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  “Slide over.”

  I close my eyes and let the deep rumble of the command wash over me. I hate that Griffin’s voice sends shivers of pleasure through me. I stall, sipping from my nearly empty glass of whiskey to make him squirm. I run my tongue over my lips to catch a drop as I finally look at him.

  His black Henley hugs his chest and arms, his jeans fitted and hanging perfectly off his hips. He stands with a loose ease that wars with the tightly coiled energy I feel from him. He allows my stalling tactics, unfazed by me checking him out. He sits next to me once I’ve finally moved further into the booth.

  I look around him to see if he’s alone. “Where’s Wyatt?”

  Griffin narrows his eyes, shrugging. “Up to no good.”

  “And you’re all about making good choices?” I run my finger under the bra strap on my shoulder, adjusting the padded monstrosity that makes my C cups sit up and get noticed. I catch Griffin’s eyes dip to my cleavage and stay there a moment before he looks away.

  “Better than him. Here, drink this.” He hands me a tall glass of clear liquid. I sip it tentatively. It’s just ice water. I eye him and wonder why he wants to sober me up. I was just getting the hang of drinking whiskey straight up.

  “You’re a good dancer.” I lamely attempt to continue our conversation, because for once he’s not insulting me, and I like it.

  “You let me take control. It’s always better that way.”

  Well, then. Thoughts of how he could control my body and make me feel even better than I had on the dance floor have me clenching my thighs together.

  “What happens when someone challenges you, or doesn’t want to give you complete control?” I ask for the sake of conversation. Totally. I don’t want to see how he would handle me unable to completely submit to him should we ever get to try out the luscious thoughts that are dampening my barely there panties.

  Griffin holds my gaze, his eyes smoldering and electric blue in the neon haze of the club. Time seems to slow down as he reaches toward me, his hand curling into the hair at the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking the hollow of my throat. I all but stop breathing, intent to not ruin this moment of unguarded softness. His fingers tighten in my hair, tipping my head back and forcing my mouth open in a soft pant as I eagerly watch his face. He moves toward me slowly and my eyes close when I feel his breath on my lips. My heart races as chill bumps line my skin. Is he going to kiss me? Oh my God.

  “This is what happens when you give me control. It’s fun. It’s thrilling. It’s good.” I suck in a gasp as I feel his wet, warm tongue slide along my neck. His lips are at my ear, his breath so warm and my body so needy. “It’s what you want, too.”

  He releases my hair and moves away, leaving my body trembling with desire. I blink my eyes open, focusing on his impassive face and the way he takes a drink from my water. What in the fucking hell is going on? Have I entered a parallel universe where Griffin flirts and dances and licks my neck while making me want him like nothing before? Where is the asshole caveman who has nothing nice to say? How dare he even pretend to know what I want, or to tease me mercilessly for his own pleasure? No. I’m not down with this.

  I scoot closer to him, feeling the energy change as he grows still in anticipation. “How do you know what I want, Griffin?” I purr, tracing my finger along his full bottom lip. “You haven’t even asked.” With that, I slide onto his lap, causing his eyes to pop wide, until I slide off on the other side. I pull my skirt down and without a backward look walk out the door to catch a cab back to the hotel.

  Chapter Eleven

  The light of day brings with it a headache and sour stomach, but the lack of a full-blown hangover makes me thankful I left when I did. That and waking up alone without the shameful knowledge that I slept with a teammate gives me an extra surge of motivation. That would have wrecked everything I’ve worked for with this team. I don’t want to be their slutty promo model eye candy. I want to advance my career, contribute to the team in a meaningful way, and not have them snickering about how easy I am behind my back. I know they talk. Especially about me.

  My cell text tone pings as I’m brushing my teeth. I read the text and give myself a mental pat on the back as I spit toothpaste into the sink and rinse. Henry is coming through for me.

  Henry: Operation “make Shelby a badass drifter in the eyes of S&M” is a go. Package is secured and already in transport to SoCal.

  Me: Thank you, brother! You’re the best.

  Henry: That’s what all my sisters say. ETA 4 hours. Still want me to go to Irvine Motorsport park?

