No Longer Lost: Secrets Of Stone: Book Nine Page 3

  Shit.

  Maybe it was going to be necessary to find a few minutes alone and rub one out.

  Somehow, I managed to calm shit down, and then I got my ass to the clubhouse, where I found my name on the board. I’d been slotted into the second heat. At least I wouldn’t have to wait too long to use up some of the adrenaline spiking my system. Some, but not all. My girl was going to get what she deserved—namely, every inch of my erection thrusting into her tight, perfect body. Damn, yes.

  I wore my lucky firesuit because I was feeling a bit nostalgic for my East Coast squad. Plus, I’d never lost while wearing it. Did I worry more about winning the damn race or impressing the girl who’d captured my heart? It seemed like a pretty fair toss-up. When they called through the complex for the second-heat drivers to man their cars, I was so jacked up, I barely felt the pavement under the soft soles of my racing shoes.

  The green flag signaled the pack to start. The engine sounds penetrated my helmet, injecting me with the thrill I’d become addicted to as a child. Where a non-motorsport enthusiast would hear loud chaos, I heard a symphony. This thrill wasn’t for everyone, and I was thankful it gave me the release I couldn’t find anywhere else.

  We moved through the first few turns as a pack, and when we reached the initial straightaway, I downshifted to get more power. I pulled away from all but two of the other cars. I knew the next turn ahead would be a great place to edge out another car, so I planned my apex carefully and waited to make a move. Sure enough, the car ahead of me started his turn too late and too fast, causing him to oversteer and head sharply into the turn. I passed behind him, came out on his right, and accelerated at just the point his ass end drifted out behind him, and I shot ahead while he continued to correct for his mistake.

  Only one car stood between me and the first-place claim on my heat. And damn it if it wasn’t that red Porsche Cayman from the night Taylor and I watched the race—and did other things—on my villa patio. Thoughts of her sexy sounds battled for top billing in my mind while I tried to concentrate on my driving. Shards of jealousy spiked my mind as I pressed down on the accelerator to gain an edge on the bastard my girl had her eye on. I had to remind myself we were doing a bit of role-playing that night, and in reality, this guy had nothing to do with any of it. I still wanted to finish first, so I closed in on his back bumper. Closer…closer…

  Until Ronnie’s voice blasted through my helmet.

  “Back off, Mac! They’ll DQ you. Get him in the carousel!”

  My crew chief was a nice guy, and damn did he know his way around BMWs, but I wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do. I just wanted to prove to all the regulars that I was a force to be reckoned with.

  As we turned left into the long roundabout, I cut to the inside instead of holding the center line like I’d been taught when I first started driving. I gave my car a bit more gas, trying to pass the Porsche. He was ready for me though, fully anticipating my move. He dropped lower into the turn and blocked me.

  I eased off the gas and waited for another opportunity. I knew that when we came out of the carousel, it was right into a serpentine and then a quick right. I held my ground through the first phase. When I saw the right bank ahead, I decided to make my move. Instead of the hard brake a driver would typically apply, I pumped the pedal a little and came around on the Porsche’s right. Once again, he was aware of my position. He widened his turn and clipped across the front bumper of my M3. I held the wheel tightly and kept my ground through the turn, coming out on the far side of the Cayman.

  I gunned the gas. I cut the wheel hard to the right to take the lead and instead heard metal on metal as I clipped across his driver’s side front quarter panel.

  The white flag with the large black X went up with my car’s number below it. All my ambition had gotten me disqualified. I’d be sidelined for the rest of the day.

  I pulled into the pits with an angry screech. I was so pissed off, I itched to punch someone—or something. When Ronnie jogged up to help me out of my gear, he caught one glimpse of the rage in my eyes and wisely didn’t speak. Throwing my gloves and helmet into the car, I barked at the pit crew to bring the car over to the garage.

  Fuck. Me.

  How could I have made such a rookie mistake? Instead of strutting a win, I was taking a walk of shame. “Fuck,” I gritted beneath my breath. “Fuck.”

  I left the pits and beelined through the locker room. If I saw that bastard from the Porsche, I’d probably deck him, and then I’d be banned from the club. Poor sportsmanship wasn’t tolerated in auto racing, and I knew better than to have such a hot head in this arena. I needed some time to get my shit together and calm down.

  I headed out to my villa, though the bar in the clubhouse sounded like a much better idea.

  No. Being with Taylor sounded like a much better idea.

  Where was my sassy girl when I needed her? I would love to lose myself between her thighs right now, forgetting that shit show at the track had ever happened. I was restless and hot, feeling like an exposed wire. Frying off the rest of my system’s adrenaline with some hot, dirty sex sounded like a grand fucking plan.

  The villa’s front door slammed behind me after I swung it shut. The pictures on the shared wall jumped when the portal hit the frame. I steadied them and then scrubbed a hand down my face while forcing a calming breath. Taylor had found those pictures for me. She’d been shopping through a knickknack store in Old Town San Diego and had found the set of reprographics of first-generation Formula One cars—or so she’d said. I still had trouble really believing her, because the images and their steel custom frames were perfect for the villa.

