Aw, Pancake, you're never wrong~ xD Happy Easter to you too! ^-^ 3 But I read MissCarrera's version, and Mere asked me to do some story on that, so yeah, I guess. :) This A/N will be subject to change due to complications. :) Thanks, babyinuyasha; glad you like it!
And, as you readers might have noticed, I have added a new character to the characters' list under the summary. xD Please do note that, and the new summary.
Chapter Two
I follow the Bernoulli car, a beautiful dark silver Ferrari California, which has probably replaced Marlene's R8, with my own 458 Italia. The two have actually forbidden me to get in there with them, which is probably why Francesco let me take my 458 with me. Right in front of the car-you read right, front-are my things-personal stuff, clothes, a few notebooks, my laptop-since the California's trunk and rear seats are stuffed.
At least the company let me take a two-week vacation. "You deserve it," they said, "because you work overtime, and work on both the plant and the cars, so why not?" I was overjoyed, because I thought they wouldn't let me go.
As we take the road off the Interstate, we hit the gas until we see someone there in front, and slow. Excitement makes us pass them, and we continue with adrenaline in my veins. At least my 458 is purring, as happy as he should be. They don't drop the folding hard top though, and I know it's because of the baby. But I know Francesco's itching to do so; either that or he's saving it for later.
Within minutes we reach Radiator Springs. It's late afternoon, and most of the people have either returned home after touring the great Radiator Springs or resting. Sally's neon says there's no vacancy, and, after a shiver of uneasiness, I realize it's for the drivers of the nicknamed RSGP. I see a few trailers and trucks around, and with the colors of the flags and designs of the cars I grin: some racers have arrived already. Excitement surges through my skin, making it tingle, as I see a familiar flag. I want to get out of this black leather seat and embrace the good friend I met nearly two years ago. He's currently walking towards my car, wondering who's behind the window's dark tint of the sexy silver 458. I park to the side as manners would imply, and drop my window.
"Hey," I call, and he grins as he lowers himself so he can see me.
"Nice ride," he greets.
"When did you get here?" I ask.
"Just a few hours ago," he replies. "Where did you get this?" he shoots back happily.
"Like him?" I ask, revving the engine slightly. "Promotional gift thing," I say bluntly. "What're you guys doing?"
"Just drinking, as usual."
A honk of the California's horn and I know they're impatient. "Whoop, gotta go," I say.
"I'll meet you there," he replies, and I race away to the garages.
It's bright and spacious, really, and I'm amazed it's here. It looks like a repair garage though, because I see lifters and controls all around, with toolboxes and hoses scattered along the walls. I park, cut the engine and get out. That's when I hear an unfamiliar clunk in the back. Looks like driving for two days has taken its toll on him.
I make a mental note to just do it tomorrow or some other time, and I search my things in the spacious trunk up front, because I'm shivering slightly in my plain white t-shirt. I hadn't noticed it was cold under the influence of the AC of my 458. I struggle to find a decent sweater, and as I find a red one under the light of the car I slip it over my shirt. A wolf whistle hits my hearing, and I turn to see him there. I grin sheepishly, close my bag and shut the cover, locking my car into place.
When I glance back up at him, I stop. I notice the green, red and orange sweater he's wearing, along with almost the same black jeans I've got. It's like Sally's neon, it's eye-catching, and he, inexplicably, looks good in it. His hair is windblown and fluffed up, like he'd just ran his fingers through it, front to back. I flush, and he walks towards me.
"Trunk in the front?" he asks, admiring the front end.
"Yeah," I say. "Big enough to fit you in," I add playfully, and nudge him.
He gives a laugh and turns to me. "Big enough to smuggle me back to Italy?" he murmurs into my ear, his arm slipping on my waist.
"Yeah," I whisper back, turning to rest my hands onto his pullover. I gaze up into alluring green and he bends his head down to kiss me.
I hadn't realized I've been flirting, really. I'm not usually like that. And right now I think it's the peak of the situation. My hands slip over and under his collar, sliding onto skin, and both his arms are around my waist, holding me close.
I can feel his warm breath over my face that smells like Coke, and I can feel the tension in his lips, like he was holding back. I'm lost in a wonder of emotions, and my head clouds up just enough not to notice the footsteps right beside my 458.
"Hey," someone calls, and we jerk away. We're both flushing a deep red, and glance over to a familiar face. Jeff Gorvette.
"Don't you guys think it's a little early for that?" he asks, sipping a hot mug.
I can tell the man beside me is furious, but I slap the back of my hand gently to his belly to quiet the locked jaw. There's nothing to say; we've been caught red-handed-or is it red-faced?
Jeff only laughs at the embarrassment we feel and stalks away. "Oh, and Margo," he says over his shoulder, "your cousin is looking for you over at Flo's." I blink, still dazed. "She'll be furious when she knows what you've been doing," he adds, smirking.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he's going to bust me. "No!" I cry out immediately. "You can't do that!"
"Did I say anything about busting you?" he laughs, and walks away.
I slap my palm over my face, and his arms embrace me quietly.
"We better go," I say, looking up at him.
"Took the words right out of my mouth," he replies, smiling, and I'm on my toes to peck his cheek.
