Chapter 16 #2
I rev my engine. The signal light flashes yellow. Then green, and we’re off. The world narrows to the track ahead, the sharp curves and straightaways blurring into one continuous rush of motion. My kart hugs the inside lane, Diego’s engine a low growl behind me.
The first turn comes fast, and I ease into it, the tires squealing against the asphalt. He takes it tighter, pulling his kart alongside mine as we hit the straightaway.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, his face set in concentration, his hands steady on the wheel.
“You’re not winning this,” I yell, my voice carrying over the wind.
His grin is fleeting, more a flash of teeth than anything else, before he pulls ahead, his kart cutting in front of mine with precision.
The next curve looms, and I push harder, my kart bumping his as I reclaim the inside lane.
He doesn’t flinch or give an inch, matching my aggression with his own.
The track stretches ahead, a twisting battlefield of speed and control.
Every turn, every straightaway, every second is a clash of wills.
And neither of us is backing down.
I accelerate out of the turn, the tires squealing in protest but holding steady.
The rush of air and the roar of the engine fuel the competitive fire burning in me.
I glance back for a fraction of a second, catching Diego a kart-length behind me.
A surge of satisfaction ripples through me, pulling a smirk to my lips.
Gotcha.
The straightaway opens up.
I press the pedal to the floor, and my kart surges forward. But then I hear it. The unmistakable growl of his engine, louder, closer, a predator closing in on its prey.
“What the—”
The rush of wind swallows my words as his kart veers toward the outside, a reckless and audacious move.
I watch, stunned, as he cuts wide on the curve, bypassing the inside line I thought I had secured.
The move seems impossible and too risky, but he executes it precisely, his kart sliding just enough to maintain control while stealing the lead.
I grit my teeth, adrenaline spiking as he pulls ahead, his silhouette framed by the glow of the track lights. My hands tighten on the wheel, and I push harder, unwilling to lose to him, not about walls and crap but for the sheer will to win at all costs.
“You’re not keeping it!” I shout, my voice lost to the wind as I throw everything I have into the next turn, determined to reclaim my spot at the front.
But Diego, damn him, is already a step ahead. His kart weaves effortlessly through the twists and turns like he owns the track. The smirk that flashes across his face when he glances back at me is infuriating, his silent victory cry.
I’m not out yet, not by a long shot.
I lean forward, narrowing the gap between us with every second, willing my kart to go faster despite its pedal to the floor. My determination burns brighter than ever. If he thinks this is over, he’s got another thing coming.
I’m right on his tail now, inches away from overtaking him. The next turn is sharp, and I take it aggressively, cutting the corner so tightly that the tires barely hold the track. I’m beside him now. Our karts are neck and neck. My smirk returns, fueled by the taste of imminent victory.
“Gotcha, sucker!”
But then, in a move so quick I almost miss it, Diego veers to the outside and then slingshots back toward the inside lane, using the curve’s momentum to catapult himself forward. My jaw drops, shock rippling through me as his kart surges ahead, the gap between us widening in the blink of an eye.
“What the hell?!”
The precision.
The sheer brilliance of the maneuver.
He executed it like it was second nature. The track employees cheer as his kart crosses the finish line first, his hands lifting briefly off the wheel in triumph before he slows to a stop. My kart rolls across the line a beat later, my grip tight on the steering wheel as disbelief settles over me.
I pull off to the side, my heart still racing, the adrenaline making it hard to focus on anything but the image of him pulling that move and outsmarting me.
He climbs out of his kart, claiming victory that only fuels my irritation when he pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his messy hair to tame it.
Then comes the smile. Broad and brilliant, lighting up his handsome face with a satisfaction that makes my stomach twist. He looks grounded and content.
His entire presence relaxes in a way that speaks of something deeper, as if he’s just exorcised some internal demons through sheer speed and instinct.
The sight cuts through my frustration, and my defeat feels oddly short-lived as I catch a spark in him.
Something raw and unfiltered.
Something that goes beyond a simple go-kart race.
For a moment, I forget my loss entirely. Too caught up in his unguarded and unburdened demeanor. As though he’s unlocked a part of himself I didn’t even know existed. Now, I can’t look away.
“Let’s get you out of there.”
Diego strides over, his movements unhurried. His helmet swings in one hand while the other reaches for mine. He offers it without a word, and the gesture is simple but leaves no room for argument.
“I don’t need your help.”
Thankfully, he ignores me with a hand under my arm when my legs wobble slightly from the lingering adrenaline.
“Of course you don’t.”
He passes his helmet to the waiting attendant, as do I, and interlaces our fingers to lead me to the neon glow of the snack shop at the edge of the track.