  Just like that woman was perfect for me.

  Where the hell was she?

  Another rake of a hand up and down my face. I really had to pull myself together instead of watching the clock like a kid waiting on his prom date. Or hell, maybe she’d already made it and I didn’t know it. I hadn’t exactly been in a clear state of mind when walking across the property from the track. I hadn’t even thought to look for her car in the visitors’ lot…

  Most of the motorsports complex was visible from the patio, so I slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the terrace. The desert landscape was flat and extended as far as the eye could see, making the complex seem to stretch out forever. Even though I had a clear view of the visitors’ lot, I couldn’t see every place she might park.

  But then…

  There.

  I swear to God, my lungs squeezed into my throat and my balls swelled beyond a healthy size. Yeah, from just a look. Yeah, from this far away. Too damn far away.

  She was strutting her sexy stuff over by the small grandstand. She wore some sort of floaty summer dress that picked up when the wind stirred, and she quickly smoothed it down with modesty. I grinned, thinking how red her cheeks would be if she thought someone caught a peek when the fabric lifted. She was my kinky siren in bed and my pretty librarian on the street. The perfect combination.

  “Shit,” I muttered, slammed with another new mental quandary. How would I explain why I wasn’t on the track? Embarrassment flooded me already—to the point that I began to pace.

  I could just make something up. Say my car broke down…

  But I refused to lie to her. I swore I would always be honest, and I meant every word. Nothing had changed about that oath.

  But fuuuuuuck. I’d failed today. Royally. Had been a complete rookie, letting that bastard get the better of me. And of all the people to let under my skin? The dude with the red Cayman? It was almost comical.

  Almost.

  My phone chirped with a text message. I rushed to grab the device from the kitchen island—and warmed at once, seeing her name and face light up the screen.

  Have you raced already? Hope I didn’t miss it. Traffic was awful.

  Okay, screw the track. All right, so I didn’t mean that—but was as close as I’d ever be to doing so. Suddenly, nothing else mattered but making things rig
ht with my sweet Sassy again. Life had been aimless and agonizing since I’d begged for her forgiveness at SGC that awful afternoon.

  The only good thing that had come of that clusterfuck was a slightly better relationship with my cousin Killian. He’d tried, in all the ways he knew, to advise me on backing away from Taylor. He’d even used all the talk-show therapy words, saying she needed “space” and some “safe place” to “get grounded again.” But she hadn’t gotten much of that when things had gotten worse with her leech of a mother, and she’d had to deal with the shitstorm as best as she could. Goddamn, how I’d wanted to run to her then, but Kil had turned up his inner Dr. Phil and come back twice as hard at me with all the psychobabble. Through every minute, I could almost hear Claire’s voice delivering the words instead. But in the end, it was fair commentary.

  So as difficult as it had been, I’d dropped out of her orbit.

  Difficult? Fuck that. Reaching down and slicing my own gonads off would’ve been an easier alternative. But this weekend was going to change all that. Well, it was supposed to have. I still stared at my phone, wondering how the hell to respond to her message when I should have been fixating on the idea of getting lost in all her pale skin. Absorbing every note of her throaty moans. Getting reacquainted with every inch of her tiny frame. Hell, even just holding her hand while she fidgeted.

  But I was frozen. Standing here like a pussy. I might as well have had my dick in my hand instead of my phone.

  I’d never been afraid to admit my mistakes. But it had been so long since I’d actually made a solid one. I wasn’t wired to tolerate the fuckers, especially from myself, so eating crow was as unfamiliar as eating fried crickets. Worse, eating crow in front of her.

  I was damn sure hives were going to set in next. The thought of looking like anything less than the best in Taylor’s eyes… No. Just fuck no.

  I set the phone back on the counter without typing a response to her.

  Instead, I paced. Not for long but long enough to recognize I should go take a damn shower. I was hot and sweaty from the firesuit. If she did show up at my door, I wanted to present better than a barnyard animal.

  I wasted a lot of time under the spray, washing my hair carefully between whiffs of the girlie body wash she’d left behind the last time we were here together. Little reminders of my Taylor were everywhere, and I liked it that way—especially now, as I remembered how I’d made her come against my lips and tongue in this very shower stall.

  Where I was hiding out like a fucking loser.

  With his goddamned dick in his hand.

  This time, pretty literally.

  “Damn it!” I spat. I owed her more than this. A lot more.

  After drying off hastily, I strolled back to the kitchen, white towel low on my hips, and grabbed my phone. Twenty minutes had passed, and a flurry of texts lit up my screen. All received in almost pinpoint accurate intervals of one minute.

  Mac. Where are you?

  Seriously, WTF?

  Someone said you were disqualified. What does that even mean?

  And where are you?

  You know what? Forget I asked.

  I bolted out onto my terrace again to see if I could still spot her in the stands. My heart lurched as I caught the taillights of her 240sx as she peeled out of the parking lot toward the main road.