  Me: Yup. I’ll round the gang up and have them there just after I meet you.

  I grab my stuff and quickly head out of the hotel room when Ryan calls to tell me our ride is here. I slide classic black Wayfarers over my sensitive eyes and wait in the parking lot for the guys to regroup. Apparently, they were still sleeping.

  “Did you have fun last night?” Ryan asks, leaning against the Yukon Denali he drove out here to pick us up.

  I brush hair out of my eyes and smirk. “I guess so. I left before the rest of the guys, so I can’t speak for them.”

  “Why’d you leave? Was Griffin being a total asshat again?”

  I tip my sunglasses back up to fully cover my eyes and not give myself away. I don’t have the best poker face, and just thinking about him licking my neck is enough for heat to pool low in my body.

  “Nah, he was pretty cool, actually. I just had enough of being at the club.” Right. Like I didn’t roll into bed at the hotel and make myself violently come just thinking about him and the way we moved together.

  “Well, it’s good to hear he’s turned a corner and decided to treat you better. Oh, finally, here they come.”

  I turn slightly and see four worse-for-wear faces trooping out of the hotel. Wyatt holds his hand over his eyes, grimacing in the bright sun while Ezra chugs a bottle of water like his life depends on it. Cole rubs his stomach and burps loudly before he ducks back to throw up in the trash can outside the lobby doors. Gross, dude.

  “You owe me ten bucks, Cole. I knew you were going to puke,” Wyatt says in a scratchy voice. Cole shoots daggers at Wyatt, but pulls out his wallet. Huh, I guess the guys take their stupid bets seriously.

  Like me, Griffin has dark sunglasses covering his eyes, but seems fine.

  “You guys look like shit. How much did you drink last night?” Ryan asks, opening the back of the Yukon to load our bags.

  “Too much, bro. But we had a good time,” Wyatt says, smiling in my direction. I look away quickly, worried he’s about to loudly declare my comings and goings to the group. Um, no thanks. “I’m not even sure how I got back here, I was so fucked up. When I finally got to sleep, I had some pretty wicked dreams that I do remember.” I chance peeking in his direction and get a dimpled smile that tells me he wants to keep our little dance between the three of us.

  Thank God.

  “You were moaning so loud I couldn’t sleep. I thought about suffocating you with a pillow just to make you shut up.” Griffin punches Wyatt in the arm before he moves past us to climb into the backseat of the SUV. He’s cranky as hell, but at least he hasn’t said anything mean to me. Yet.

  “Cole, if you throw up in Marny’s truck, she’ll kill you. Try to keep your stomach gurgles and vomit to yourself, got it, man?” Ryan says while closing the back hatch.

  Cole nods, clutching the bottle of water I fished out of the cooler in the back for him.

  “Why don’t you take the front seat, so you don’t get car sick?” I offer, pushing him toward the front.

  Honestly, I just want to be as far away from his vomit as possible, should he get sick again. I climb into the middle row of seats, sliding in next to Wyatt, with Griffin and Ezra behind us. Ryan drives us away from the hotel, heading back to Newport Beach.

  “You okay this morning, sweet thing?” Wyatt asks, bumping my knee with his as I buckle up. I smile at his new nickname for me. It’s cute.

&n
bsp; “Yeah, I’m good. I think you guys all drank way more than I did. I stopped early before I got really drunk and made bad decisions.” I crack a smile at him, which is rewarded with his adorable dimples.

  “I was looking for you. I wanted to dance some more, but when I found the guys, they said you’d left. Maybe we can do a little more dancing sometime.”

  The hungry look in his eyes is enough to make me turn away from the intensity and promise of things to come. I can’t get involved with Wyatt, as much as his interest thrills me and makes me think about the possibilities.

  A kick to our seat sends me forward into the seat belt, an unladylike umph slipping past my lips. “Hey! That hurt.” I straighten and glare behind us at Ezra and Griffin. Ezra immediately points to Griffin, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is staring out the window as if he didn’t just Sparta kick us.

