Shifting Gears

26. Consequences of Not Defining This

"He's gonna be neck and neck with your brother, that probably doesn't make Clay too happy."

I grunted, looking back toward the track. "Yeah."

"He is really good," Becka admitted reluctantly, watching as Greyson smoothly drove off the course, coming down to ride along the fence line in front of the stands to the exit. "And hot."

"Becka!"

"Oh, you know I'd take Glen any day over anyone! But I'm not blind," she muttered. I followed her eyes to see Greyson had tugged his helmet and goggles off. His dark chocolate wavy hair fell around his face, into his emerald eyes. He had a sharp jawline, freshly shaven, and cheekbones that looked like they belonged on a Greek sculpture. Even with his racing gear on, you could tell how built he was.

My mind wandered to the other day in the library, those strong arms effortlessly picking me up, wrapping my legs around his slim waist, our breathing ragged as our lips sought each other's relentlessly.

I swallowed. Hard.

"Apparently I'm not the only one who sees either." My eyes found what she was looking at.

I saw with annoyance a posse of girls in shorts that looked like they were made for girls five years younger than them at the base of the stands—screeching their cheers for Greyson as he rode right in front of them.

Greyson didn't seem to notice them, but my chest still tightened at their giggles, rushing to whisper and gab with each other as he passed by, batting their eyelashes and pushing their chests out.

"Disgusting," Becka scoffed. "And even more disgusting that whatever they're doing probably works. I know Ryvers is quite the popular one among them."

I stood up abruptly, clearing my throat. "I gotta go find Clay," I lied.

Becka raised an eyebrow at my quick movement, shutting off our previous conversation. "Okay—see you tomorrow? At the party at Glen's house?"

"Yeah, maybe—still don't know yet."

"Alright, well, tell your brother congrats on the win."

I gave her one last smile, then jumped down the stairs of the stands. The posse of squealing girls had scurried somewhere else. I knew Clay was somewhere near the top left, so I exited toward the right. I didn't want him seeing and following me.

I don't really know why I started back to Greyson's trailer, especially since it seemed like the last thing he wanted to do was talk to me. I don't know. I just wanted to see him. Maybe he cooled off after the race.

Every ounce of my being regretted my decision when, as I approached his trailer in the corner of the parking field, I saw where the skimpy girls had fled to. A few of them, at least.

Two brunettes and one redhead that was vaguely familiar milled about Greyson's trailer. One brunette lounged in his open trailer comfortably, as if she did this everyday. Another was playing with Champ. And the redhead was checking her reflection in his truck windows.

I was about to veer away, but the brunette playing with Champ called out, "Hey, Lawson. What are you doing over here by Greyson's trailer?"

I grit my teeth. I recognized her voice. I think her name was Malaria or something.

"Malia, stop playing with that dog, you know I'm allergic, so I won't be able to bring you home."

Malia. Close enough.

The redhead, who had just reprimanded the brunette, now looked at me. Her freshly reapplied lipstick clashed with her hair, and a spray of orange freckles coated her face like someone had squirted Cheetos at her. A crop top with the sharpied word "Ryvers" across her chest shifted as she crossed her arms.