CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Emma
I felt like I’d been run over by a truck.
Or a race car.
Whatever.
I was sore from head to toe. Even seemingly safe places, like my earlobes, hurt.
But fortunately, after a thorough checkup by a physician at the hospital, I was given the all-clear and released with a few bruised ribs, along with a sprained shoulder, ankle, and wrist. No concussion, and the whiplash was minimal thanks to the HANS device I’d been hooked to.
I’d just feel like hell for a couple weeks.
“You’re a very lucky woman,” the doctor, who’d seen the replay on television, said to me as he wrapped up my ankle and wrist. “It sure looked a lot worse.”
I knew I was lucky. But at that moment, my body screamed in rebellion at me, for putting it through that nonsense. What the fuck did you think you were doing? it seemed to yell at me. I was in so much pain, under so much codeine, that I didn’t even worry during the helicopter ride home. My brother and father had stayed back at the Poconos to handle things back there. They’d called my mother, who was due to fly in from Arizona the next day, but they’d left me in the hands of Locke. Everyone seemed to agree I’d sleep better in my own bed, but all I kept thinking was, My own bed in Wintersburg?
And it was a stupid wreck too, at such a stupid time. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so confident as I did today. I’d been in third place. I’d narrowly missed winning stage two, probably by inches. I only had one last quarter of the race to get through, and I felt like I could pull it off.
Then the crash happened.
Another rookie had been beside me, and I didn’t know what he had been thinking, riding my left side before cutting across and clipping my right back-end. I thought I had control. Thought I could ride it out, get right back on track and give the asshole a piece of my mind in the form of a little love tap of my own. But I lost the wheel and felt the back end of the Fusion start fishtailing toward the guardrail, and I knew I was in trouble. The last thing I saw before the world upended on me and I went flying head over ass, was the big PENSKE sign on the wall coming up fast to greet me.
And then I was flying. For a moment, when I was airborne, I thought, hey, this isn’t so bad. But what goes up, had to come down, and I did, with a crash that jarred every part of my body in all possible different directions. Then another impact, this one worse than the first. And another, lighter, but I’d already begun to feel woozy, losing my grip on what was up and what was down. The more I kept flipping and flying, exhaust and smoke clouding my vision, my head being battered inside the helmet, the harness straining against my body, and the steering wheel digging into my ribs, the more I knew I was one wrong bounce away from being shit out of luck. A smear on the asphalt. Cages, fitted seats, and safety harnesses worked wonders, but they didn’t work all the time.
After I was released from the hospital, and back in Daytona, Locke got me into a car and we’d gone directly to my apartment. Somehow, we’d managed to avoid reporters, which I appreciated, because all I really wanted to do was lie in bed for the rest of my life. I was banged up, beaten, and the doctor told me I needed to stay off the racing circuit for a few weeks, just to let things simmer down.
The next few weeks? To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see another race car again, ever.
Once I got home, Locke helped me into bed and helped me to peel off my clothes, dressing me in my most comfortable pajamas. Then he brought me a tray with my pain pills and orange juice.
“Remind me,” I said to Locke as he helped me adjust the pillows in bed. I felt every muscle in my neck straining as I stretched. “To throw away my number 9 poster when I get back to Wintersburg.”
He smirked at me. “You have a number 9 poster? Who’s that?”
“Chase Elliott. I really thought I was going to get to beat him. That had been my goal, to beat one of my idols.”
His eyes lit with understanding. “Is it over your bed?”
“Huh?”
“The poster.”
“Oh.” I nodded, wondering what difference it made. Yeah, it was kind of crazy thinking I was now racing with all the people I’d spent most of my life idolizing, but if I thought about it too hard, I was liable to get into an even bigger crash next time. “Well, across from my bed. I had others, but mostly Chase. I told you, I’ve been NASCAR obsessed since I was five.”
He was amused by this. “Did you… kiss it every night before bed?”
