Loving Lucas (17 page)

“Don’t get frustrated,” he says. “There’s a couple of things you can do to improve.”

I cross my arms over my chest.

“Form is everything. Imagine that oval as a circle. Make the radius of your turn as big as possible to maintain corner speed. Sharp turns are slow. Let off that throttle sooner. And when you’re coming out of the second turn, open up again, don’t hold back.”

He’s right; I’ve never consistently maintained control coming out of my turns. I’m not afraid to go fast, but when there are ten bikes jammed into the corners, I have a hard time finding a way to pass. Add my lack of experience and the absence of a willing mentor, and no wonder I’m too slow. “Your turn.”

He climbs on and fires the engine. I love the way it rumbles like thunder. My two-stroke is no match for his bike. After he takes off, I run to the center of the track, watching closely. The pros hit speeds over eighty-five miles per hour on a track this size, Lucas no exception. As he enters the first turn, he taps his brake to get the rear end to step out. Seconds later, he’s right back on the throttle. Is he breaking the law of centrifugal force? I shake my head, in awe. I recognize the delicate balance of body position and throttle control. The skill of finding perfect traction on the dirt. And just like he advised me, he makes the oval into a circle.

By his sixth lap, another bike enters the track from the opposite side of the stands, where the water truck, grater, and wheel roller are parked.

It’s a newer Harley, black tank with red pinstripes. Lucas laps him twice before the other rider speeds up. After several rounds, they enter the far turn side-by-side, leaning against each other. Lucas shoots ahead, hugging the inside. Then it hits me. I run to my bike, drop my helmet on the ground, then take off, hoping to catch Lucas. That’s Connor out there.

He’s purposely staying close to Lucas’s back wheel, looking for a chance to tap him. I accelerate, full throttle. My whole bike wavers when I hit the first corner—I’m going too fast and slam into the berm.
Shit.
My front end wobbles, then I go into an uncontrollable slide and fly off, hitting the ground, skidding, then rolling . . .

Fuck. What’s Karlie doing on the goddamn track?
As I hit the straightaway, I watch in terror as she collides with bales of hay and tires. I screech to a stop a few yards away, rip my helmet off, and sprint to her side. She’s sprawled on her back, motionless. My heart pounds as I drop to my knees, feeling for a pulse at the base of her neck. She’s unconscious, and not wearing a helmet. I find what I want: a strong, steady beat. I blow out a breath.

“Karlie?”

I gaze over my shoulder; it’s Connor Seville. “Back off, motherfucker,” I hiss. Then I turn my attention back to Karlie. I brush wisps of hair out of her face. “Come on, darlin’, wake up.” I’m afraid to move her. I need to call 911. “Where’s your cell phone?” I ask.

“In my truck.”

“Go get it.”

“Wait!” Karlie’s eyes flutter open. “I’m okay.”

She’ll never know how afraid I was when she crashed. And she’ll never understand the joy I experienced hearing her voice and seeing those beautiful blue eyes pop open. “Goddamnit, Karlie.” I kiss her forehead. “Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere.” She looks up at me, flapping her arms. “Everywhere.” She feigns a smile.

“Call 911,” I instruct Connor again.

“No.” She slowly sits, rubbing the back of her head. “See . . .” She draws her knees into her chest, then wiggles her fingers in my face. “Nothing is broken.”

I trace her jawline with my thumb, searching her eyes for the slightest sign of pain. “Where’s your helmet, Karlie?” I’m beyond pissed—she knows better.

“I didn’t have time to put it on.”

“Why?”

She eyeballs Connor, who’s standing a few feet off to the side. “He was trying to tap you,” she says. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

She risked her life to save me? I stand, glaring at Connor. “Bad habit of yours?” I ask, closing the distance between us. I punch him in the mouth. “Next time, I’ll break your neck.”

“Fuck you.” He staggers back, his bottom lip bleeding.

If Karlie weren’t here . . . I spit on the ground near his feet, praying he challenges me. When he doesn’t, I return to Karlie. I bend down, sweeping her into my arms. “Let’s go.” She loops her arms around my neck and I carry her to the RV, intent on stripping off her leather to check her head to toe for any injuries. She’s too tiny, too goddamn fragile, to put her body at risk like this.