We're now at Flo's V8 Café, drinking soft drinks, only because the rest of them want to stay sober for the rest of the night and maybe because the supply of beer hasn't arrived yet. Either way, everyone's hyper and happy, all laughing at jokes and situations. The wives are out of the question, tending to their children and possibly talking amongst themselves, so that makes me the only girl only drivers there are Jeff Gorvette, Lewis Hamilton, Rip Clutchgoneski, Max Schnell, Francesco Bernoulli, Lightning McQueen and Nigel Gearsley. The rest haven't arrived yet, so that makes the list down to four more drivers to come: Carla Veloso, Shu Todoroki, Raoul ÇaRoule, and Miguel Camino.
Everyone's seated in a big round booth in the corner, all wearing signature jackets and sweaters, except for me, really. I'm seated right near the end of the leather couch, laughing with a can of Pepsi in my hand.
"So, what's the scoop back in Italy?" someone asks me.
"Still quiet, you pervs," I say, even if something did happen back home. They laugh, pointing to Francesco and nudging him, because they know I'll never really reveal what's going in the master's bedroom. I laugh with them, also hyper and happy.
"Lewis," I call out, "Marlene should be asking about Cosette. What should I tell?"
"God," he says, smiling as his head tips back. "Don't tell her anything," he says. "She'll understand."
I grin, and everyone howls.
"Congrats, amigo!" Lightning calls, and the rest of them follow.
Murmurs between pairs and trios leave me sipping my Pepsi alone, and when no one's looking, I move an inch to the side. When I finish the last of my Pepsi is when Jeff calls my attention.
"Why sit so close to Rip?" he asks, and everyone notices just how close I am to the wearer of the green, red and orange flag, sitting on my left. "You aren't close or anything?"
I flinch. That's just mean. I don't know what to say. Glancing up at Rip would cause an even greater uproar. Right now everyone's just plain interested, but as precious seconds tick by the men start forming conclusions.
"It's cold," I say evasively, remembering the party three years ago, and I fidget uncomfortably.
I'm trying to calm and negate their conclusions here, but they are just confirmed when his arm, resting on the backrest behind me, comes down on my side. The men howl and I flush, hiding my face. This is not good.
"I thought you didn't have a girlfriend?" Max Schnell asked the youngest driver.
"I didn't," Rip replied flatly. "Not when you asked."
Francesco looks at me, amused. The rest of them voices their approval and congratulations. My face appears from my hands. What's going on?
My face says it all, though. "We're not your usual kind of men, Margo," Jeff says. "We're happy whenever our friends are happy. We're not juveniles."
I only nod, relaxing, and my right hand takes his which has settled on my thigh. I sigh, relieved, my head leaning on his shoulder. It's only then when I realize I'm so exhausted. My eyelids droop, and my senses blur.
"Looks like someone's exhausted," Lightning calls, and I raise my head. Everyone's looking at me as I wonder what has happened.
"You better take her home, Rip," Francesco says. "She'll be out before she knows it."
I don't hear or see how he responds, but he helps me up with little encouragement. I stagger to my feet, sleepy, and he steadies me as we walk out of the café to my designated cone.
"Wait," I say through the fuzziness in my head. "What about my stuff?"
"You can get to them tomorrow," he murmurs.
In the lobby we find a key with my name on it and the number of the room, and head upstairs to have me settled down. Instantly I head for the large queen-sized bed, and as the lights are doused I instantly feel fear creep along my skin. I'm such a scaredy-cat in the dark.
"Stay," I call softly. I can't see him; my eyes haven't adjusted from the bright lights earlier. But I feel his hand on my face and pressure pushing the edged of the bed down. I push myself to the middle, pulling his arm as I settle. Uneasily he climbs in with me onto the covers, and when I've felt he's lying down, I snuggle up to his side, my face in the warm wool. I can smell the soft scent of the air freshener back at Flo's, and underneath is what I thought to be cinnamon-sweet and tangy. I feel his arms around me, and he's on his side, holding me. My head wants to sleep, but I don't want to.
My hand searches along the clothing until I hit his neck, to his face, and I tilt my head back so I can meet his. He's startled, but I don't give in. I pull myself up slightly, and his arms tighten around me. I gasp in ecstasy as he pulls me upwards, rolling himself onto his back. I don't want him to stop. I don't want him to leave. My left hand's fingers lace in his dark brown hair, my other hand on his shoulder, gripping his sweater like crazy. His breath is warm like the sun and sweet like Coke, and it only adds to the intoxication of my senses. I gasp his name mindlessly, and he flips us over, his hands on either side of my head, flat onto the bed. My arms are around his neck, hands under his collar, and I'm distracted by something trickling slowly down my eye. It's his turn to call my name, and it's my turn to flip us over.
I'm breathless. I'm exhausted. I want to go to bed. But not without him. "Stay," I whisper again. My head is on his shoulder, my left hand on his chest, feeling its rise and fall as he gasps for air. I notice just how strong his muscles feel under all that clothing. His hand is on my head gently, and he twists his head to kiss my forehead.
"Always," he replies softly, and under that word I black out.
Yuss sexy chapter with Rip CLutchgoneski. 8D I love it; it's pulling in very nicely. Beware though, there's no fluffiness yet!