I scowled at him as I grabbed the two pills and swallowed them with a gulp of OJ. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response,” I huffed out and attempted to cross my arms before being given a painful reminder of how much it hurt.
I needed that codeine to work its magic, right away.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Well, that was actually the reason for the nonresponse. I’d been a hardcore Chase fan. Ever since his rookie year, I’d been smitten. I’d gotten the poster when I was seventeen, and yes, it had lip gloss marks on strategic places. But I was older now. Mature. I did not kiss posters anymore.
“Shut up, jerk,” I whined, sounding like I was all of twelve.
He shrugged and pointed to a huge bouquet of flowers setting on the dresser. “Sorry, I don’t like when my girl’s idol sends her flowers. Especially when he’s a handsome dude. The rookie who knocked you off course was handsome too.”
I had to grin at that. “Are you jealous?”
He nodded, making no attempt to hide it. “Maybe the rookie tapping you was the race car driver version of a pickup line?”
I narrowed my eyes. He obviously didn’t know what it was like out there. It wasn’t like some seedy bar. We were all hardworking professionals, competing over a boatload of money. However, the more I thought about it, the more it began to grow roots in my head. Chase Elliot sent that big bouquet of flowers to little ol’ me?
“Seriously? Chase sent me flowers?”
I was fangirl gushing, but I couldn’t help it.
Oh, my god. The thought of Chase Elliott sending me anything… it was ludicrous. But… awesome. My inner schoolgirl cartwheeled.
His scowl darkened, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. “Get rid of the goofy grin.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, my fingers coming in contact with my very goofy grin. I forced it down and snuggled back down under the blankets. Pain screamed through my muscles, which reminded me for the thousandth time of the shitty crash I’d gone through.
My grin dissolved instantly.
If that was any driver’s way of picking me up, I really hoped he didn’t try again.
Actually, the thought of going back out on the oval again at all really… terrified me. Toward the end there, I thought I wouldn’t stop flipping until I was dead.
I really thought I was dead.
“So, um,” I said, shrugging as I picked up the remote control. “Who won the race?”
I flipped on the television just as he said, “I don’t really think you want to know.”
I stared at him as I flipped to the ESPN channel. “Seriously? Oh, mother frig bottom,” I grouched. “Don’t fool with me. You’re telling me the rookie who hit me won?”
He nodded solemnly, then said, “Mother frig bottom?”
I started to shake my fists wildly in front of me, but the pain was enough to squeeze tears out of my eyes. “Gah!” I shouted. My throat hurt, but not that much, so I screamed again, louder this time. “Gah! Dammit all back to hell! That frigging fracking jerkface!”
I punched a pillow. Oh, fuck, that hurt. Somehow, even my knuckles were sore.
Locke just watched me calmly from the corner of the room, hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “I’m glad you’re surrounded by pillows. You can’t break anything.”
My CageFree started to beep. I stared at it with disgust as it showed my heart rate skyrocketing.
To my surprise, Locke came over to me and unfastened it. “I think you can do without this for now.”
Grateful, I rubbed my hands over my tired, puffy face, and stared at a commercial for Gatorade on the television. “Did you see the coverage of the race? Did they cover my accident?” I asked, turning up the volume as SportsCenter came on. “Maybe I at least looked cool when I crashed.”
He shook his head. “Are you sure you want to see?”
I wasn’t. But I knew I’d see eventually. I quieted him as the announcer started to talk about the race. There, sure enough, was the rookie’s punchable face, smiling as he did his victory lap. Scumbag. Extremely attractive scumbag, but a scumbag nonetheless.
“The other big news from the Pocono 400 comes from Number 77, the only female in the field, rookie Emma James,” the announcer added, after the real news of the race was reported. I already knew I wouldn’t like what he had to say, from the way he was smiling kind of condescendingly. I tried to reach for the remote, but suddenly, in slow motion, I saw a replay of my car, flipping end over end over the guardrail.
Holy shit. My neck cracked and my muscles throbbed at the harrowing sight. It was brutal.
