Chapter 22 Regan
TWENTY-TWO
REGAN
The warmth of Dean’s hand on the small of my back sends a spark of lightning through my spine, but I hold back any visible shivers.
He opens the door at the top of the stairs, and it leads into a studio apartment.
I’m guessing it’s his apartment from the way it looks.
Everything is out in one room, except the bathroom that seems to have a pocket door.
It’s fairly plain with just a futon, a small TV stand, a queen bed in the back of the room, and a kitchen area to the left side of the room with a small island.
He runs the faucet in the bathroom and starts running my bloody hand under the water. He leaves and returns with a washcloth to hold on the cut as he grabs a First Aid kit from under the sink.
He leads me out to the futon where we both sit, and he opens the kit and starts to pull out the supplies that he’ll need.
“You have a First Aid kit?” I ask, surprised. He gives me a typical bachelor vibe of just having mayo and beer in the fridge, and that doesn’t include being prepared for injuries.
He lets out a low chuckle, “I’m accident prone myself. Always cutting a finger or something,” he replies nonchalantly, never taking his eyes off his task. While mine are trained on him. He’s so focused and taking his time to ensure that he doesn’t hurt me further.
Gently, he takes my hand, still wrapped in the washcloth, and his hands are as calloused as mine. He pats the area dry and opens an alcohol wipe. I wince as I prepare for the sting before he’s even finished removing the cloth from its package.
“I know. I have to be sure it’s clean.” Only now does he look up at me.
His green eyes are so soft and caring. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before.
This is a completely different side of him.
One I think I’d like to see more of. “You ready?” I nod and he applies the alcohol wipe. I hiss as it stings the open wound.
Once he’s certain it’s clean, he opens a bandage and strategically places it over the cut so that it’s completely covered. He presses the bandage down, smoothing it over. He’s done but he keeps my hand in his, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb, careful to avoid the bandaged area.
It’s mesmerizing, almost lulling me to sleep.
Surprisingly, he laces his fingers with mine, my hand fitting perfectly in his, sending sparklers tumbling up my arm.
Our eyes lock, and that soft look is gone.
Replaced by—desire. A storm is beginning to brew in those deep green eyes, and I can feel the thunder rumbling in the distance, lighting wanting to strike down.
His hand finds my face, gently cradling it in his hand, and swipes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. My chest tightens in anticipation.
Holding my face in place, he leans in slowly, gently placing a kiss on my lips.
It’s like a test to see if I want it or not.
I inhale his scent again, the same sandalwood and laundry that has been plaguing my thoughts since the group dinner.
God, I fucking want it. I want him. I really fucking want him.
He leans his forehead against mine, putting the ball in my court as what to do next.
I don’t even think, my body vibrates with need and desire that I didn’t realize I could have for another person.
Placing my hands on his hard chest, I grip the front of his shirt and pull him back down to my lips.
This time, it’s not gentle. It’s needy and full of lust. A fire has started inside me, and I don’t want to put it out—I want to fuel it, fanning the flames higher and higher until they are out of control.
Lifting me up, Dean places me on his lap, my legs straddling his thighs.
He kisses me again, parting my lips so that I can fully taste him.
Our tongues tangle together in a frantic way that has us both gripping the other tightly.
Dean slides his hands to my waist, and my shirt has ridden up, exposing a sliver of skin that he touches, and I shiver.
I find myself starting to rock back and forth for the friction I so desperately need and crave.
He’s already hard, I can feel him beneath me, straining in his jeans.
That snaps me out of the sex trance I was just under and brings me back to reality.
Reality of what is happening and who it’s happening with.
I’m kissing and grinding against Dean Dixon.
The person I’ve hated for two years. The person standing in my way for a championship and Cup Series spot.
This is so wrong, but feels so fucking right.
I pull away from him, placing my hands on his chest. We are both panting and I can feel how fast his heart is beating below my palms.
“We can’t,” I say breathlessly.
His eyebrows furrow together in confusion. “We can’t, what?”
I gesture between us. “This. We can’t do this.
” I slide off his lap where I can still feel his hard cock.
I move to the end of the futon as to not be tempted to continue with…
whatever the fuck we were going to do. “We are competing against each other for the championship, the Cup spot. It can’t be allowed—right?
” Dean is still just staring at me, not saying anything as I ramble, my mind fully wrapping around what we were just doing.
His eyes are still stirring with infatuation, but I see a familiar look—determination. The same look he gets before each race.
Dean leans back in, but still keeps a bit of distance between us. “We don’t need to do anything. It was just a kiss,” he says calmly. How the hell is he so calm? I’m freaking out over here. We are rivals. We hate each other.
At least, that’s what I thought before this moment. Is it just a kiss? Can it be just a kiss?
I don’t have the answers I’m so desperately seeking. This can’t happen again, that much I know for sure. Dean slides a bit closer, but I pull away.
“Look, we can leave that up here in my apartment if you’d like. No one has to know, and unless you want it—unless you ask me to, it won’t happen again.”
“How did you get an apartment above the shop, anyway?” I ask, curious.
“It’s cheap and has easy access to the shop, so it’s a win-win, really. Everything I’ve wanted.”
“Everything you wanted,” I parrot softly, taking in his words and the full meaning behind them.
“I’ve dreamed of racing full-time since I started racing. Since Daniel’s death…” He trails off for a second, looking away, composing himself. “Getting into Cup is everything,” he admits.