I stomp into the bedroom and gently lower her onto the queen-size bed. Her head hits the pillows. The first thing I want to do is throttle some sense into her. “Never ride without a helmet. Understand?”

She nods, her bottom lip quivering.

I kneel on the edge of the mattress, regretting my harsh tone. “You scared me, Karlie.”

She stares up at me. “I scared myself.”

Good—it means she won’t make the same mistake again. “Let’s get you undressed.” I unzip her jacket; she’s wearing a white cotton T-shirt without a bra underneath. She raises up on her elbows, letting me slide her jacket off. Then I remove her boots and leather pants. She’s lucky there are Multitech protectors in the shoulders, elbows, and knees of her race suit. It saved her flawless skin—all I see is a little road rash on her left hip. I open a drawer in the nightstand next to the bed and take out a small flashlight. “Let me check your pupil dilation, make sure you don’t have a concussion.” I shine the light in her right eye first, then the left. Normal, thank God. “Need anything?”

“No.”

“I’m going to get our bikes. When I’m done loading everything, we’ll go home.”

“I want to stay the night still.”

She’s playing tough and there’s no reason for it. “You need a hot bath, massage, ibuprofen, and some sleep. You’re going to be sore tomorrow.”

“What about Connor?” she asks. “How did he know we’d be here?”

Pure coincidence, I hope. But I can’t be sure yet. “I don’t know, Karlie. We’ll talk about it later.”

I step into the hallway, then close the bedroom door. Adrenaline pumps through me. I still want to kill that bastard. Every time I see him or hear his name, something snaps inside me. Punching him felt too good. I take a deep breath, shoving my fury down deep. She’s all I’ve been able to think about, every minute of every day, since the night we met.

Then it hits me: I’m in love with Karlie Augustine.

Chapter Twenty

After giving Karlie another dose of ibuprofen, I leave early for work Monday morning. Her body is one big knot, so she’s taking the next couple of days off from school. I leave her a note and my personal cell phone. I’m taking her i-Phone and laptop to the computer forensics lab to check for spyware. It’s the only way I can explain how Connor knew where we were. It’s a violation of U.S. federal law and state statutes to install surveillance software on any device without notifying the user. And since Connor doesn’t own her stuff, he’s broken several laws if I’m right.

The Uniform Patrol Division is divided into four separate patrol districts. I work in Bravo District, which includes Padre Island. Pulling into the parking lot, I grab my duffel bag and head inside. I shake hands with Officers Delgado and Bergson as they pass me in the hallway. Entering the locker room, I head straight to the back and notice Craig is already here, getting dressed for duty.

“Haven’t heard from you in a week,” he says, tying his bootlace.

I place my bag on the nearest bench and unzip it. “Been really busy, sorry. Dinner Sunday?”

He stares at me for a long minute. “With or without—”

“She’s not going anywhere, Craig. Get over it.”

“Already told you it’s not about Karlie. It’s the company she keeps.”

“Kept,”
I correct.

He gazes at the pink laptop. “New computer?”

I grin. “Belongs to Karlie.” I share my concerns. “Think I’m paranoid?”

“No,” he says on a huff. “But it validates my concern.”

Son of a bitch always needs to be right. I stash my bag, then take the elevator downstairs to the lab. I approach my favorite technician, Alejandro Sanchez. We’ve worked a couple of cases together over the years; CCPD provides support for some of the smaller departments across South Texas. As we shake hands, I can tell by the look he’s giving me that he’s wondering what the heck brought me to his office.

“Stopping by to shoot the shit?” he asks.

“Actually,” I say, offering the computer and cell, “this is personal—I think my girlfriend’s ex is keeping track of her.”

“I love cyber stalkers,” he comments, shaking his head, then quickly runs a diagnostic analysis of the phone. Within five minutes, he has an answer. “There are all kinds of sophisticated software out there. In this case, it appears he’s utilizing an online service—the company is based in Europe. Although there’s a crap load of disclaimers on the website explaining it’s illegal for people to use this type of spyware in the U.S., it doesn’t stop anyone. The customer can see text messages, call history and contact lists, emails, website browsing history and bookmarks, has access to photos and videos and GPS location. I’ll uninstall the software and fix it so the bastard can’t track anything again.”

“Thanks.” We fist-bump and I head to my patrol car.

