Hot Laps (13 page)

It wasn’t easy to hear with the music still pulsing, and I’ll never forget this song
as long as I live. “Country Girl” by Luke Bryan burned into my memory because I was
shaking it for him.

“I can’t hear you … do you know what a dynamometer is?”

I shook my head, unable to answer, and trying like hell to swallow but panting instead.

“It’s a machine we call the dyno. It measures the force, torque and power of an engine.”

Moving his fingers faster, he was measuring my force, torque and power, I was sure
of it. His forehead was resting on my shoulder, his own breath heavy as he assaulted
my cheeks, gasping with each exhale. Casten’s attention then turned to my neck, biting,
sucking, and kissing the heated skin.

And then he said, “If we want to know how much power we can get out of an engine,
we do that by measuring the torque, and, RPMs.”

Yes, measure away, buddy. Measure that fucking torque. MEASURE!

I was so close, already, and he knew it.

He moved his fingers faster, curling and swirling and they glided in and out of me.
“We’re testing,” his breath caught, “constant force, and constant speed …”

“Stop talking.”

He ignored my plea, knowing it was too much for me, but giving me what I needed.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Feel it, pretty girl.”

Clutching the back of my neck with one hand, I squirmed responding to his touch. He
didn’t stop and it was maddening. To fall apart like this, in his hands, and not be
able to move.

I fell hard. So hard and so good. Best orgasm of my life, hands down.

“I’d say the test here was conclusive,” he whispered against my mouth, kissing me
softly, then my nose and pulling back to look at me. His hand slipped out and then
his fingers traveled slowly from down below, over my ribs and higher until they were
at my lips. For a moment, I thought for sure he was about to make me taste my own
flavor. But as Casten Riley was proving to me, he rarely did what I expected him to
do.

He laughed, lightly, still a little breathless himself. “Just kidding.”

And then brought his fingers to his own lips and tasted.

Oh
.

I swallowed, blinking and waiting.

“Tastes as good as I thought it would.”

I said nothing.

I wanted him right then. So I tackled him and straddled his waist. I didn’t care that
we were in a grass field or that people were all around us. I was like those people
in his house, just going at it. I finally understood their deal.

Casten wasn’t having it though. And while he was kissing me and his erection wanted
it, he stopped me and rolled me over to my side and then he was on top of me holding
my arms into the dry grass.

He looked down at me, his eyes shining. “We can’t do it out here.”

“Why? Let’s go to your room then.” My hand went to his shorts, palming down the front
of him, knowing he wanted it. His hips jerked forward, his eyes squeezing shut as
he let out a soft grunt. On shaking arms, he swallowed and drew in a labored breath.

“There’s time for that later. Don’t rush.” With a wink, he pulled my floppy body up.
“Let’s dance.”

Goddamn him.

Right about now, at that moment in the night, picture a montage video with Old Dirty
Bastard jamming to “Shimmy Shimmy Ya.”

I have an obsession with nineties rap.

I should point out that Casten knows a guy in a band, Harrison.

Guess who also shares a love for old school rap?

Correct. Harrison.

He could rap with the best of them and mimic all the best even though he’s a skinny
white guy.

Casten, he cannot rap. Not at all. He thinks he can, and we told him he could, but
his skills were weak in that area.

He could, however, melt your heart with a little Big & Rich. And I
saved a horse and rode an engine builder.

As another classic favorite of my pulsed through the field, I lost myself and da-dipped
with Casten Riley.

Moving behind me, Casten pushed his hips into my ass and moved me to the beat with
him. Da dipping we went.

I popped, pushed, rocked and dipped as the song said. I had rhythm and, Casten, well,
that motherfucker had more moves than Michael Jackson.

It wasn’t long and dancing required more energy than either of us had because that
bottle of vanilla vodka that I’d consumed earlier was long gone.

I had a top-notch night. Memorable. But there were a few things I did wonder about
when I woke up the next morning…alone.

Burn-out – This can be done to either celebrate a victory or, in some cases, warm
the tires up.

“Oh God, yes, baby, right there! Just like that!”

“Yeah, you like that you fucking whore? You like my cock in your mouth?”

“Yes! Yes! Harder! Fuck my mouth!”

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Gag. More gagging.

That’s the bullshit I woke up to.

Fucking Adam and his
whore
went at it way too early but when I looked over at the clock, squinting, it read
5:37 AM.

“Fucking asshole,” I muttered and then spun around in my bed so I could kick my wall
and annoy the shit out of these two fuck bunnies since I didn’t get any last night
and if I didn’t I wasn’t happy about them voicing getting some.

“Why? For the LOVE OF GOD am I alone?” I raised my hands above my head shaking my
fists at the heavens.

For a moment, I contemplated throwing up or walking my drunk ass to Burger King down
the street to absorb some of the alcohol still sloshing around.