I nod in agreement at his admission. Getting into Cup is everything, even if our motivations are different, they are both to prove something. To prove that you are more than your last name, more than just the underdog and to honor someone who meant everything to you.
It goes silent between us. Only our now slow breaths filling the small studio space.
Dean stands and asks, “Shall we finish the truck?” He offers me his hand to pull me up from the futon.
“Er—yes. Let’s do it,” I say warily. I don’t take his hand, for fear that I may pull us back together. He lets his hand drop, getting the message.
We finish the job on the truck without saying too much. The air is charged between us, both thinking about what happened upstairs, but choosing not to bring it up again. Leaving it up there as Dean suggested. There is a notable shift between us that neither of us wants to acknowledge.
Dean slides into the cab of the truck, ready to fire it up to see if all of our hard work has paid off.
“Alright, fire her up!” I prompt. The engine starts to turn over, but sputters and dies. “Give it some gas!”
He tries again, giving the truck just a bit of gas, and it roars to life. Engine loud and slightly shaking under the hood. That might be a project down the road if he’s not careful. But I’ll save that information for another time.
“Alright!” he exclaims, turning off the truck and waiting with his hand up for a high five. I give it to him, ignoring the zing that zips through me from the contact. He takes a step back, as if reminded of what I said earlier: nothing can happen between us.
“Thanks for your help. It would have taken longer on my own.”
“It’s no big deal. Just helping a friend.” I look down at my shoes. Are we even friends? Do friends kiss each other like that? He looks shocked at the term, but smiles anyway, that dimple showing again. It only seems to show when he’s around me.
“I’m starving, want to grab a bite?” My stomach chooses that moment to loudly grumble, and I chuckle.
“Maybe we should clean up first,” I suggest, glancing between our dirty attire.
“Pick you up at seven?”
“Sure.”
On the way home, my mind wanders to how Dean’s lips felt on mine, how much I wanted him—needed him. I wiggle in my seat at the memory, heat pooling between my thighs. I do my best to forget. Though it seems impossible to do so.
We are rivals. Period.
After a much needed shower, I’m trying to decide what to wear for meeting up with Dean. We didn’t decide on a place to go, just dinner. It’s not like this is a date or anything, so I shouldn’t need anything fancy—right? No, definitely not a date.
I pick up my phone to video call Cindy, reinforcements are required. She answers as she is lying on the couch in sweatpants, the glow of the TV illuminating her pale skin and dark hair.
“What’s up, Reg?”
“I need your opinion on an outfit,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual.
“Ohhhh. Where are we going and with whom?” she asks, sitting up.
“Out to dinner, and a…friend,” I stammer.
Cindy raises a brow at me, not convinced of my answer.
“Regan, are you going on a date?” She stands at the revelation.
“It’s not a date,” I proclaim. “At least, I don’t think so.” I collapse down on the bed, still holding my phone up so Cindy can see me.
“You don’t think so? It either is or isn’t, Reg. Did they ask you to this dinner or was it mutually agreed upon?”
“Why does that matter?” I question, my arm draped dramatically over my face.
“It matters a lot. I thought you weren’t dating, anyway. Focusing on your career or some shit.”
“I am focusing on my career, Cin. I just need to know what to wear. Will you help me or not?”
Cindy heaves a dramatic sigh. “Take me to your closet.”
We spend the next thirty minutes finding an outfit that’s nice, but not too nice, since this in fact is not a date.
Though I know Cindy isn’t convinced of that.
We decide on my favorite red dress. It makes me feel confident and it's not too overly formal, either.
Nice enough to go to a nicer restaurant or go to the Meadows Diner.
I slip on the low nude heels and give Cindy one last look.
She nods her approval and wishes me luck on my not date.
I roll my eyes, and she laughs as she hangs up.
Quickly, I throw on a little bit of makeup and head downstairs, hoping Dad is elsewhere.
As I’m still descending the stairs, my phone pings with a text.
Dean’s here and my heart jumps knowing that he’s here to pick me up, to see more of me outside of the racing schedule.
Dad is scrolling on his phone while some rerun of an old sitcom that I don’t recall the name of plays in the background.
I do my best to scurry past him, like I’m still a teenager trying to sneak out of the house.
“Where are you going, all dressed up?” he asks, not even looking up from his phone. Damn him for noticing everything.
“Out with a friend,” I respond a bit too quickly, which catches his attention.
“Which friend?” he presses.
“Dad, I’m twenty-one. I think I can go somewhere and with someone without telling you,” I snap.
I usually never talk to Dad like this. Would he care that I’m about to go to dinner with Dean Dixon, of all people?
I’m not sure, honestly. He knows we didn’t—don’t—like each other, but he’s never given his own opinions on him one way or another.
Dad raises a brow at my response. “Excuse me? You still live under my roof, and I should know where you’re going and who you’re going with,” he says in a stern tone.
I roll my eyes and my phone pings again with another text. He’s never going to let me leave if I don’t answer him. “Dixon, okay? I helped him fix his truck and we decided to go to dinner. Happy?” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Dixon? Dean Dixon?” he asks, shocked.
Trust me Dad, I’m just as shocked as you are.
“He’s here, I gotta go,” I say quickly, grabbing my purse off the hook and running out the door. My frustration is still bubbling from Dad’s interrogation as I climb into Dean’s truck. Dad really needs to realize that I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a woman who can make my own damn decisions.