Furious Rush Page 2

  As his light-colored eyes bored holes into mine, one edge of his lip curved up in a devilish crooked grin that was both playful and promising. He was practically shouting, with just that one deadly smile, that he would satisfy my every desire, satiate every craving I could possibly have. My heart started thudding in my chest as sensations that had been dormant for far too long swirled to life inside me. Luckily for me, the big man taking the guy’s bets clapped him on the shoulder, breaking our staredown. Once I was free of his steamy gaze, I instantly turned around so my back was to him. Jesus, was I breathing harder? Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. I was twenty-two, not twelve.

  “Damn,” I heard Nikki say. “You were right. I should have bet on him from the get-go. I didn’t really get a good look at him before, but he is freaking hot!”

  Inhaling a deep breath, I attempted to force my body back in line with my brain. “This guy is undefeated?” I asked Nikki. “Really?” She nodded in answer and I had to close my eyes for a second. A face like that with racing skills to boot? Jesus.

  Clearing my throat, I nonchalantly asked, “What did you say his name was again?” I could at least label the guy in the fantasy I was surely going to have later.

  “Hayden…something. He’s been around for a while, from what I gathered.”

  I risked a glance over my shoulder at…Hayden. He’d slipped his helmet on, thankfully, although his visor was popped up. The big guy taking bets had been joined by a skinny Hispanic guy who seemed to be giving Hayden instructions. Or maybe a pep talk. The little guy was acting out the race that was about to happen with his hands, complete with swerving and explosions. God, I hoped there weren’t going to be explosions. While he was going through his dramatic highlights, the big guy looped a camera over Hayden’s helmet.

  When the two competitors were ready, they backed their motorcycles onto the street. A cheer ripped up and down the sidewalk as the hopeful gamblers prepared for another round of racing. I didn’t want to feel anything but contempt for what I was witnessing, yet the energy of the spectators, the roar of the bikes—I couldn’t help the zing of excitement that raced up my spine. Against my will, my mouth twisted into a wide grin, and a yell of encouragement left my lips. Hayden’s helmet swiveled my way as he revved his engine. My pulse quickened as our eyes met. Then he winked at me and slammed his visor shut.

  As the riders moved into position, Nikki grabbed my arm. “Come on. We can watch the action from the van.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. Before I could ask her, though, she yanked me toward a black van parked on the sidewalk. The back doors were open, and a giant monitor attached to a swinging metal arm was sticking out above the hovering crowd. The screen was split in two, each half showing the footage from one racer’s helmet cam. Hayden and his opponent were both looking straight ahead, and the dual feeds showed similar stretches of barren road. Looking down the street, I saw that the pair were stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

  Returning my eyes to the monitor, I found myself holding my breath as I waited for the signal to change colors. When it turned green and the bikes surged forward, I stepped closer to the van, like that would somehow release my pent-up energy. In unison, the crowd around me started hooting and hollering. Swept up in the moment, I bounced on my toes and prayed for speed. But after watching the screen for just a few seconds, I was struck with the harsh reality of the situation I was watching. This was no closed-off track with well-defined paths. This was down and dirty, anything goes, just get to the finish line first racing.

  The bikes blew through red lights like they meant absolutely nothing. The streets were fairly empty at this early hour, but they blurred past the few vehicles on the road like they were standing still; they had to be going 100 miles per hour, easy. They dodged obstacles by hopping onto the sidewalk, they fishtailed around slick corners, and they came close to colliding with oncoming traffic more than once.

  I turned to Nikki with shock clear on my face. “This is insane! Someone’s going to get hurt. Maybe killed!”

  Nikki’s face was pure elation as she watched the screens. Her expression changed as my words sunk in, then she looked at me like I had a foot sticking out of my head. I supposed it was odd to hear that type of statement coming from someone who routinely hovered around the 150 mark on the speedometer while riding, but that was a completely different kind of environment. Believe it or not, what I did was safe, relatively speaking. Millions of dollars were spent to make it that way. This was not safe. At all.