  “What the fuck?”

  Why hadn’t she come up to the house? She was pissed, and I couldn’t say I blamed her, but she hadn’t even given me a chance to explain.

  But do you deserve one?

  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  If I ever recovered from this mess, it would be a miracle. Honestly, I didn’t deserve her forgiveness. I let my own pride get in the way of what I desired the most, and now I’d have to pay the price for it.

  Paging Dr. Clown. Egotistical douchebag extraordinaire at your service.

  Chapter Three

  Taylor

  Being back at this place was surreal. It seemed like just moments ago that Mac carried me across this exact parking lot at Scripps Green in La Jolla and then drove me home.

  And then changed the fiber of my being.

  After that night, absolutely nothing had been the same.

  I scanned the lot for an available parking space and pumped a quick fist with the minor victory of spotting white taillights ahead, signaling someone else was backing out. I gave them as much room as possible in the narrow lane, flipping on my turn signal in case anyone came along and had designs on the same parking space.

  Missy sputtered and chugged as I parked and then turned the ignition off. I quickly checked out the area again to see if anyone had heard her automotive flatulence.

  She never did that when he drove her.

  And no, I wasn’t going to dignify the comment by thinking of that he for one more second.

  But I was already breaking my own rule.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” I seethed at my hands, still positioned at ten and two o’clock on the wheel. “This is ridiculous. It’s Thursday. He’s in surgery.” At least I was still at he and not the alternative. “There is no damn way you’ll run into him today. Flukes are flukes because they’re…well…flukes. And that last time was a fluke.”

  And I’d officially lost my mind. Talking to myself, alone in my car, even throwing in a hand gesture or two.

  But it couldn’t be helped. I was so pissed at Dr. Maclain Stone that if I saw the man in person, I’d likely stab him.

  No.

  I’d definitely stab him.

  Two weeks had gone by since he’d turned me into a humiliated ass—in the middle of the fucking desert. Worse, for a woman who’d been raised by the queen of the game players, I hadn’t seen through one second of his game. I’d let my hormones become a hurricane that swept me away, lured completely by his sexy smugness and intoxicating allure—all the way up to the moment I realized he’d stood me up. Did I mention the part about being in the middle of the damn desert?

  I hadn’t talked to him since that Saturday afternoon—if unanswered texts even counted as talking. Now mid-June was upon us, and I just wanted to head out to the beach for some Pacific Ocean therapy. After I donated some blood. My days off were rare, and I cherished them like gold, which made me long for the similarly colored rays atop the breakers along the shore. I wasn’t about to waste one more second thinking about a certain clown.

  Thinking about him.

  There. That was much better.

  Inside the Bloodmobile, the giant RV the San Diego Blood Bank used as their command center for on-site collections, it was the same drill as every other time. I signed my name on the clipboard hanging on the door and then grabbed another clipboard of required paperwork off the table. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lined up against the vehicle and searched my purse for a pen.

  “Hey, Taylor! Great to see you.” John, one of the regular blood bank phlebotomists, popped his head out the RV door to greet me.

  I jumped a little, recovering with a laugh. “Hey, John. Sorry. You…uh…startled me. How’s it going?” I flashed a friendly smile though struggled to keep it in place. I silently pleaded the fates that he wouldn’t mention the last time I was here. Dear God, what a fiasco that had all been. Supremely uncomfortable, party of one.

  “Not too bad. Nothing too exciting to report.” His boyish grin reached his eyes when he spoke. “At least not ‘excitement’ the way you define it.”

  Crap, crap, crap; here it comes.

  “You’re, umm, not going to need rescuing again today, are you? That boyfriend of yours…”

  “Yeah, well. Can we just—”

  “He’s a little…much.”

  I gulped and tried not to break open a hole in the asphalt to dive into. John grinned wider, finishing his comment with a wink.

  “Okay, first…” I began the challenge with a good-natured tilt of my head. “How many times have I given blood here, John? You know that whole thing was just a fluke. I never have problems a
fter donating.”

  John held up his hands. “Fair enough.”

  I huffed and then nodded. “Glad we’re straight.”

  He winked again, and my stomach did a weird twist. “So…is there a ‘second’?”

  “Oh yeah, there fucking is.” I was definitely back on solid footing. Knew exactly what I wanted—needed—to get off my chest, despite the fact that it now looked like I was freaking poor John out. “Secondly, Dr. Stone is most definitely not my boyfriend.”

  I topped it off with a hard glare, all but daring the poor guy to carry the conversation further. As I could have predicted, John held his hands up a little higher.

  “Hey, whatever you say. I was just joking around a little bit.” He didn’t sound like he’d been joking, but I was glad for his tactics switch, at least.

  “Sorry, John,” I mumbled. “This is all me. It—him—it’s all just still a touchy subject, I guess.” I resumed digging for a pen and came out with a bright-pink ballpoint. What the hell? I was batting a thousand at maintaining any semblance of dignity at this point. Thank God it was John, with his sweet disposition and ready acceptance.