for it.
Keeping step with me through the entrance, Cash shakes his head. “I don’t understand why he’ll let me play football and not race.”
I spot my dad when we’re near the ticket booth. The boys do too and go running after him. “Papa!”
“Hey, guys! ’Bout time you got here.”
I smile when he picks them both up. I have no idea how he does it. I can’t even carry them to bed anymore. I nod to the ticket booth when I realize it’s locked. “Do you have the keys?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, Ridge does.”
“Oh, okay.” My heart thuds in my ears. Damn you, heart, stop that. “Where is he?”
“I think he’s in his trailer.”
Trailer? Oh, right. He’s living in a trailer in the pits. I knew I hadn’t forgotten that, but it still surprised me he lived in a trailer. Yet then again, it didn’t, and it suited him just fine. Ridge was never into fancy things. He never had nice cars, clothes. . . those sort of things just didn’t matter to him.
Look at his motorcycle. It looks like a pile of shit. Sure, he says it’s vintage but still, hunk of junk if you ask me and you can smell the rich exhaust coming from it a mile away.
Did I mention he looks sexy as hell on it though?
That’s the thing, all that—the simplicity, the motorcycle, the trailer—it all adds to the appeal of the “rebel without a cause” thing he has about him.
Grady raises his hand. “Can I go to his trailer? I’ll go get the keys.”
Cash’s eyes widen. “I want to, too.”
Uh, no, if anyone is getting the keys, it will be me.
“No, you guys go with Papa. Is Ridge coming back with them?” I ask, looking at the ticket booth and then my dad, the boys hanging on his arms.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” He turns around, taking the kids toward Mom. “Go get them.”
Damn it. I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to go find him and then before you know it, I’m going to kiss him again, or he’ll kiss me.
So I go find him. Don’t laugh. You would too after that kiss.
His trailer isn’t actually a trailer at all. It’s a Class C motorhome, but not one of those over the top ones. Again with the modesty.
I knock, maybe a little too lightly, and of course, he doesn’t answer. Biting my lip, I contemplate what to do and glance down at my phone. Gates open in forty-five minutes, and if I’m going to be somewhat prepared, I need to get things organized in there.
I knock again.
No answer.
I try the door handle and pull it toward me.
It opens.
Do I step inside? Do I close it? Do I go in, grab the keys and run?
No. . . really, I’m asking you because I’m standing there like an idiot wondering what the fuck to do.
All right, I’ll go in and see if he’s at least in there. There’s certainly no harm in that, right? The door is unlocked. Isn’t that a standard definition of go ahead, come inside?
With a good amount of hesitation, I take a step inside and immediately—or maybe not—regret it because guess who’s just getting out of the shower?
Ridge.
He pauses and closes the shower door. He’s still dripping wet with a towel around his waist.
I nearly faint.
And the motherfucker drops the towel, and I have to reach for the counter with one hand. You would too. Hello, naked man before me.
“I uh, um. . . shit.” Accusingly I jab my finger at him. “You did that on purpose.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“No. Grabbing you right now and fucking you against the table where everyone can see. . . that’d be on purpose. You walking in while I’m naked. . . that’s simply ideal if you ask me.”
I can’t stop staring. Wouldn’t you? Ridge’s naked and the theories Tori had on him being hung. . . totally fucking true. Apparently they weren’t theories, and the boy had been gifted since he was fifteen.
Oh God, look at that. He’s aroused. Well, a little bit. I can’t imagine that’s its full potential.
He smiles and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Um, that. . . .” Christ, I can’t even say the word sex. It’s been that long it feels like a forbidden word. Instead, I motion to the table and might even make a humping motion. I don’t know at this point. My heart is beating so fast I’m dizzy and don’t remember. “Against the table.”
“Don’t tempt me. It’d be fun to taint your pristine criminal record with indecent exposure. Not that anyone around here’d give a shit, but I bet they’d watch.” He watches my reaction to his words. “Christ, you blush every time you look directly at me.”
“Because you’re naked. Why didn’t you lock the door?”
He shrugs. “It’s broken.”
Oh, well that explains it, doesn’t it? And I’m still staring at his monster cock. It’s like seeing the sun and knowing you shouldn’t look at it, but it’s still fascinating to see how long you can actually look at it before spots form in your eyes.
Holy shit, he has the most beautiful cock. I’ve only seen two in person but still, perfect, perfect, perfect.
Guess what? He knows it. You’ve seen the Capitan Morgan commercials, right? He’s standing like that, displaying his dick to me.
I’m just kidding. He’s not, but he should be.
Focus, Aly!
“Where are the keys?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “What keys?”
I drop my stare to the floor. “For the ticket booth.”
“In my jeans.”
“And they are?” I try—God do I try–to only lift my eyes to his, but instead, I do another full body scan. Toe to—stopping in the middle, pause, okay, continue—head.
The grin widens, and he winks, motioning over his shoulder. “On my bed.”
“Can I have them?”
I tilt my head sideways, refusing to move. “Are you going to let me have them?” I huff.
His eyes, lazy yet brooding, make a leisurely tour of my body. He gives a teasing smile that says, come get them.
“Sure.” He nods to the bedroom behind him. “They’re on my nightstand.”
“Can you give them to me?”
“No.” He chuckles, shaking his head, and I close my eyes, trying not to let his voice make me do something I’m going to regret. “You can get them yourself.”
I hold my breath, my lungs burning. I let it out, slowly against the pressure building inside me. “Ridge,” I warn, or breathe, probably the latter of the two. It sounds damn near erotic.
“Aly,” he mocks, laughing, and turns around.
I repeat. Turns. Around.
God, help me. No, really. God. . . are you there? If so, how do I resist him? Any ideas?
Why am I resisting?
Good question.
Ridge tosses the keys at me, laughing. It’s like a motherfucking game to him. His eyes are on mine as he leans into the wall with his shoulder.
A heat of embarrassment licks my skin. I’m staring at him naked, and he’s oh so beautiful.
I bite my lip when I see what he’s wearing. Christ Almighty, my panties are drenched.
His penetrating stare drags down my body.
I breathe out, slowly, trying to will some oxygen into the rest of my body. It’s all going to my heart. “Did you purposely take the keys?”
“Maybe.”
Maybe? Heat pricks my entire body with tiny needles. I have to leave or I’m going to jump him.
Without another word, I move to the front of his motor home, but hesitate at the door, looking back at him. He’s watching me.
Sometimes I wonder how I find myself in these situations. Now I know.
I play everything safe and try to control the outcome to my favor. I like plans and schedules and organization. The unknown, the unplanned, it scares me.
Ridge, he’s reckless, indecisive, headstrong, slow talking, and conservative at times. He’s an asshole who thinks the world revolves around him, has a few friends, and trusts one of them. Always suspicious, he says what he wants and nothing else. He’s also passionate, easy to love, has sloppy smiles and silly jokes that make me fall for him despite my carefully planned idea of what love really is.
He also doesn’t talk bullshit and never tells you something just because he thinks you want to hear it. And that’s how I got myself wrapped up in his ways again.