  “They’re breaking every traffic law there is,” I added, feeling like a giant stick in the mud. Someone needed to be the voice of reason here though, because everyone was clearly out of their ever loving minds.

  Nikki smirked at my comment. “It’s a race, Kenzie. They can’t exactly drive cautiously. Why do you think this happens so late at night?”

  “Because it’s illegal,” I deadpanned. I got a couple of odd looks from the crowd after saying that, including a particularly nasty glare from Hayden’s bet collector. Maybe this wasn’t the best place to be talking about the law. Shutting my mouth, I quickly refocused on the screen.

  Just as I noticed a familiar section of street come into view on the monitor, one side of the screen started wobbling, then the camera showed asphalt, sparks, spinning scenery, and a rapidly approaching telephone pole. The crowd around me hushed as it became clear that Hayden’s competition wasn’t going to finish this race. I heard Hayden’s bike rounding the corner seconds later, then Nikki was once again pulling me along like a ragdoll. She shoved us into a good position to see the finish line right as Hayden’s Honda whizzed past. He was alone. Cheers erupted mixed with a few groans from the people who’d bet on the other guy.

  Just as I was wondering if anyone was going to go check on the Ninja rider, Nikki grabbed my shoulders and started shaking me with uncontainable joy. “We won, Kenzie! We frickin’ won!”

  “Great,” I said, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t bite my tongue.

  Releasing me, Nikki let out a squeal of excitement. “I just made enough money to pay you back and cover my loss. See, aren’t you glad you came?”

  I narrowed my eyes into poisonous daggers that would hopefully drill some sense into her. “I hate you,” I murmured.

  Nikki held a hand over her heart. “I know by hate you mean love, and I love you too, Kenzie. Now let’s collect my winnings and go home so you can rest up. Big year this year!”

  I opened my mouth to scold her with some biting remark about how I’d wanted to leave ages ago, but she turned on her heel and left me there, gaping. Just as I was forcing the muscles in my jaw to relax enough to contract, Hayden pulled up next to where I was standing on the sidewalk. It felt like the world suddenly shifted into slow motion as I turned my head to look at him.

  He was still hunched over his bike, hands on the grip and throttle; the only indication that he was looking at me was the direction of his dark helmet. Then, like some freaking Prince Charming in a fairy tale, he slowly removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. I swear the air around me condensed as his tilted smile came into view. Jesus Christ, this guy was sex on a stick.

  Reaching up, he roughly ran a hand through his sweaty dirty-blonde hair. The short, sexy shag he’d had going on earlier was destroyed from the helmet, but somehow after just a few scruffs of his hand, the carefree style was back to utter perfection. I kind of wanted to mess it up again, run my hands through the strands, grab a handful and clench it tight while I outlined those incredibly kissable lips with my tongue.

  Whoa. No. I didn’t want that.

  His penetrating gaze studied my face for a moment. There was something there in his eyes that I couldn’t quite grasp. Interest, sure, but almost…sadness too. Then he smiled, and the look vanished so fast, I was sure I’d imagined it. “Haven’t seen you here before,” he said, his voice low and easy, like he hadn’t just risked his life. “I hope you bet on me. It would be a shame to
see someone as beautiful as you…lose.”

  His grin turned suggestive, and warning signs started flashing in front of my eyes. Danger! Do not proceed! Rocky road ahead! Turn back now! The warnings flared even brighter when he stood from his motorcycle and began approaching me.

  When he was directly in front of me, so close that I could smell the subtle spicy aroma of his cologne, my heart was hammering so hard, I was positive he could hear it, positive he could see my T-shirt lifting and releasing like a frantic hummingbird was hiding under the fabric. What the hell was he doing to me? Was I nervous or excited? Because the sensation was so similar to both, I honestly couldn’t tell.

