Chapter 12
TWELVE
As I search for the first aid kit in various cabinets, having seen one when I was snooping around with Demi yesterday, I remind myself just how stupid this is.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be spending more time with Rome; I shouldn’t keep blurring the line between work and…
something else. But just like last weekend, I can’t seem to listen to my own warnings.
When I climbed up onto the trailer to watch the sunset with him, it was an impulse.
Demi and I had once again been talking about the need to get closer to the drivers, despite their hesitance to talk to me.
I was frustrated by our lack of progress and wanted to wander the empty arena to see if I could find something—anything.
When Rome invited me up, it felt like a sign.
And sure, it made sense to accept his invitation, to spend some time with him, but I didn’t have to stay all night. I didn’t have to laugh with him long after sunset, trading stories from childhood races, telling him more about myself than I ever had before while on an assignment.
The truth is, I’m deeply intrigued by Roman DeLuca, and it has nothing to do with the case.
Instead, it has everything to do with the two opposite versions of himself I’ve seen so far: the cocky asshole who doesn’t care about anything or anyone other than winning, and the soft one who drinks alone on top of his trailer while watching the sunset, who spends hours upon hours practicing when no one else is around.
When I find the kit, I move back to where he’s standing and get to work, methodically pulling out bandages, alcohol wipes, and antibiotic cream. His jaw is still tight as he stands there, fingers flexing.
“You’ve gotta calm down,” I murmur. “You can’t leave here angry. I’m sure the press is right outside, waiting for your comment.”
“Fuck them. Fuck all of them. He hit me first.”
“I know,” I say, because I do, even if the choice to give in to the urge was stupid. “But you and I both know that doesn’t matter. One of you was suspended from the team for bad behavior, and it wasn’t him. He’s got a pristine, all-American boy image. You’re the bad boy.”
“Fucking bullshit,” he grumbles. “It’s all bullshit.” I don’t know if he means the image of a bad boy, something I’m starting to realize quickly is, in fact, a fabrication, or the fact that Levi is the golden boy, but I don’t ask.
Instead, I stand before him, my mouth twisting as I figure out how to do this. Looking around, I try to find a good solution.
“What?” he asks, that edge still in his voice.
“You’re a little tall,” I murmur. “You’re gonna have to bend, I think.
” He sighs, running a hand through his tousled waves.
Then, before I can say anything, his rough, firm hands are on my waist, gripping securely before lifting me.
A little yelp leaves my lips as he sets my ass on the cold metal of the table.
“Will this work?” he asks, his lips tipping up.
Relief rolls through me as some of the residual anger on his face melts away.
It’s probably time, distance, and clarity doing the job, but some sick, twisted, stupidly romantic part of me likes the idea of him melting a bit from being close to me, from touching me, and standing just inches from me.
God, I’m such a moron.
It doesn’t stop me from smiling at him, though, or from noting that we’re eye to eye like this, the perfect height for kissing.
Stay focused, Lana. The man is bleeding.
“Perfect,” I say, my voice breathy before I rip open an alcohol wipe, trying to distract myself.
Slowly, I start to dab it on the cut. When he hisses through his teeth, I mumble an apology.
“Sorry. I have to clean it. Who knows where his hands have been?” Rome lets out an unexpected laugh, and I smile back.
“How’s it look?” he asks after a moment.
“It’s deep, but it’s stopped bleeding. I don’t think it’ll need stitches, unless you’re worried about scarring. It’s across your eyebrow.” He shakes his head gently.
“I don’t give a shit. It will probably make me hotter.” He’s not wrong.
“Not something you need,” I murmur without thinking, then blush almost immediately before working on opening the bandages.
“Did you just call me hot?”
“No, I just meant if the world perceived you as any hotter, you probably wouldn’t be able to fit your inflated ego into the truck.
” Again, he laughs, this time tipping his head back.
I’m still smiling when his laughter fades, though my breath catches when his thumb brushes the outside of my thigh, just below the hem of my shorts.
The skin there burns beneath the touch, and I try to focus on the task at hand.
“I’m gonna put butterfly bandages on it. That might help keep it together, minimize the scarring.”
“You sure know a lot about this stuff. Were you a nurse in a past life, too?”
“What?”
“You’ve been a personal trainer, a dirt bike extraordinaire, a server. Now you’re a nurse.” I smile softly, then shake my head.
“No, no. This one wasn’t a former job. I have two older brothers and was raised by a single dad. I’ve had to patch up my fair share of wounds for stubborn men who refuse to go to the ER.”
“Mmm,” he says, the noise low, then winces again as I touch what must be a sensitive spot.
“I’d feel bad, but you kind of asked for this. He was baiting you, and you took it.”
“And then I baited him back, and he hit first,” he says, not a thread of regret in the words.
“You and I both know that in the eyes of the press, that doesn’t matter.” After a moment, he sighs, the sound filled with bone-deep exhaustion.
“I know. I want to do better.”
“So you can get back into racing?” I ask, trying to encourage him to speak about it more, and I realize, with discomfort, it’s not because of the job.
I’m not gleaning information from him to add to our notes, to clarify some aspect of the case I can’t quite grasp, even though I should.
It’s because I want to know him. I want to sharpen the mental image I have of Rome, to understand exactly what makes him tick, to understand him as a person.