I decided on throwing up first and then I would be going to Burger King.

First though, I found my phone to see if there was any evidence on it and saw a text
from Anna:
I woke up in Cole’s bed fully clothed, covered in jelly, with my thong around his
neck. Polling starts now to decide whether we fucked or not. By the soreness between
my legs, my vote is yes.

After laughing at her, I discovered my underwear were still on, which was a good thing,
or a bad thing. Both had drawbacks and both had positive points.

There was another text from Casten, at least I thought it was him by the message and
the name I programmed into my phone under Italian Tune-up.

Laughing, I remember his description of an Italian tune-up was from last night.

His text read:
Someone changed all my contacts to engine terms last night so. I’m really hoping this
isn’t my grandma. With that said, if you’re looking for your bra, I have it. Btw…what
did you change Cole’s number to? I found his shorts in the kitchen sink and I’m wondering
where the rest of him went? Explain please.

I decided I would call him instead, so I did.

He answered on the first ring. “Is this the infamous … Crank Preparer?”

“Ah, yes, I think I remember now. I am your crank preparer.” I smiled all warm and
gooey inside and sunk down further into my bed. Screw Burger King. “But I’m assuming
I didn’t do any crank prepping last night …” I purposely left the question open ended
hoping he felt the need to explain.

“I’d say the prepping was done. However,” he whispered, “the machine work needs to
be done.”

Oh God. Machine work?
I felt warmth fill my stomach anticipating anything that might happen today. Praying
some machine work was done.

I curled into myself and cuddled to my pillow and the phone in my hand.

“So I’m curious, do you know where Cole is or what you changed his number to?”

“That I couldn’t tell you.” Still laughing, I noticed sticky spots on my forearm and
then I remembered swimming in grape jelly. “I don’t remember what I changed what
to.”

“Well, this oughta be an interesting week then,” he laughed.

Most guys would have probably been pissed that I changed all their contacts to engine
terms but not Casten, he thought it was funny. “Let me guess, Charlie is Dip Stick?”

“Damn, I did a good job on that.” I was actually very pleased with it remembering
my time spent on Google searching for engine terms last night.

We continued to laugh for a moment before he asked again. “Has your friend called
you?”

I knew he was talking about Anna, at least I hoped he was. “No, she did send me a
text that said she was with Cole. I wouldn’t worry about his pants. I don’t think
he needs them.”

“I suppose not.”

Then to my complete surprise, I blurted out. “How did I end up at my place…alone?”

He was quiet for a moment, eerily quiet and then spoke softly. “I, uh … didn’t think
that it would be a good idea if I stayed. We were both fairly intoxicated. So I took
you home.”

“I see. Do you remember last night at all?”

“Well, I just had a vision of me carrying you home after funnel feeding you Monster
energy drinks and vodka. Your roommate thinks I’m a dick, huh?”

“Nah, he thinks everyone is a dick. That’s just Adam for you. Thank you by the way.”

“For what?” I could hear him yawning.

“Taking me home obviously.”

“Oh, yeah. No problem. It was surprisingly entertaining. Until you puked in my favorite
hat. You owe me another one, by the way.”

“Got it. New hat, preferably with no puke in it,”

“Yes, no puke, please,” he laughed, the sound made me smile.

Another long pause so I said, “If you want, I could try to decipher those contacts
for you, over breakfast?”

Oh God, I went there.

“I’m starving,” Casten didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be right over.”

Casten wasn’t lying when he said, “I’ll be right over.”

I was sure he must have drove fast to my apartment when he arrived in fifteen minutes.
Adam answered the door before I came barreling down the hall.

Casten looked at Adam curiously. The douche answered the door in his fucking underwear.
White underwear to be exact. My feelings about Adam and his white underwear have not
changed and probably never will. I hate them, absolutely hate them.

Why, you might ask?

You could see his fucking pubic hairs through them. It’s repulsive. Enough said.

Adam was a thirty-two-year-old construction worker who’d seen better days. Not only
did he look to be in his forties, I was sure he had a prescription pill addiction,
was forty pounds overweight (all in his belly) and had the worst breath ever.

Some would wonder why I lived with him.

I wondered that, too.

Anna wouldn’t move out with me, her parents were actually cool people, so that left
me with Adam, my Craigslist roomie.

I do have to admit that he did provide some entertainment from time to time and he
bought me beer.

Casten took one look at Adam, and then me, and smiled. “Hello.”

Adam scratched his balls, yes, actually scratched his fucking balls in front of us,
then reached out to grab Casten’s hand.

Casten was quicker than that and immediately retracted his outstretched hand shoving
both in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

“Put some fucking clothes on, you idiot,” I backhanded his shoulder. “No one wants
to see that shit.” Grumbling, I pulled Casten inside and then up to my bedroom.