  “Don’t be mad, bro. I’ll let you dance with her, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Why don’t you ask Shelby what she wants, Wyatt? She seems to prefer it that way.” His stormy blue eyes find mine, reminding me that I crawled across his lap after uttering those words. Is he mad? Should he be?

  “You guys are ridiculous.” I face forward and pull out my phone, hoping to ignore them and be ignored in return. It seems to work.

  I cruise through the shop’s social media channels, responding to comments and answering questions while chatter and jokes from the guys fly through the cabin of the SUV. We have received close to six hundred new followers across different platforms this week alone. I’m really hoping that translates into business for Paul and Ryan, but I know it’s good just to be getting the team name out there.

  I laugh quietly when I get to a thread of comments on Facebook asking for more driving videos with me in them. Stuff like, “She’s so fucking hot!” and “More of her, please” escalate into much more sexual comments. “I’d like to drive her with my cock,” and “She’s got a mad case of DSL. I bet she would feel so good” are some of the tamer comments as the thread devolves into talking about my physical appearance. Yuck. It’s not the first time I’ve been told I have DSL—dick sucking lips—but it’s weird to see it blasted out into a public forum for anyone to see or comment on.

  “What are you laughing at over there, sweetness?” Wyatt asks, peering over to look at my phone. I scroll up quickly to hide the offensive thread.

  “Just the social media for the shop. I think we need more videos of you guys driving. Do you know if we will get copies or links to any of the coverage from the competition?”

  “We will probably get tags and mentions over the next few days that we can share, but we don’t usually get anything sent to us directly to use,” Cole answers from the front seat. He’s looking a little green still, so I hope he turns back around and holds it together for the rest of the drive.

  “Then let’s make some. Can we take the Nissan to Irvine Motorsport Park later today? I already have track time lined up, and it would be the perfect opportunity to get something filmed as well as practice and work out any tweaks to the tuning or suspension.”

  “But poor Griff won’t get a chance to drive. That’s too bad man. It would have been cool to get a tandem going,” Wyatt jokes, but seems less than friendly in his banter.

  I turn back to see how Griffin took it. Not well. He’s broody and sulking. Again.

  “You can always take turns,” I offer, hoping that getting a chance to drive, even if it’s Wyatt’s car, will make him feel a little better.

  Griffin turns his gaze to me, intense and dark blue. “I don’t like sharing. Or sloppy seconds.”

  Well, hell. If that isn’t a comment with two meanings, I don’t know what is. Got it. Don’t hook up with Wyatt and expect Griffin to want me after. And don’t expect to be made into a drift racer sandwich anywhere but the dance floor. That one kind of sucks, because I had some awesome dreams last night that may or may not have stemmed from our dance sesh.

  A girl can dream.

  “Well, I guess you are going to miss out on some track fun then,” I tell him, turning back around in my seat. “You can watch from the sidelines like the rest of us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You sure they’re going to come? I hate not riding with everyone,” I tell Ryan as we walk into the Irvine Motorsport Park, not far from the Smoke and Mirrors shop.

  “Trust me, they want the track time. And they are all curious why you wanted to head out here earlier. Actually, I am too. Do I get to know what you’re up to now?”

  I scan the area until I see Henry’s familiar truck and trailer near the end of the loading area. My heart does an excited twirl in my chest, a smile stretching my cheeks as I pick up the pace and nearly run to him.

  “Henry,” I yell just before I launch myself into his arms.

  He barely manages to catch me, having just straightened up from unhooking a tie-down on the trailer. It’s so good to see him. He reminds me of home and how much I miss my familiar routine. I bury my face in his chest and breathe deeply¸ his steadying presence the first thing to really center me all week as I have adjusted to new surroundings and people.

  “Hey, baby girl, I’ve missed you,” he tells me as he sets me back on my feet and messes up my hair.

  I look over at Ryan, my smile feeling a mile wide. He looks uncomfortable and gives me an unfriendly look. Oh, for crying out loud. Boys are such babies when they think they’re competing against each other.

