CHAPTER NINETEEN CLARKE AND CECI
Chapter Nineteen
Clarke and Ceci
Clarke
Clarke couldn’t figure out what was supposed to unsettle him.
It was Texas’s version of a bar. All the same, it was a bar.
There was the dim lighting, the wooden floors, the smell of bourbon and beer, and in this case country music.
And line dancing, he noticed after turning a full circle. That must be it.
“You ready to ride?” she asked, grinning.
“You mean dance?”
“Uh-uh. Follow me.”
They walked the length of the bar, took a left turn, and then he saw it. A mechanical bull. So this was it.
He’d ridden a horse but not a bull.
I bet she has. Maybe she’s thinking I’ll refuse to do it. Of course that’s what she’s thinking—“Sir Stick would never ride a mechanical bull in a Texas bar.”
“Ever ridden?” she asked.
“A bull? No. You?”
She tilted her head, those reckless curls tumbling over her cheeks. “Once or twice.”
There it was again.
That twitch between his thighs.
That snap.
That flame.
That heat.
That burn.
“Would that be the four-legged or the two-legged variety?”
The question pushed her back on her heels. Her entire body jolted and her eyes opened wider than he’d ever seen them open.
It’s not the question that shocks her. It’s that I’m the one who asked it.
A quiver of pleasure coursed through his veins.
Not the kind of thing you expect from Sir Stick Up His Ass, is it?
He felt the rush of adrenaline that always flooded his body before the start of a race.
And he knew why.
I want to be that fearless driver she talked about. The one who scared the shit out of every other driver on the track.
She’s had this insight into me and my racing for some time now.
I wonder if she’ll regret sharing it with me. But then she might not remember. She probably wouldn’t have told me, if not for all the bourbon.
She had yet to respond. Had he actually made Ceci Rivers speechless? He hadn’t thought such a thing possible. Certainly not for him.
But as the silence continued, he began to fear that maybe he’d insulted her. He hadn’t meant to.
He cleared his throat, doing his best to disguise it as a cough. “Well, now’s your chance to show off your skills.”
She said nothing, still staring back at him with those questioning eyes. Eyes more gray than blue. Eyes that had originally surprised him because he’d thought they didn’t fit her. But maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe they were more her than the dazzling blue eyes, which she usually flashed in public.
The brilliant blue ones caught the eye because they were stunning. But the gray ones were more interesting. Looking into them, he was gripped by the feeling that he’d never get to the end of them.
He tilted his head and indicated with his arm the mechanical bull that sat still without a rider.
She turned. After marching up to the bull, she hopped onto it, needing no help even though a couple of men had hurried forward to do just that.
The crowd of onlookers, mostly men, whooped and hollered.
He watched her rock forward and back. Her thighs gripping the bull.
Her motion was so smooth, so fluid, and her hold on that bull so tight.
The guy who’d ridden before her had been thrown at this level.
She had him beat. But she signaled to the man at the switch to flip it and, when that wasn’t enough, to flip it again. And again. And again.
Clarke tugged at the collar of his shirt, wiping away the beads of sweat that had sprouted on his forehead and behind his neck.
Was his dick twitching? Yes. Was it primed and ready to salute her? Hell yes.
But there was something else he was feeling. Not between his thighs but in his chest.
Admiration?
She laughed through it all. Her cheeks alight with fire and her eyes gleaming.
He thought again about what it was that drew all eyes to her.
Even if she wasn’t the prettiest or most beautiful woman in the room, she’d always be the one who was most full of life.
There was something in her that burned so savagely; once someone was caught in her orbit, she’d snag them like a spider did with flies in its web.
Was there no escape?
If I got caught, would I want to escape?
He couldn’t say. He only knew he wanted her to hold on. Wanted her to beat them all.
And then he heard the crowd of onlookers, all men, shout “throw the switch” over and over again. He looked around, and seeing the lustful looks on their faces, he suddenly wanted the bull to throw her. He wanted her off that bull. Now.
“Ceci!” he heard a man shout.
And then a second. “Go, Ceci!”
And then a third. “Ride ’em, Ceci!”
He suddenly regretted that stupid four-legged or two-legged joke.
He clenched his fists. His heart was pounding. And still she held on.
She told the guy to throw the switch again. He shook his head but finally relented. She lasted less than a minute before she was thrown.