  Extending a hand, he smoothly said, “Name’s Hayden. Hayden Hayes.” I was just about to lift my hand and touch him—my fingers even twitched in response—when he added, “And what should I call you, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart? With those two simple syllables he had just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head and killed any fantasy I might have had about him. I lived, worked, and breathed in a world where men looked at me like I was a second-class citizen. To prove my worth, I had to work harder, longer, and with everything I had inside me, all the fucking time. I felt like he’d just tried to take all of that hard work away from me with that one demeaning word.

  “Leaving,” I said, walking away.

  Chapter 2

  The sun was rising by the time I got home from my little fun-filled adventure in San Diego. I parked my bike in the driveway instead of the garage, since I would just need it again in a couple of hours, and wearily shuffled to my front door. Once I was in my entryway, I put my keys in the basket reserved just for them, put my boots in the empty slot of the shoe cubby, and hung up my jacket on the coatrack. Then I debated what to do—go back to sleep and risk being very late to the track, or admit defeat and start my day now. With a sigh, I traipsed to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. The first race of the season—Daytona—was only a little more than a week away. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t sleep in today. There was too much to do.

  After my quick, protein-packed shake, I headed to the bathroom to finally do something about my hair. Since I had some time to kill now, I might as well untangle the snarls. My coffee-colored waves were a gift (or perhaps a curse) that I’d inherited from my mom. No one else in my family had hair like mine; my two older sisters were blond like our dad. The visible reminder of Mom was nice, though. She’d passed away when I was four. Car accident. A drunk driver had crossed the center line and hit her straight on. She’d died instantly and painlessly, from what I’d been told. I couldn’t remember much about her, except that she’d loved my long, wavy hair. Although it was a pain in the ass to maintain, and even harder to stuff into a helmet, I kept it long because of her. The connection, however meager, was all I had.

  When it was time to go, I pulled out my jacket, boots, and keys again and headed back outside to my bike. I was so tired and groggy that for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t looking forward to training. But this was it—my first year racing as a professional. Now wasn’t the time to start slacking.

  I’d been riding motorcycles since I was three years old, but I’d been around them since birth. My father was a god in the sport of professional road racing. When my peers spoke of him, they uttered his name with such awe and reverence that it was almost as if Jordan Cox had created the sport and founded the ARRC—the American Road Racing Championship. The fact that I was his daughter placed a mountain of expectation on my shoulders. It wasn’t just my own personal goals on the line when I raced. No, my entire family legacy was at stake. And that legacy had been going through a hard time lately.

  Running a business like ours was expensive, and finding top talent who could win championships was tricky. Cox Racing hadn’t placed in the top five since Dad had retired. My father was excited that I was finally ready to race, not just for me personally, but also because he needed a win. He needed sponsors, needed notoriety, needed endorsements…and frankly, he needed money. And while I wasn’t the only potential winner on the Cox Racing team, I was the only one with blood ties to a legend. To say a lot of eyes were on me this year would be an understatement.

  When I got to my family’s practice racetrack, I noticed my dad at the inner gate, arguing with a heavyset man with thinning hair and muttonchops leaning against a metal arm crutch—Keith Benneti. My dad’s hands were balled into fists as Keith pointed up at the sign over the gate: COX RACING/BENNETI MOTORSPORTS PRACTICE TRACK. An aggravated groan escaped me as I headed their way. Dad and Keith fought over that goddamn sign at least once a year, and their squabbles never ended well.

  My father and Keith had been teammates and best friends when they were younger. Both hotshots on the track, they’d each won multiple championships. Eventually they’d decided to form a racing team of their own—Cox Benneti Racing, or CBR for short. The power pair had purchased the practice track together to use as a base of operations, and had gone on to win several more ARRC championships. CBR soon became as legendary as the two men behind it. But the good times hadn’t lasted. I wasn’t entirely sure what had gone wrong, but Keith and Dad had had a nasty collision during a race; the footage of the crash is absolutely horrifying. They both survived the incident, but Keith never fully recovered; he still needed his crutch to walk.

