Chapter Fifteen

Well, that was embarrassing, Nicky thought, storming towards his motor coach, trying not to look like he was about to kill someone, since there was still a lot of press and fans milling around the Catalunya track infield and outer fence areas.

Not only did he get mired in the middle pack for most of the race, but when he did break away and start running for the leaders, the fucking tires seized up, dropping him way back until he could get them warmed up enough to hit the corners without sliding into the kitty litter at every turn or feeling like he was going to break his neck if he leaned into each turn.

Fucking pathetic, and a major hit in the points race, too, Nicky seethed, yanking off his gloves and shoving them into his helmet, his stride purposeful and fast.

After the race was over, he hadn’t said a word to Cade, just exchanged a look that said he needed some time to cool off and relax, or else someone or several someones were going to get some damage to their face.

He was normally an even keeled guy, but that race, those tires, it was like fucking amateur hour out there!

And he’d done so well so far in the season…

He scrabbled at the zipper on his leathers, tugging it down to let some cooler air hit his chest, in the hopes it would help cool him off a bit.

And to top it off, De Costa won the fucking race.

Figures.

Nicky looked up and waved and smiled – he hoped convincingly though it felt more like a grimace – to a group of fans behind the fence chanting his name. They screamed in acknowledgement at his wave, and he thought what a strange world he lived in that a simple hand gesture could send other people into fits of apoplexy.

Not breaking stride while waving, it felt like his coach was still a thousand miles away. He should have taken the fucking golf cart, but pride – what little he had left – dictated that he walk back ‘home’.

And now his fucking ankle was hurting like hell.

Dammit.

And Dixie was half a world away, probably sitting on a fucking beach somewhere, daydreaming about fucking De Costa and celebrating his race win.

God, this day sucked.

Nicky slowed, his ankle throbbing now, as he threaded his way through the haulers and coaches parked end to end and side by side in the infield, some only inches apart.

He stopped, though, when he heard…

Was that…

No.

C’mon, that’s just tacky.

But Nicky would know that sound anywhere…the sound of a woman in the throws of what sounded like a short trip to an extremely vocal orgasm.

Either that, or she was really devout, as many times as she was calling out to God.

Jeez, she was loud… was she using a megaphone? Close your windows, dude, whoever you are!

He rounded the corner of Toseland’s coach, almost to his own and stopped dead in his tracks.

She of the loud voice was outside, pinned up against a nearby coach, her skirt rucked up to her waist, her eyes squeezed closed, her mouth open, her blouse billowing open to reveal her chest, having extremely energetic sex with—

Oh god.

No.

It can’t be.

But Nicky would know those leathers anywhere.

Javier De Costa certainly wore colorful attire, but at this moment, half of that attire was hanging off him as he enthusiastically banged some girl against the outside of his hauler.

Nicky whirled around and strode in the other direction, trying to get the image that had been burned into his brain out again.

But in some ways, he felt… vindicated.

He knew he was right.

De Costa was a dog, and obviously didn’t have much respect for Dixie, if this was what he did when she wasn’t around.

Jesus, she’d only been gone a few days, a week, maybe? And he was sleeping with some paddock girl?

Ish.

Poor Dixie.

If she ever found out about this, it would crush her.

But at the same time, it would crush her to know that Nicky knew and didn’t tell her.

Friends told friends about stuff like this, right?

Or didn’t they?

Dammit, what were the rules here?

What a fuck up, he fumed, finally getting to his coach and practically throwing himself inside and closing the door behind him with a little too much fervor.

Flopping onto his bed, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for clarity.

Fucking De Costa (literally, he thought wryly)… he was going to mess up the one relationship that might have meant something to him, might have made him more of a human being like the rest of them, instead of some stuck up demi god.

And all for some… artificially busty, bottle blonde paddock girl.

Nicky pictured her face again – rather than her other, ahem, assets – and realized he’d seen her before.

He’d seen her with De Costa in Qatar, before he’d introduced Dixie to him. De Costa and the blonde had been tongue fucking all over the garage area during testing – in fact, he and Cade garages. Get a room, Cade had coughed as they walked by, the two of them trying to figure out if the tire guys walked all the way around the couple making out, or just crashed into them as they wheeled things by.

And, come to think of it, Nicky mused, he remembered seeing them in Silverstone together, the afternoon that Dixie had gone back to the hotel to catch up on paperwork and make some phone calls back to her office before qualifying began.

This wasn’t a celebratory fuck, Nicky knew in a flash; this was a thing between De Costa and Blondie.

So where did that leave Dixie and De Costa?

And why would he string her along?

Poor Dixie, Nicky thought. She doesn’t deserve to be treated this way.

So what should he do about it?

Dammit.

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