Clarke’s hands softened, his shoulders lowered, and he felt a surge of relief wash over him, marveling at the fact that even at the moment when she lost hold of the bull, even when she was sailing through the air, and even when she hit the mat—through it all, she never lost that laugh or smile.
Ceci
Breathless, Ceci got to her feet. Her legs felt a little shaky as she walked back to Clarke.
He’s not exactly what I thought he’d be like.
That quip about the two-legged vs four-legged variety? Maybe he’d said it thinking he would insult her. Loom over her with that morally righteous stick up his ass. But his tone hadn’t suggested that. And the expression in his eyes definitely hadn’t.
Even now as she approached him, she couldn’t read the look in his eyes.
Once she’d reached him, she placed her hands on her hips, lifted her chin, and smiled, triumphant.
Without a word and hardly a passing glance, he walked past her and mounted the bull.
The guy at the switch had brought it back down, and Clarke was quick to tell him to bring it back up.
She couldn’t tell what surprised her more.
Was it the fact that he was still on once the bull was only a few levels below the level that had thrown her?
Or was it the fact that, even on a bucking bull, he didn’t lose that silky-smooth elegance like that single malt scotch he liked.
From his chest to his extended arms to the tips of his fingers as he held that arm up, there was nothing rough or jerky about his movement.
He didn’t bolt against the air but swam through it as though it were liquid.
Every square inch of him was fluid and flexible—which seemed like a contradiction for a man so inflexible when it came to living.
But then she remembered the way he’d danced at that party.
Her eyes drifted to his thighs gripping the bull. She wondered what it would feel like if those thighs were gripping her.
In a flash, she was brought back to the present, and her eyes met his just before he was thrown.
Damn, even the way the man falls and gets up is some kind of graceful dance.
“Don’t you want to know?” he asked once they were standing at the bar and the bartender had brought their drinks.
“Want to know what?”
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her father’s assistant.
The party starts tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. Please wear appropriate attire.
So he knows I’m thinking of coming.
Aunt Delilah must have unwittingly tipped him off. Either that or Tiffany, his wife and Ceci’s stepmother, did.
“He won’t say more than ten words to me the entire time. A few more than that if I wear something inappropriate.”
“What?”
She looked up from her phone. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
“Nothing,” she said, tossing her phone in her purse.
Did she want to go? Not really. But Aunt Delilah was going. The woman never made idle threats. If she said she was going to do something, she did it. Like someone else I know, Ceci thought, casting a sidelong glance at Clarke.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” She lifted her glass and finished her bourbon, signaling the bartender for another.
Was her father really seriously thinking of putting together a new F2 team? He still had part ownership in an F3 team, a team she’d driven for, just before quitting driving altogether. It had been a mistake to join her father’s team. How would driving for him now be any different?
Her heart skipped in that offbeat way it always did before a race. She never felt more alive than she did when she was behind the wheel. Did she relish the idea of driving for a team her father had part ownership in? No. But driving? And possibly at the F2 level? Just one level away from F1?
It wasn’t just that she missed driving. She was missing without it.
She stared at the birthmark and tattoo on her wrist. I am flesh and blood, she told herself, staring at it.
You’re here. Your heart is beating. You’re breathing. You are not invisible.
The bartender came back with her second bourbon. She ordered a third before he could place the glass on the counter. She slammed this one back as quickly as she had the first.
He placed his hand on hers.
“Maybe you should slow down.”
Those callouses. The rough patches felt good, the way they grazed her flesh. She pulled her hand away.
She was grateful the bartender returned just then with another bourbon.
“If I tell you what I think you want to know, will you make this your last?” he asked.
“And what is it you think I want to know?”
He leaned in, his lips close to her ear. “I got thrown two levels below the level you were thrown.”
She smiled and then laughed so hard tears filled her eyes. Fearing they would spill over and down her cheeks, she drew a deep breath and swallowed that third bourbon.
She sighed.
I’ll be able to sleep now.
“Okay, Sir Clarke, let’s go.”
He blinked. “Sir Clarke, is it? No more Sir Stick, etc.?”
She grinned. “Don’t press your luck.”
They hadn’t gone but a few steps before a man stepped in front of her. “Ceci! Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?”
She didn’t.
“Uh …”