Phase (Phoebe Reede: The Untold Story #1) (14 page)

AFTER I’D CHECKED out of the motel in Oklahoma, I drove the bike in a lazy circuit of the town. I had no idea when Beau was going to call, and I didn’t want to miss it when he did. I’d been puttering around for almost two hours before I wondered whether perhaps he’d wait until the evening because that’s when we’d always talked before.

Instead of waiting—and driving myself crazy in the meantime—I pulled out the mobile phone and called him.

“You’re callin’ a li’l earlier than I woulda thought,” he said as a greeting. “Anyone’d think you’re anxious to speak to me.”

“Not at all,” I lied as smoothly as I could—which wasn’t very. “I’m just trying to figure out which direction I should point my bike.”

“Lucky for you, I got it all figured out, darlin’. Providin’ ya can make it to Orlando by the third. Uh, that’s in Florida.”

“I know where Orlando is. And you’re in luck because Florida’s on my list of places to visit.”

“I reckon that sounds like fate.”

“Maybe. So what are you thinking?”

“I gotta work down that way the weekend before, but I’d love to stay on and meet ya for a bit of R&R afterward.”

“That sounds great, and actually fits my plan perfectly.”

“I didn’t think ya had a plan?”

“I don’t, not really, but there are certain things I wanted to see.” There was a stock car race down in Daytona that I wanted to check out, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Beau. He no doubt already thought I was odd enough for my ability to handle my bike. If I admitted wanting to go to a race meet alone, he’d probably think I was completely weird.

Or car obsessed.

Maybe I was, but it always intimidated men if I let them know that too soon. Even Mike back in Sacramento had proven that theory.

“Well now, I reckon that works for both o’ us,” he said before giving me the details of a theme park he wanted to take me to on July third.

The Fun Spot. A thousand jokes were on my tongue about other fun spots we could explore, but I let them die because of his earnest excitement.

“My treat and I won’t take no for an answer,” he insisted.

“Okay, I’ll see you then.”

“Oh and Dawson?”

“Yeah?”

“Ya can call me before then if you’d like to.”

“We’ll see.”

He laughed. “You’re such a tease.”

“Always.”

Once we’d finished the call, I turned the phone off and then checked the other one to make sure things were still good at home. Then I climbed onto my bike and started my journey toward Florida. I had almost a week to get there before the race on the second, and yet that seemed far less important than ensuring I was in Orlando just a day later.

MY TRIP to Florida was faster than most of my meandering travels across the country. Probably because I was so keen to get to the end. To see Beau again, as crazy as it was. The only time I’d stopped was for a steamboat ride up the Mississippi River. Other than that, my only entertainment was taking my bike up some scenic roads and just enjoying the time alone.

I timed a call home so that I was able to chat with everyone and tell them all about my travels. After listening to Beth sob down the line about how much she missed me, I was glad I had some plans, or I would have probably cashed in the rest of the trip to book a seat on the first flight home.

When I told Dad about heading down to the race in Daytona, he joked around that I should get on the track and show them how it’s done, and then went on to make a joke about the shape of the track. “Those yanks don’t know how easy they’ve got it,” he said with a laugh. “Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. And you’re done.”

“Should be interesting to see how it compares with a race meet in Australia,” I said.

In the background, I heard Mum’s voice murmuring something to Dad.

“Mum said to get some photos of the sponsorship signage. Maybe we can incorporate some ideas into the ER team.”

I chuckled. “I’ll try, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. I’m on holidays, remember? While I’m here, I’m not Phoebe Reede racer extraordinaire. I’m just me.”

“Okay, Just Me, have fun, won’t you?”

“Yeah, I will, Dad.”

“And be safe.”

“Always.”

After I hung up, I headed out to get something for dinner, settling on a takeaway hamburger. As I sat on the beach enjoying the food, I longed for home. For fish and chips from a local takeaway at a table overlooking King’s Beach, or a family BBQ at Bondi with Eden, Morgan, and Maxie together with our horde.

I stopped eating and started picking at my food as I thought of them. What was I doing, agreeing to meet with Beau again? Hadn’t it been just weeks ago that I’d told Max that the almost five years between us was too much, and yet I was chasing after a guy with a similar—bigger—age gap.

Only, it felt different.

After all, I was an adult, not on the cusp of entering adolescence. I was comfortable with my sexuality and ready to make the decision to have sex, even if I wanted to wait until I could experience it with someone who mattered to me.

The thoughts turned over in my head for far too long, and the burger was well past cold when I started picking at it again. I took a couple more bites before giving up. Standing, I brushed the sand off my arse and then found a bin for my rubbish.

It didn’t matter too much, I decided. After all, Beau had said himself that he was saving himself for marriage, and I wasn’t thinking about that with the guy. Well, I was, but only in my fantasies. I was able to distinguish between that and reality. It was a bit of fun, a chance to flirt a little with a hot guy. Besides, he’d suggested we meet in a public place, so I could trust him . . .

Couldn’t I?

There was still one day before our date, and in the meantime, I had my trip to the Daytona International Speedway to take my mind off it.

“ANGEL, I’M DYING.”

I groaned to emphasise my point.

I’d woken up too early for my day at the track with the worst stomach cramps. Within half an hour, the cramps had progressed to full-blown hurling, leaving me hunched over the toilet. Over and over, I lost the contents of my stomach until there was nothing left but bile to gag around.

