Holeshot

Holeshot

A Motocrossed Romance

Jackie Barbosa

BRYANT STREET PUBLISHING

HOLESHOT, A Motocrossed Romance

Copyright © 2019 by Jackie Barbosa*

*This book was originally published under the pseudonym M.A. Parker.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All locations and events referred to in this novel are used fictionally.

Holeshot (n) — In motocross, the position of being the first rider through the first turn of the course. Usually the fastest rider off the starting line.

One

Owen

"I was so scared when you went for the holeshot. I didn't think you were going to make it." The blonde presses up against me, her tank top with its spindly straps riding dangerously low. No bra, for sure, because I can see her nipples poking through the stretchy material. She's trying to make herself heard over the background noise in the Red Rocks Bar and Grill, which is bursting at the seams—kinda like her shirt—with track patrons like me, but she's also trying to get in my pants.

Two weeks ago, she wouldn't've had to work at it. I'd've thrown back the rest of my Johnnie Walker Gold on the rocks and taken her back to my hotel room without a second thought.

There are only two things that get me out of my own head: motocross racing and fucking. When I'm doing them, I'm not thinking a mile a minute because my whole brain and body are occupied. It's the closest I get to peace when I'm awake, and I'm damn good at both.

I've always known I was good at motocross, but now I have the proof. It's my first season on the Prime Piston motocross circuit, and just four races in, I'm leading the championship with three wins and a third-place finish. The press are calling me a phenomenon and a juggernaut and shit like that. It'd be embarrassing if it weren't true.

As for fucking, well, I figure if I weren't good at that, girls like this one wouldn't keep coming around. I mean, sooner or later, the word that I'm a bad lay would get out, right? I've been from one side of the country to the other and back again since I went pro. It’s been seven years, and I haven't spent a lot of nights alone. So yeah, I think I'm good in bed. And when I've got my face or my cock between a pretty girl's legs, I'm a happy man.

Then why am I hesitating about taking this blonde back to my room and getting naked?

The answer is sitting at a table in the main part of the restaurant, plucking French fries from a platter and popping them between her plump, pink lips while she scribbles stuff down on a notepad. Every once in a while, I catch her looking up at me. When I do, she looks away and scribbles down more shit in that notebook.

Her name's Lucy Salcido. She's a reporter for MotoRacer magazine and after I jumped to the top of the championship standings by winning the first two races out of nowhere—and out of nowhere, my ass; I've been busting tail since I was a teenager in this sport and I've earned my goddamn dues—my agent called to tell me she'd be embedded with my team for the rest of the season. Embedded, like motocross is a war zone and me and the Mad Maxx team are some kind of military task force.

Though, thinking about it, maybe it's not that far off.

Anyway, I know she was born in Guadalajara, Mexico but moved to San Bernardino when she was little because her dad got a job as a professor of Latin-American Studies at UC Riverside. Also, I know she not only graduated from high school—which I barely did—but got high enough grades to go to fucking UCLA, where she got a degree in journalism, and that she writes articles about me that have a lot of words in them that I've never even heard. In the first one she wrote, she referred to me as an ineluctable force, which I found out by looking it up on my phone means unavoidable or inescapable, and why couldn't she just use one of those words instead? I also know she's three years older than me, because I Googled her and she's got a website. She’s written a lot of articles, not just about motocross but about other things, mostly having to do with the arts and entertainment scene in East L.A. But even though she’s obviously crazy smart, she listens to me when I tell her stories about my wild ride from local amateur races to the NMA like I actually have something interesting and intelligent to say. Which is just mind-boggling to me, but then, I suppose it’s also her job.

And she is great at her job, at least when it comes to covering motocross. I’m not saying her other articles aren’t good, too; I just don’t know enough about the topics to have an opinion about the content. But when it comes to motocross, Lucy knows her stuff. I wondered how she came to be an expert observer, and it turns out she grew up in San Bernardino, not far from Glen Helen Raceway. Of course, not everyone who grows up near a motocross track becomes a fan of motocross, let alone an authority on it, but apparently two of her brothers raced for several years and so she spent a lot of time at the track, watching and learning and falling in love with the sport.

The other thing about Lucy is…she's gorgeous. Not pretty the way this girl who's rubbing herself up against me like she's a cat and I'm a cat tree is pretty, but in this sexy, steamy way that makes me forget other women exist. I can't pin down the attraction to one thing or even five things. It's the whole package, from her brown skin that looks like it'd feel like velvet to her tons of long, curly hair that's almost black and her big brown eyes with these thick and—as far as I can tell—natural eyelashes that would make a Kardashian cry with envy. Plus, she's got a body that won't quit. Not just tits, but ass and hips and waist and…

Holy shit, I'm getting hard just thinking about her, and that's giving my motoho the wrong idea. She's sliding into the space between my legs, and her hand is working its way down to my crotch.

