Dirt Driven (Racing on the Edge Book 11)

the back of his hand sweeping over his busted mouth, and easily pulled away from Easton who had gotten a hold of the front of his racing suit.
They exchanged a look. I couldn’t see Rager’s eyes in the darkness of night, but I could see Easton’s, and he was backing down, spitting blood and in obvious pain.
Easton then smiled, holding up his palms to Rager, Spencer, and two track officials separating them. Easton reached down to retrieve his sunglasses in the dirt but Rager kicked them away from him.
You could see the torment in Rager’s eyes—he didn’t want to stop. I knew then he didn’t think Easton had paid enough.
When he turned around to face me, his face was red, his mouth and hands bleeding, eyes swollen with a busted lip. Blood drenched the front of his suit but his eyes, oh God, those eyes. They asked so many fucking questions I didn’t know what to say to him.
With a renewed sense of urgency, and a feeling of testosterone-laden accomplishment, Rager twisted around to Easton, after stepping on his sunglasses and gruffly said, “You mess with me or her again, and I’ll shove those fuckin’ sunglasses down your goddamn throat.”
Rager reached for me next, his hands on my waist, pulling me into him, his breathing heavy and intense as he attempted to control himself. His eyes met mine as his face twisted into a tight grimace of pain and regret. His head shook, giving me a look I didn’t understand.
I didn’t know what to say, or do, so I stood there, my hands at my sides. I swallowed, feeling as if I was trying to swallow sand.
His eyes searched mine. “You mad?”
Was I? I didn’t even know. Honestly, I was kind of turned on by it.
“No, she’s not,” Casten answered for me, handing Rager a beer. He took it and held it at his side, keeping one hand on my hip.
Finally reacting, I kicked Casten’s shin. “Go away.” And then I stared at my husband some more. The thing was, I wasn’t mad. Rager had every right to be mad at what Easton pulled on the track. Though I’d have some explaining to do in the morning for him, I certainly wasn’t mad at him.
Reaching up with my free hand, I gently touched my fingers to his bloody lip. “Was that about the wreck or me?”
Rager’s jaw clenched, then relaxed, his eyes narrowing. “You think I didn’t notice the way he was staring at you all night? I saw him approach you earlier.”
My voice trembled around the words, “He wasn’t staring at me.” But it was a lie. Every time I walked by tonight, Easton’s eyes lingered.
He looked at me with dark eyes, his breathing heavy, his anger slowing. “He was,” he pointed out, his breathing beginning to even out but the grip on my hips tightened as his chest made contact with mine. The cool metal of the hauler caused me to jump slightly in his arms. “He knows he fucked up letting you go.” His dominating stare moved from mine to my lips, then back to my eyes. “He’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m going to let him stare at you in front of me.”
“Is that why you hit him?”
Rager laughed, but his eyes told me it wasn’t from amusement. “What do you think?”
“No. You hit him because he wrecked you….”
He shook his head, stepping back with a heavy sigh. “I hit him because he looked at you. I kept going because he wrecked me.” Sighing, he pushed his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “It’s bullshit. We have to be in Tulare tomorrow night. I was leading the points, but now we have a six-hour drive ahead of us and I have a bent fuckin’ car.”
Like I said, Rager had every right to be mad at what happened out there tonight. And he was right, we had to be in Tulare tomorrow for a two-night show and it would take hours to fix what was broken on the car.
Behind my back, inside our hauler, Lane, Willie and Dave were in there frantically trying to load up and get going, yet here we were, lost in a moment together.
Rager shifted his stance, his brows drawn together in what seemed like confusion when he noticed my stare over his shoulder at Easton walking away. “Don’t tell me you were having second thoughts about him.”
Did Easton knock him in the head a little too hard? What a fucker for asking that.
What did I do?
I actually smacked his face. Not hard. Playfully. Like a love tap. “Are you fucking kidding me? Why would you ask that?”
It must have hurt when I hit his cheek though because he pushed me up against the hauler gently and grabbed my wrists, trapping my arms at my sides. “Don’t hit me.”
“Well, don’t ask stupid shit.”
We stared at one another, neither one of us wanting to back down, but then he cracked a smile. “How about we try out the pit bleachers before we leave?”
I made a face. “No. Last time we did that I ended up in the ER getting a sliver the size of a nail out of my ass.”
“No, it was actually a nail. Don’t you remember? You had to get a tetanus shot.”
I laughed and finally he freed my wrists. “No wonder it hurt so bad.” Wrapping my arms around his neck, I brought our bodies together again. “Rager, you know I married you for a reason and had your babies. I love you, not him.”
He nodded but his mouth was suddenly busy against my neck. “I know.” And he did, but it didn’t stop the man inside him from needing a reminder every once in a while.
Dad made his way over to us. “I wonder if I can order Riley-Harris Racing to fix this shit?” Dad flicked his hand to Rager’s junked car. “His fucking driver did it. I bet I could get away with that, couldn’t I?”
“Technically, you’re