“Yes. But also… I’m tired of being the bad boy.
The hot-tempered one that people want to poke at to get a reaction.
It’s not who I am anymore.” He takes in a breath and lets it go as I place the first bandage.
“Sometimes I don’t know if I ever was that person.
I made that version of me years ago, when I first got into Indy.
I was always reckless, a little wild and untamed, but that was just on the track or in the arena.
I always knew what I wanted, and I knew better than to do anything that would fuck that up.
” He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh and looks down at his hands, where his knuckles are split.
“What got you suspended?” He makes a face, then winces as it tugs at his eyebrow.
“I went out partying one night. I was already on thin ice but I won big, and the guys begged me. I hadn’t been out in a while, trying to stay out of trouble.
When I went out back then, trouble always seemed to find me.
Because of that, no one had really been talking to me, so I was kind of…
I don’t know. Eager for the companionship, I guess.
” My stomach churns at the thought of poor Rome trying to clean up his act and losing all his friends along the way.
“I kept getting free drinks sent over, and I drank way too much then went home with a woman. She wasn’t wearing a ring.
I remember checking for that. But no one cares about that part, of course.
The next morning, it was all over the papers.
” He lets out a deep sigh, as if this has been weighing heavily on him.
“Turns out, I’d slept with one of our top sponsors’ wives, and once word got out, he wanted me off the team.
The next few days were a whirlwind of calls and meetings, trying to cover things up, but it was no use.
By Monday, the sponsor was threatening to cancel the contract if I wasn’t removed.
The board concluded that I was to be suspended and put on leave for the season. ”
“Wow,” I murmur, genuine shock in my words.
I knew why he got suspended, and Demi and I figured out that the sponsor issue was the cherry on top of a long list of problems leading to his inevitable suspension.
It sounded so cut-and-dried at the time, but hearing his side of it brings clarity to a story I didn’t fully understand.
“Yeah. It was… not great. Now I have a year to clean up my act and prove I’m not a liability.”
“That’s why you were on top of your trailer,” I say, it all clicking into place. He winks at me with his good eye.
“You got it.” There’s a moment of silence, and I open my mouth to ask something else, but he beats me to it. “So? How’s it lookin’, doc?” he asks. He’s clearly trying to change the subject, and I let him.
“I need to cover it, but you’ll survive. Still pretty,” I assure him, because it’s true. I think he’d need a hell of a lot more than a punch to the face to change that. I grab a bandage to cover up my handiwork, open it, and put it in place.
“There,” I say, my voice a whisper as my thumb gently brushes over the bandage. “All better.”
“You should kiss it, I think,” he says, and my breathing halts. “That’s what you do to a boo-boo, right?” I roll my eyes, but I can’t ignore the way my pulse is pounding. His hand lifts, and he points a finger at the bandage. “Right here.”
My pulse pounds, but despite my better judgment, I tip my head back, shifting up just a bit, before pressing my lips softly to the spot I just covered.
“Better?”
“Hurts here, too,” he says, pointing to his cheek. His voice has dropped, the tone low and dangerous.
I should step away.
I should pack up this first-aid kit, head back to my room, and then take a cold shower to remind myself why I’m really here. Instead, I shift, pressing my lips to his high cheekbone, where, to his credit, a bruise will definitely form.
“Good?” I ask, my voice breathy. It hitches when he steps even closer between my legs, one hand moving to rest on my hip, the other coming up to cup my chin. Despite the aggression I just witnessed, the touch is featherlight, gentle, and caring—a contrast to the version he shows the world.
“I think I need one more,” he whispers. He’s so close; his whispered breaths ghost along my face, then his hand on my chin shifts, pointing to his lips. “Right here.”
I shouldn’t.
I really shouldn’t give in, but there’s a magnet that pulls me to Rome, my body shifting without my mind telling it to.
My hand slides over his shoulder and pulls him closer.
His fingers shift, cupping my cheek, tipping my face up.
After the barest moment of hesitation, our lips are pressed together.
A low sound travels from his throat and settles in my belly, warm like honey.
It’s a perfect first kiss: warm lips pressed against mine, soft and gentle, his body close. But I need more.
So I take it.
My hand reaches out, gripping his T-shirt and pulling him closer until I can hook one leg around him.
He groans deep, the sound reverberating through me and making me gasp.
He takes that opportunity to slide his tongue between my lips, and I moan when I taste him for the first time, a mix of dark coffee and something so very Roman, I can’t decode it.
Kissing Roman DeLuca is like racing, all adrenaline and instinct and speeding along, hoping to god nothing bad happens, and I already know it could be terribly addictive.
His hand moves to my hip, gripping me there as if he’s afraid I’m going to disappear, and the one on my cheek glides back to behind my head, fingers sinking into my hair and tugging just a bit, pulling a soft moan from me.
“Fuck, you’re so hot.” He groans, his hips moving forward and pressing to my center. I feel he’s hard, something that sends my desire higher. His hand in my hair guides my head, taking what he wants, positioning me where he needs me to continue giving me the deepest, hottest kiss of my life.
My mind is reeling, trying to think of ways to get closer, to get more, to feel him all over when the door opens, and reality comes crashing in in the form of my partner.