“Two meal deals with Cokes.”
“I’m almost scared to ask what a meal deal is.”
“You’ll see. Now go grab us a table before they fill up.”
He prods, paying with cash, leaving me to look around the mostly empty track on a Friday night and select a round table from the dozens they have open.
He waits at the counter for our order, and when he returns, a tray balanced in his hands, I arch an eyebrow at the sight of four hot dogs nestled beside two baskets of fries.
“This is the meal deal?”
“Best deal in the house,” he quips, setting the tray between us and sliding a Coke my way.
I can’t help it. A laugh bubbles up, soft but genuine, breaking through the tension that’s lingered since the race.
“Congrats,” I offer, the word clipped but carrying a hint of humor. It’s all I can muster after the whirlwind of emotions he’s stirred tonight.
He doesn’t respond immediately when he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table, and his dark eyes find mine. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze. Mischief, curiosity, maybe both. His attention drops briefly to my lips, lingering just long enough to send a spark through me.
“Is that all I get?”
His voice is low and teasing, and his face is close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. My breath catches, the proximity doing things to my resolve that I don’t want to acknowledge.
“Don’t push your luck,” I murmur, but my tone lacks the bite it should.
His grin deepens. For a moment, I think he might close the distance. But he moves away, unloading the tray’s contents before setting it aside. Without hesitation, he adds ketchup, mustard, and relish from the packets nestled snuggly beside the buns.
“Admit it, you had fun.”
He takes a massive bite of his dog while I’m still setting up the ketchup to dip my fries into.
He watches with interest as I tear off a section of the basket paper to squirt the ketchup onto, unwilling for it to touch my dog or fries directly, as dipping allows me to control the volume on each food item.
“Nothing like racing trains and strangers in the night.”
“Hell of a lot safer, though.”
I finally take a bite of my hot dog, chewing slowly as I study him. There’s a shift in him tonight, a contentment that seems to hum under the surface. A fierce competitor with a soft spot for good sportsmanship and no gloating.
“I did have fun. But don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. Both my heads are huge.”
I laugh, the lightness feeling good for once, and he stares.
“What? Do I have ketchup on my face?”
I grab napkins from the dispenser, wiping both sides of my cheeks and face, looking for it. He stills my hand with his, his dark eyes glittering in the track light.
“No, you laughed, and it was . . . beautiful.”
I freeze.
It’s the most honest thing he’s said.
Yet, it makes me more uncomfortable than his overt flirting.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a laugh,” I downplay his compliment, feeling a slight nervousness when this real emotion emerges from him.
It’s already odd that I’m here, laughing over hot dogs and fries like it’s the most natural thing in the world when he’s been the object of my frustration.
“It’s not just anything.” His hands return to the table, but his attention doesn’t return to his meal deal. “It’s a bigger win than the go-karts.”
I reach for my drink, taking a long sip to buy myself a moment.
“Isabella, I’m sorry about Wednesday. I’m not sure exactly what I did or said. I—”
“You said you could fuck anyone you wanted. Made me sound like a pity fuck or something.”
His hand smacks his forehead, a more violent reaction than I expected, having just blurted out the words.
“Kokami!”
“What?”
He shakes his head, inching closer to me. I set down my drink, diving into my hot dog to avoid this conversation. I’ve replayed it countless times and couldn’t come up with anything other than disgust. The same feeling fills my stomach now.
“I’m a fucking idiot.”
His chin drops. He stares down at my pants or his jeans, working it out like I have been.
“I . . . that . . . I just meant to say we both had options.”
“That’s not what you said.” I shove my dog to the side of my mouth, unwilling to let him off easy. “And that’s not what you meant.”
My mental energy was wasted on that statement for too many hours. He can sit with it a little longer while I finish my bite.
“I fucked it up. But what I meant was that I want you.” He meets my gaze, hard as it is, and then holds his hand up.
“And before you argue that point too, it’s true.
It’s why I keep trying with you. And maybe I’m a knucklehead for doing so, but I couldn’t just walk away the other night.
Fuck, I wish I had your number. We could have worked through this faster.
Not waiting days in between. Shit, I’m rambling now. ”
I grab a couple of fries and drag them through the ketchup.
“By all means, ramble away.”
“Will you go somewhere with me? After this?”
The simplicity of the question catches me off guard. His eyes hold mine, so open, so eager for an answer that I nod before I’ve even processed the words.
“Can I finish my meal deal first?” I gesture toward the hot dog, still half-eaten on its paper wrapper. “Surprisingly, it’s good. Though I’m sure, the food poisoning will kick in later.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t laugh outright. Instead, he returns to his basket of food, content to let the conversation die.
Where is he taking me?