  In the blink of an eye, Keith’s career was over, and to this day, he still blamed Dad for what had happened out there. But in my opinion, what Keith had done to Dad in retaliation was a thousand times worse. A hundred thousand times worse. I still had trouble believing it, and I couldn’t bear talking or hearing about it. Let’s just say Keith took advantage of my mom during a very low point in her life. He’d overstepped every moral boundary there was, and very nearly ended my parents’ marriage.

  When Dad found out about…the affair…he’d brought in a lawyer and terminated CBR. The two teams had been separate ever since, but they were still bound to this mutual racetrack. It was the last lingering remnant of their better days, and a constant source of irritation to my father. He wanted full control of the track just as much as Keith did, but each man was too stubborn to part with his share, so, reluctantly, they co-owned it. And that was working out about as well as could be expected. The ongoing tension between Benneti Motorsports and Cox Racing was so thick, you could almost see it shimmering in the air above the course, like a vaporous cloud of deadly gasoline, just waiting for a spark to ignite it.

  Not wanting that explosion to happen today, I stopped my bike beside my father and lifted my visor. “Everything okay, Dad?”

  Dad unclenched his fingers in a concentrated effort to remain in control. My father was famous for his self-control, and his opinion about its importance was quoted in racing magazines around the globe. I’d had the adage drilled into me since birth: The person who wins the race may or may not have the best bike or the best crew or be the most talented rider, but one thing they will have is absolute control over their emotions. Winning is about schooling yourself as well as your equipment.

  Dad was my hero, and yet he was almost as unreachable to me as he was to any aspiring racer wishing to meet their idol. Emotional distance was an unfortunate side effect of always reining yourself in, and that fact didn’t change just because he and I shared DNA. When I was here at the track with him, I was Jordan Cox’s employee first, his daughter second.

  His gaze still firmly locked on Keith, Dad told me, “Everything is fine, Mackenzie. I was simply explaining to Keith, yet again, that we don’t need to spend thousands of dollars redoing the sign so that Benneti is listed first. It’s a waste of time and money.” While Keith narrowed his eyes, Dad turned to look at me. Every day Dad seemed a little older, like stress was aging him faster than time. His hair was more gray than blond now, and even his eyes seemed a weaker shade of blue. They were still bright with intelligence, though, and steely with authority. Being around my father was a lot like being around the principal at school, or a police officer, or
a drill sergeant—someone whose presence commanded respect.; I tended to stand straighter when I talked to him.

  Nodding at the gate, Dad told me, “Why don’t you go inside and get started. I’d like you to get a few laps in before noon.” That was when our allotted time on the track was over, and Benneti’s crew took control of it.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Keith’s gaze drifted from my dad’s face to mine. There was anger in the dark depths, and I knew it wasn’t just because Keith was ticked about the sign. He always seemed upset when he looked at me, and I supposed if he’d had any feelings for Mom at all, then that was why. I was a living, breathing reminder of the fact that Keith had lost Mom to Dad in the end. They’d stayed together after the affair, and she’d cut all ties with Keith.

  “Good luck this year, Mackenzie,” Keith said in a low voice. “You’re going to need it.”

  His words made a rush of anger bloom in my chest, but I forced myself to ignore the sensation. Keith was an asshole, always had been. I didn’t need luck to do well. I had skill, top-of-the-line equipment, and the blood of a champion running through my veins. That trumped luck any day. I hoped. I’d never been tested on this level before, and I was a little nervous about living up to the expectation.

  Slapping the visor closed on my helmet, I rode my bike through the open gate and into my home away from home. The bulk of the space was devoted to the practice track, where we tested our skills and pushed our motorcycles for performance. Counting all the twists and turns, the track was a total of three miles long, with movable cement walls that allowed us to change the course periodically. While memorizing the track was a sound strategy, we all wanted to be able to adapt to anything that was thrown at us.