Sorry, Candy, I say, grabbing her wrist before she can grab my junk, but I'm beat tonight. Maybe some other time.

She blinks in confusion before sticking out her lower lip in a pout that, I gotta be honest, is not attractive. It's Mandy, she says. She doesn't say, you dumbass, but it's there in her tone. I heard you were good for a good time, Goin' Owen, but I guess I heard wrong.

Then she pushes away from me and flounces off while I wince at that nickname. I got it when I started BMX racing when I was twelve, and it wasn't so bad back then, but now it's got extra meanings attached to it that I get ribbed about a lot. Just because those extra meanings are fair doesn't mean I like hearing other people talking about my sex life all the damn time.

Mandy is making a beeline for Tyler now. He was behind on the track this weekend, too, poor bastard. She'll probably be fun, though, and Tyler deserves a little fun. He's been having a less-than-successful season thanks to me, and that can't make him happy.

I turn back toward the bar, pick up my drink, and bring it to my lips. This is my second shot, and I never drink more than two while I'm on the circuit because the last thing I need is a hangover, so I only take a small sip and swish it around in my mouth, savoring the harsh burn and smoky flavor before swallowing.

When I look back toward the restaurant, Lucy's not at her table anymore, and I feel a little thread of panic in my chest. She never leaves before I do. She's always there—watching me. Writing about me. And, I’m afraid, maybe judging me and finding me lacking. Because I am lacking in everything it would take to convince her to hang out with me if it weren’t her job.

I scan the crowd, searching for her, and then suddenly, she's right the fuck beside me. It's all I can do to keep from letting out a very unmanly squeak of surprise.

Hey, Lucy, I say, trying to be nonchalant. This is another word I learned from reading one of her articles. Need a drink?

She fixes me with those big, brown eyes and shakes her head. Why didn't you leave with her? she asks.

Because I want to leave with you is what I don't say.

Two

Lucy

I wasn't jealous of the blonde who'd been chatting up Owen Lenart at the bar. Not a bit.

In the two weeks since I started traveling with his team to cover his unprecedented rise to the top of the NMA—that's National Motocross Association—Prime Piston Championship standings in his very first season, I've learned a lot about him, and one of them was that he was a serious chick magnet. Not that his reputation in that arena, as well as on the track, didn't precede him, because it did. Goin' Owen is his nickname for more than one reason, and everything I heard about him from the people who knew him during the years he spent on the lesser pro circuits was that Owen wasn't goin' to his room alone most nights.

Don't get me wrong. I don't give a shit how many women he's slept with. If he had a reputation for being a jerk, I'd care, but he doesn't. In fact, his rep is that he's a fantastic hook-up: honest about his intentions, responsible about protection, and diligent about his partners' pleasure. If I was interested in hooking up with him, I wouldn't hesitate.

But I'm documenting his rise to fame and fortune—at least, as much as a person can get in motocross, which granted, isn't anything like a lot of other sports—so it's not like I can just sleep with him once and go on my merry way. I'm stuck with him until the end of the championship series or until he falls off the pedestal and my editor recalls me. The first is at least three months away, and the second doesn't seem likely to happen.

The man really is an ineluctable force on the track. I didn't overstate that.

He's not my type, though.

Okay, I'll admit, he's really good-looking. Like, model gorgeous from his face to his body, which he must treat like a temple because I've seen him without a shirt and those pecs and abs are seriously ripped. Also, my favorite movie when I was growing up was The Princess Bride, and Owen has this Westley-after-becoming-the-Dread-Pirate-Roberts vibe that makes me want to fan myself.

But just because he's easy on the eyes and makes my heart go pitter-patter doesn't make him my type. I want a guy I can really talk to, one who shares my interests not just in sports, but in the arts, in politics, in life goals. Owen Lenart is fine, but he isn't that guy. He's a Ferrari. I'm looking for a Volvo. A solid, dependable, safe sort of man.

I know all this because I've done my research. Before I ever met him, I knew practically everything there is to know about him. I know he started racing BMX bikes at twelve, moved to motocross as soon as he was old enough to drive, and went pro at nineteen. I know he was born and raised in San Antonio by a single mom, finished his last year of high school online, and reportedly gets laid more often than I wash my hair. (Thick and prone to frizziness. Need I say more?)

Except, since I caught up with his team at Glen Helen, I haven't seen him leave a single bar or restaurant with a woman. Oh, he's been approached. More than once most nights. But he's never taken the bait. Not. Once.

Odd, right?

I was sure when I saw them together—the blonde standing in the cradle of his open thighs and leaning down to talk in his ear—that she was going to be the one to break the dry spell. In addition to her All-American cheerleader prettiness, she's tall and slim