Despite the agony twisting through my insides, I’d managed to crawl to my phone and call Angel. Mum had long ago ingrained in me to let someone know when I was sick. The medications I’d been on my entire life, which included an immunosuppressant, could easily make something as simple as the flu a deadly situation. I’d spent many nights in hospital under observation. Ultimately, it was always better to be safe than sorry.

“That better just be your dramatic butt way of saying you’re sick because if you die on my watch, your parents will kill me, and I am far too young to go yet.”

I moaned in response to her sass.

“Shit, girlie, are you being serious?”

“I think I had some bad—” The rest of my sentence cut off as I brought up the contents of my stomach again.

“Oh, Pheebs, are you going to be okay?” Angel asked when I crawled back to the phone and groaned to let her know I was there again.

“No. I told you, I’m going to die.”

“Let’s try it again without the dramatics. Are you going to be okay?”

I rested my forehead against the cold tiles. “Probably, but can you check in on me just in case?”

“Of course.”

I told her where I was staying and my room number in case I couldn’t get to my mobile phone. “If I don’t answer, I’m dead.”

She chuckled. “It sounds like you’re going to be fine. Put on some TV and try to take your mind off it.”

I grunted at her lack of empathy. The truth was, I wasn’t good when I was sick. I hated being ill and became a pain in the arse to everyone around me. Mum, Dad, and Angel had all borne the brunt of it often enough to be mostly immune. Dad always joked that it was when I stopped complaining that he started to worry.

Taking some tablets for the pain, I crawled back into the hotel bed—relieved I wasn’t due to check out that morning like I would have been if not for the race I wanted to go to.

Once I’d buried myself under the blankets, I turned on the TV to listen to the race I was missing. The one event I’d specifically wanted to get to on my trip. It wasn’t fair, but it was Murphy’s Law.

As often as I could, I snuck peeks around the blankets to watch the race, but each time I did, it was nothing but a reminder of what I was missing. Because I’d been around the track since I was little, I knew the thrill of the race was always so much better live and in person. Regardless of when or where, there was always a buzz that filled the crowd; an undercurrent of excitement that we were all present to witness something magical. History was made in the blink of an eye during a race.

And I was stuck in bed, watching snippets on TV.

The announcer called out the current placings, but the names meant nothing to me. I didn’t generally follow the sport. The meet would’ve been my first experience with it. And I was missing it because of some dodgy food.

There was a knock on the door. “Room service.”

With a groan, I tossed my blankets off and padded over to open the door. I was in nothing but my boy-leg undies and a tank—without a bra underneath—and my hair was crazy, but it didn’t matter. I was too sick to care.

“I think you’ve got the wrong room,” I murmured through the small opening I’d made before moving to close the door again.

“No, miss, although I was told you might say that. We had an external phone call with an urgent request to deliver these items to you.”

There was a bottle of water, a can of Sprite with a glass, some dry crackers, and a teddy bear.

“Thank you,” I said, managing a weak smile at the guy. I opened the door wider to let him bring the cart in. He put the tray down on the small table in the room and then just lingered. For a moment, I stared at him, blinking, wondering what the fuck he wanted. Then I remembered.

“Shit. You want a tip, don’t you?”

The “duh” look he gave me wasn’t entirely appropriate for someone in the hospitality industry, and if I hadn’t felt like crap, I might have given him a piece of my mind. Instead, I hunted for the bag I’d packed the night before when I’d thought I’d need my purse and money for the trip to the raceway. When I found it, I bent over to grab my purse from inside. I stood back up and caught the tail end of the glance he’d given my arse.

“Here’s your tip.” I shoved a five-dollar note at him so hard that he had little choice but to move back toward the door. “And I’ll give you another for nothing. Ogle my arse again and I’ll kick yours into next week.”

He held his hands up as he walked out the door. Punk. He was just lucky Dad wasn’t there. He’d kick the arse of anyone who objectified me like that. It made it hard sometimes when Mum started talking about ideas for promotional activities after my eighteenth. After all, a significant portion of them would require me to get my tits out a little—at least in a bra or bikini. Dad hated the idea. Mum was indifferent to it, and I was willing to do whatever I needed to in order to build my profile, get sponsors on board and money in the bank. None of the shoots were really any different from the catalogues and calendars I’d already been in. They just required a little more of a sexed-up attitude.

Trying to force the idiot bellhop out of my mind, I moved to the tray of goodies Angel had sent. Leaving the Sprite open so it would go flat, I had a few sips of the water and, when I kept that down, a tentative bite of the crackers. Then I grabbed the teddy bear and my phone and headed back to the blanket fort I’d constructed. I sent Angel a text thanking her for the care package. I didn’t mention the porter though. After all, it wasn’t her fault her generosity had come in the arms of a jerk.

AT SOME point, I must have drifted off because I jolted awake to the sound of applause. Apparently some guy named Miller had come first, followed by another guy named Hargrave. When the reporter cut to the winner, I buried my head under my pillow. His accent was just like Beau’s, which reminded me that our date was the next day.

If I survived that long.

Ignoring the TV, I got up to have the glass of now-flat lemonade. I took slow sips to ensure it didn’t send my stomach back into purge mode. When I was certain everything was staying down, I took my medication.

After checking in with Angel again, letting her know I was marginally better, I sent Beau a text, telling him I was heading to bed so wouldn’t be available to talk but that I was looking forward to catching up the next day. The word “date” felt too formal—too
much
—to put in writing.

I didn’t wait for a reply before crawling back into bed to sleep.