But the announcer didn’t go on about the crash. No, that was an aside. He said, “After a crash at the 300th lap, James emerged from the crash with minor injuries, only to get hot and heavy with her sponsor, owner of UnCaged Fitness, Locke Cage. Yes, love is in the air at the Pocono Raceway, and Locke has definitely caged this driver.”
I stared at the screen in horror.
Then I looked at Locke, who was reaching for the remote. I tried to grab it from him, but he quickly whisked it away, and my injuries prevented me from getting it back. “Is that what they’re saying? I was in third place in that race! I nearly died! And all they care about is our kiss? Holy shit!”
He flipped off the television set. “Just calm down.”
“Calm down? Why aren’t you riled up? Aren’t you pissed?” I grabbed my phone and started to browse through the NASCAR message boards. Then I scowled at what came up. “Oh, you’re probably not, because you’re not the one being accused of… listen to this… Emma James must have slept her way into the field at Daytona.”
My heart beat faster as I read the comments. None of them were good. “Oh, this one is particularly nice. ‘She may drive like a girl, but she apparently does a lot of other things like a girl too.’” I clenched my fists. “Annnnd someone just posted fan fiction about me having a gangbang with the entire field after the race. Wonderful. I can read about how I blew all my competitors in excruciatingly vivid detail. That’s awesome.”
“You can find anything on the internet, Emma.”
I rubbed my face again. “But I don’t see your name mentioned here. I guess that’s why you’re not riled up. No one has you blowing thirty-nine race car drivers in a row, huh?”
He shook his head and sat beside me, then pried the phone out of my hands. I yanked it back, then moaned as every muscle protested the movement. “Come on. This isn’t good for you.”
“Oh, it’ll be good. I’m going to comment on every single one of these asshole messages and tell them to go to hell.” I scowled deeper, stretching my fingers, getting ready for a marathon commenting session. “And then I’m gonna track them all down where they live and—”
“And that’ll make you feel better?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I sighed, and to my horror, emotion burned behind my eyes and nose. I blinked it all away, refusing to cry and thought about his question.
Okay, no. It wouldn’t make me feel better. It would probably only make me feel worse. Despite my reluctance to hand it over, I eventually let him take my phone, frowning all the while. He set it on my night table and studied me. “You need to get some rest.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m too angry.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, smoothing out the sheets on my legs. “It’s my fault. The kiss.”
I looked at him and shook my head the few millimeters it would go without shooting pain through my entire body. That wasn’t it. In fact, that was the only thing so far that had gone right since my crash. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah, it is.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I couldn’t help it. Seeing you like that made me go a little crazy. I was glad you were okay. Really glad. I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done if anything happened to you.”
His eyes met mine, and the tenderness I saw there caused the damn emotion to burn in my face again.
I smiled, touched deep into my soul. I wanted him. Even now, half-dead, all of me wanted him. Having been so close to death, I needed him to make me feel alive.
He lifted the blankets up to my chin. “You should get some rest.”
“Actually,” I said, reaching out to take his hand. “I want you in bed with me. Naked. Skin to skin. I need you close to me right now. Can you do that?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Um…”
I did something I never did. I flirted… looking up through my lashes and everything. It seemed to be working too. “I might be dying. Don’t refuse a dying woman’s last wish.”
His nostrils flared, his breath growing heavier. “I would never do that.” He was already lifting his shirt over his head, baring that chest that left me breathless every time. He slipped out of his pants and underwear and walked around the bed to slide in next to me. I laid there, thinking I wanted to take my clothes off too, but there was a huge crevasse between thinking and doing. I couldn’t even summon the strength.
When he slid in next to me, I stuck out my bottom lip. Flirting and pouting in the same day. Wow. “Help?”
He kissed my temple and helped me peel off my pajamas and underwear with only a little bit of struggle. By then, the codeine was kicking in, dulling the edges of the pain, making it tolerable. I knew it would be much worse tomorrow as he lay me back among the pillows. Hovering over me, being careful not to put any pressure on me, he lowered his head to kiss me gently, his warmth seeping into me.
