Page 97 of Moto
“I think that’s a Beatles song.” I correct him.
“Well, regardless. It’s true. As long as we have each other and an abundance of love, we can handle whatever or whoever comes our way.”
I’m utterly flabbergasted. When we left the hotel room, the last thing I ever thought we’d be talking about is kids and how much Reese is in favor of having them.
“I…,” I bat my eyelashes dumbfounded.
“You…,” he attempts to draw out my response, “… are all about getting married next month and making a baby?”
“I’m all about more champagne.”
“Kayla!” He tickles me.
“Reese!” I squeal, pushing him away. “Are you sure this is what you really want?” I ask in all seriousness.
“It’s more than want. It’s need.” He grips my sides. “I need you.”
This is crazy. It’s so fast, but I can’t resist him. Or deny him. The thought of carrying his child makes me giddy.
“Okay,” I eagerly agree.
“Okay?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes. Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s get married, and let the chips fall where they may,” I allude to conception.
“Really?” It’s Reese’s turn to be shocked.
“Having second thoughts?”
“Hell, no. I’m trying to decide which position I want to impregnate you in.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I snicker. “There’s going to be alcohol, right?”
“If you want.” He pulls me into his arms. “I’ll pour it all over you, and then lick it off.”
“Mmm. What are we waiting for then?” I slide my arms around his neck.
“Not a goddamn thing.” He drags me toward the closed French doors before enthusiastically bursting through them. “We’re getting married!” he announces to the whole room. I want to die right on the spot. Cameras flash and people clap as we work our way through the crowd.
I’m a walking ball of embarrassment from all the attention. It doesn’t affect Reese in the least bit.
He steals a bottle of champagne from the bar as we leave. I know, right here and now, my life is about to take a hard turn, and the only thing I can do is gather all my courage and slide through.
33
Reese
Ifight for first during the last lap of qualifying, pushing the electronic engine and myself past the breaking point.
What does it take to compete on a world-class level? To be one of the elite? You have to trust yourself and your bike, because when you roll onto that track, it’s just the two of you going to war. How do you survive? Break late, dominate the corner, hit the apex,and stay on the motherfucking machine.
Last, but not least, never stop fighting.
Ever.
I fly up on the rookie who thinks he’s hot shit. Using the low-pressure wake from his Aprilia to reduce the aerodynamic resistance, I take full advantage of the slipstream and twist it full throttle, slingshotting myself right into the lead. Poor kid never saw me coming. Manipulating turbulent flow is my signature move. It’s how I acquired the nickname Phantom and why I wield the biggest, baddest engine on the block.
I open it up down the straight, tucked in as tightly as possible behind the windscreen. I whip through the tunnel of air, topping out at over two hundred miles per hour.