  “Ryan, this is Henry, my brother. Henry, this is Ryan, the Smoke and Mirrors mechanic, and probably my best friend down here.” Ryan shoots me a look that is both relieved and surprised.

  “Nice to meet you, Ryan. Thanks for taking care of my little sister. It’s hard not having her around the shop or the house anymore. We miss her like crazy, but apparently this gig was more important than keeping the family thing going.”

  “Nice to meet you, man. We’re taking good care of her, I promise.” He turns to me, his expression puzzled. “What shop?”

  I feel my face heat as I cut my eyes to Henry, praying he will keep his mouth shut. No such luck.

  Henry pushes his shaggy blond hair behind his ears and looks at me, confused. “The family shop, bro. Jensen Performance. Didn’t Shelby tell you? She’s the shop manager. Our dad is Hank Jensen.” I shoot murderous daggers at an oblivious Henry, who looks willing to offer all of my closely guarded secrets at the slightest prompting.

  “Wait, the Hank Jensen? He was huge in NASCAR, what, like ten years ago? My dad is a huge fan of watching cars drive in circles for hours. I grew up on that shit. Why didn’t you tell me, Shelby? Your shop has been consistently putting out awesome cars for years. That’s like the NorCal household name for big power.”

  I blow out a frustrated breath and run my hands through my thick hair. I have known all along that eventually this would get out, no matter how hard I worked to keep it to myself. Judging by Ryan’s expression, it’s already changed his view of me.

  “Because I didn’t want my association with my dad’s name or reputation to earn me any special favors, or change the way you see me. I just wanted to prove that I can do something on my own, without being attached to Jensen Performance or Hank Jensen. Besides, I’m just the brand ambassador and social media person; none of that needs to have the power of a shop job or family connections behind it.”

  “But it’s freaking cool. No wonder you were so good with the Nissan. Did your dad teach you to drift?”

  “Shelby was drifting? What car?” Henry asks, moving around the trailer to release more tie-downs and free the car cover.

  “She took the Nissan 350Z out for a quick spin. It was awesome. The video is blowing up our social media presence. Wait, why are you all the way down here, with a trailer?”

  “Because when the little sister calls in a request for her project car to be brought down so she can show some drift junkies what’s up, I have to oblige.” Henry rolls the cover off Project Black Sheep an
d gets a low whistle from Ryan.

  “You better start explaining, Shelby. That’s a beautiful beast of a build right there, I need all the specs.”

  I smile as I stare at my baby, all put together and looking ferocious and ready to shred some tires. “It’s Project Black Sheep, something Henry and I have been working on for two years.” I walk over to the sleek black muscle car. “This is a ‘67 fastback Mustang with a fully built, twin turbo, LS6 motor that we got from one of Dad’s wrecked Corvettes. We kept the turbos small to keep the spool instant. On the low side, with the boost turned down, we’re looking at seven hundred horsepower to the wheels, for reliability, but Henry says we can easily handle twice that. We’ve got the suspension built to drift standards, so nothing you’re not already familiar with. Henry custom-built the exhaust and I’m told it sounds incredible.”

  “Holy shit.” Ryan takes off his baseball hat and bends over to place his hands on his knees. He stares at the car reverently, looking as if he wants to run his hands over the matte black paint job. He straightens up and squints at me. “What do you mean, you’re told it sounds good? Haven’t you heard it?”

  “I had to leave to come down here before Henry finished the build. He’s been keeping me updated and finally got it all installed and tuned this last week. This will be the first time I’ve driven her since we started the build from a drag car to drift setup.”

  “And you insisted on making him come all this way here for you to do it now?”

  “Not exactly.” I look over at Henry and smile, knowing he’s not even aware of my plans. “I want to let Griffin use it until the Supra is finished, so he still gets a chance at the ADL California title.”

  “Are you insane?” Henry spits, walking over to me. “Shell, we just finished this thing. There’s not enough time to get it perfectly dialed in and get someone comfortable enough to drive it in competition. And fuck, that guy just crashed his car, what do you think he’s going to do to this? And what do you even get out of it, other than a beat to hell car and possible damage we’ll have to fix out of our pocket? No.”