I wish knowing Connor can’t track Karlie’s movements anymore took care of the rage. It doesn’t. There’s something about him that makes me crazy.

My cell vibrates the second I fire up the engine. It’s a text message from Karlie.

Good morning sunshine.

I smile.

Feeling better?

Yes. Why’d you take my phone?

Checking for spyware, computer too.

Really?

I’ll explain after I get home. K?

WYWH.

I tuck my phone in my shirt pocket and take off. Twenty minutes into my shift, dispatch calls for backup at a location off Ocean Drive.

“10-53, 10-54, 10-72. Possible shooting victim on scene. Suspect took off on foot, supposedly bleeding and intoxicated. Possibly armed with a gun. White male, mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a yellow jacket. Check with complainant to see if she was assaulted . . .” dispatch sounds over the radio.

“18, 10-8, on my way,” I reply. “10-4.”

I turn my lights and siren on, racing to the corner of Airline Road and South Alameda Street. Another glorious day on the south side. With the second oil boom, Corpus has expanded. We have a growing population of transients and violent criminals plaguing the city.

I pull into the strip mall, parking behind another squad car with flashing lights on. I kill the siren and climb out; paramedics are on the scene already.

Officer Brown greets me. “Victim one is in stable condition and on his way to the hospital,” he informs me. “The perp shot him in the left thigh after he attempted to break up a physical altercation with the second victim. The business owner is inside waiting to finish her report.”

“And the suspect?”

He points to the ambulance. “Broken hand and nose.”

I shake my head as I cross the parking lot. Goddamn gun violence pisses me off. Makes me think more about getting Karlie a concealed weapon permit. Not that I condone anyone carrying without knowing how to properly operate a weapon and understanding the privilege. I open the glass door and step inside the boutique. Another officer is standing with the complainant, consoling her. Her left eye is swollen shut and there’s a nasty gash on her cheek.

“Ms. Lee,” the female officer says. “This is Sergeant Lafontaine. He’s going to finish taking your statement. If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”

The victim wipes her nose with a bloodstained tissue, her hands shaking. “Thank you.”

The officer smiles, then leaves. I reach in my back pocket and pull out a handkerchief. “Here.” I offer it to Ms. Lee. She smiles. “Take your time. Do you want a glass of water? Anyone I can call?”

She nods. “My son—please call my son.”

I take my cell phone out. “What’s the number, ma’am?”

Since Lucas confiscated my computer, I head to his office upstairs to check email and Facebook. I log in and find an announcement from the board of trustees for the track. Post-season race day is scheduled for November 15, two weeks away. Of course Powder Puff isn’t included on the schedule. In fact, only two divisions are listed; Lucas and Connor compete in both.

The bastard can’t live with the fact that my boyfriend bested him on Saturday. Connor is dangerous, his ego this shattered and frail. This is his way of seeking revenge. And I know what he wants to do; with twenty racers on the track, no one will see him cheat. Illegal hits should be reserved for football. I catch up on emails and post an update before logging out. If I know Brandon, he’ll sign up too. Because Lucas is new to our club, he needs all the support he can get out there. Maybe his cousin can attend.

If I had the experience to compete, I’d tuck my hair in a helmet, pretend to be a guy, and sign up just to keep Lucas safe. But I don’t; I proved that on Saturday. Now Lucas is adamantly opposed to me racing again until I brush up on my basic riding skills. Like doing donuts in a field for hours and hours. That’s what new flat-trackers do—believe me, I’ve witnessed it firsthand. I tried arguing—
there are those who crash and those who are going to crash.
It earned me a head shake and a big fat no.

Before I go downstairs, I check Lucas’s laundry basket in his bathroom. There’s enough for a load, so I grab it. On my way out, I freeze in front of his dresser. The silver frame containing a picture of his ex-wife and son has been replaced with a picture of Alex alone. Whether Lucas knows it or not, I’m listening loud and clear. No words could please me more. Now I know that Lucas isn’t in love with Willow. Or he’s ready to move forward, at least.

After I start the washer, someone knocks on the front door. I look through the peephole. Marie flips me off and I open the door.

“Nice,” I say, stepping aside so she can come in. “Thought you had a big report due today.”

“I did,” she says. “Turned it in and told my professor to fuck off.”

I roll my eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Eight inches.”