He shifted until he was beside me, but instead of kissing me again, he lifted his phone off the night table and started to page through it. I growled, wanting to take all cell phones and smash them against the wall. “What are you doing?”
He kissed the very tip of my nose. “You bared your awkward teenage years to me, you know, with that Chase Elliott poster? So I want to show you something.”
Suddenly interested, I had an idea of what he was going to show me.
I just didn’t know how bad it would be.
He thrust the phone under my nose. There was a picture of a very large kid with freckles, fiery red hair, and a mouth full of metal. His face was covered in chocolate. He was completely awkward, completely goofy, and yet he was smiling with childhood glee like he hadn’t a care in the world.
It was Locke. I could see him, somewhere in there, among the extra chins and the freckles. The same eyes, the same nose, the same lips. I ran a finger over the sweet face. “How old were you in this?”
He shrugged. “Twelve? Thirteen? Laura called me Pudge. Actually, she still does, sometimes, whenever she wants to put me in my place.”
I gazed at the picture. “You look sweet,” I said honestly.
He let out a slow, soft laugh. “That’s because of the chocolate on my mouth. I was a disgrace. I was begging to be made fun of.”
“I wouldn’t have made fun of you.”
“I know you wouldn’t have. You would’ve probably felt sorry for me. But now you can see why I won’t show these pictures to another living soul.”
I smiled. That he’d trusted me with this… I knew something big was happening between us. Something that wouldn’t easily be rendered apart. When he set the phone down and wrapped his arms around me, he kissed the top of my head like I was something very precious to him.
“I love this,” I told him, feeling high and snuggly in my bed, his arms caging me in, his fingers playing with my hair.
“Better than your race car driver fantasies?”
“Please. Way better.” And maybe it was the codeine talking, but I felt brazen. “Besides, even if you couldn’t drive a lick, you’re way hotter than all of them put together.”
He smiled and dipped his head down, kissing me again, his lips tender and sweet. “I love you, Emma.”
Before I could respond, he covered my mouth again, taking my words, my breath, my soul with his kiss. Then he turned me on my side until my back was spooned against his front, his lips on my shoulder, my neck, my ear.
When he slipped inside my body, it was the most tender of connections. I’d never had sex like this, his cock gliding in and out of me from behind with the gentle flex and withdrawal of his hips.
But just because it was tender didn’t mean it wasn’t intense. I moaned, not from pain, but from the exquisite pleasure he gave me.
His hand came around and our fingers linked together. I lifted his hand to my mouth, pressing my lips against his knuckles as emotion clogged my throat.
Crying during sex wasn’t anything I ever expected to do, but the tears fell as he whispered into my ear how much he cared for me, how much I meant to him, how much I’d changed his life, his words in time with each stroke.
Nothing had been so simple or meant more than those stolen moments of Locke loving me with a tenderness I didn’t know existed. It broke down the final walls that I’d surrounded myself with for so very long.
“More, Locke. Give me more.”
He kissed my shoulder, thrusting a bit harder, a bit deeper. “I’ll give you everything.”
Each rhythmic thrust was slow and deep, a melting together of our bodies, our lives. He loved me. Loved me.
Tomboy.
Redneck.
Hot head.
Woman.
He hadn’t tried to change me. Maybe file down some of my roughest edges, but he loved me exactly as I was.
When a deep wave of release hit me, I cried out his name, and found him already there, riding the wave with me. He pulled me tighter against his chest, my lips on my neck as we shuddered together. I stayed there, motionless with him deep inside me, content not to move for the rest of the night. Hell, maybe for the rest of my life.
“Boss?” I whispered when I could finally breathe again.
“Yes, my love?”
Very slowly and with the agony of a thousand sore places pulling at once, I turned over to face him. I needed to see his eyes, his expression. I linked our fingers together as our breath mingled in the space between us.
“I love you too.”