Who We Are

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Summary: Junior and Havoc work it out at Daytona.  “It's about holding ghosts at bay”

AUTHOR: Gwen
EMAIL: gwen@cryptoffic.com
RATING: NC-17
CHARACTER: Dale Earnhardt Jr./Kevin Harvick, Dale Jr POV
DISCLAIMER: Purely fiction, people.  I don't even know these guys.  Just daydreaming. I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is for Cat, cause I lost a bet about Junior.  So, how come, if this is all his fault, he gets the good sex out of it?  Go figure. Anyway, hope she likes it, and I won't be betting with her again anytime soon. :) (Ahhhh but the Cat loves you for this, so much!)
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Daytona International Speedway: Infield - 4th of July

A firecracker from way over in the infield wakes me up. I’m a little disoriented at first till I remember I fell asleep on top of the hauler. My watch says 4 a.m. and I can still hear some of the fans carrying on over there. Fourth-of-July in Daytona. Craziness.

It’s quiet over here, though. Security keeps the fans and media out. Some of the drivers and crews aren’t even here yet. They’ll all be pulling in tomorrow, but a few of us came down early just cause…you know…it’s fucking Daytona.

We grilled steaks out in front of Tony’s coach last night. Drank some beers. Rode out and did some fireworks on the beach. I think Johnson ended up burning some of his hair off and Elliott blew a jellyfish out of the water with an M-80 before the cops came and ran us back to the track.

Some more beers and then we had a little fun with Kasey after he passed out. We stripped him down and all wrote messages on him with Sharpies. Good messages. I bet he stays awake next time.

Finally, me and Havoc left the rest of the guys to their carousing and came over to the hauler lot, climbed up top of the number 8 truck, and watched the fireworks that the fans were shooting from over in the infield. Man, there was some serious firepower going on, it looked like fucking Times Square.

And, I guess, somewhere along the way, I passed out. It’s deserted and quiet over here now, except for the occasional lone firecracker or rebel yell that carries over from the infield campers, from the few crazy-assed fans who are still fighting the good fight and haven’t passed out yet. There’s lights on the poles at the end of the lot, but the hauler’s out of range of even them. 

There’s still a faint smell of gunpowder and barbecue hanging in the air, mixing with the scent of the ocean and it all just gets together and smells like summertime. 

The stars look like somebody just tossed a handful of diamonds out across the sky, and for a minute I try to remember my high school science lessons about where the constellations are. But then I get a knee in the ribs when Kevin stretches and I forget the stars and look at him instead.

I don’t often get to see him this still and quiet. Generally, he’s like a roadrunner on crack, taking life two steps ahead of everybody around him.

Most of the time, it’s adrenaline. Sometimes, though, he’s just trying to outrun his demons. The main one right now being his wife.

I’m not high on D’s friends list, on account of I’m fucking her husband. But, I figure that’s her fault. Somewhere along the way, she started seeing nothing but dollar signs when she looked at him. If she hadn’t, he might not have wandered my way.

I sure as hell wasn’t turning him down. 

Now, we have an unspoken agreement. DeLana gets to be Ms. KHI and collect the money. Kevin and I get each other. It works out for everybody, in a fucked-up sort of way.

He’d had on a button-up over his t-shirt earlier, but he’d taken it off and rolled it up to make a pillow. He’s barefoot, in faded jeans and his t-shirt’s riding up so his belly’s showing.

Well, hell, that’s what I call an invitation.

I lean over and kiss his stomach. His skin’s warm and I run my tongue around his belly button. He stirs, moans real low, and lays his hand on the back of my neck. I remember reading a saying on somebody’s t-shirt one time about not waking up sleeping dragons.

Too late, I guess, cause he’s doing that cat-type stretch thing he does that always makes me horny.

Kevin’s one of those people who’s just always comfortable in his skin. He’s long and lean and moves in an easy, lazy kind of way, completely aware of how it affects the people around him. I’ve watched girls…and more than a few guys….literally drool when he walks by. Loose-hipped and confident behind his Hugo Boss sunglasses and million-watt smile. 

It’s all I can do not to growl at people to keep the hell away from him.

Course, about that time he’ll lean over and whisper some totally filthy proposition in my ear and then I can just feel sorry for everybody else, cause I know he’s teasing them all and saving his stuff for me.

He moves again now, takes a deep breath when I lick across his ribs. I sit up and straddle his waist, and he raises up enough for me to get his shirt off over his head before I push him back down.

I just want to look at him some more.

He’s tanned and smooth and it makes my mouth water. I reach out and flick his nipple ring with my fingers and he catches his breath, sharp and quick.

He got that nipple ring as a birthday present for me. That’ll teach him to ask me what I want. It’s hot as hell.

So hot, in fact, that I have to lean over and work at it with my tongue, loving the way he arches up against me and groans.

Yeah. My next birthday? I’m thinking a tatt. Maybe my name inked on his belly. That’d be the shit.

I give the ring a tug with my teeth and he makes this animal noise that does funny things to my insides. Quick touch of tongue to ease it, and I sit up. Since I’m still straddling him, it’s probably putting a nice pressure on his cock cause he’s doing this growly thing now and pressing his hips up against my ass.

He puts his hands on my waist and holds me still and, fuck, I can feel how hard he is. Runs his hands up my sides, taking my shirt off as he goes, and tosses it away. I lean down to kiss him, long and slow and like I want to memorize his mouth, map it out with my tongue, just move the fuck in and live there. 

He’s got me all wrapped up tight and does a quick flip maneuver that puts me on my back. He’s a pushy fucker, have I said that? But I let him get away with it this time, cause he’s sucking on my nipple and has a leg between my thighs, pressing in just the exact right place. That’ll make me forgive a lot.

In the middle of the sucking and pressing, he stops and raises his head to look at me. ”Hmmm?”

Hell, I didn’t even know I’d said anything. But since he’d stuck a hand down the front of my jeans, I could have been talking in tongues for all I know. For now, I forget talking and just reach down and undo my zipper to give him better access. That makes him grin that goofy, crooked Kevin grin that usually means trouble, but now probably just means he loves me. He’s mushy like that sometimes.

Gives my dick a squeeze, takes his hand away and sits up. ”Get naked, babe.”

He sure as hell don’t have to tell me twice.

I’m glad for the dark now, but honestly? At this minute, fucking ESPN could be doing a live spot right here and I wouldn’t give a shit. 

We shuck the rest of our clothes and then we use em to lay on and we’re all wrapped up again. At first, it feels weird being up here on the hauler naked as jaybirds, but I forget all about that pretty quick. Kevin’s all mouth and hands and taking control of the situation and I’m once again glad as fuck that he generally has lube in his pocket when we’re anywhere in the vicinity of each other. 

Kevin Harvick can want sex in some of the strangest places at the strangest times. Being with him has been a fucking education, no pun intended. He’s a seat-of-the-pants kind of guy. Keeps me on my toes. And usually keeps him on his knees.

And, we’re great fans of up-against-the-wall, teeth-baring, bruise-making sex, cause…yeah. Good times.

But not tonight. Tonight is about slow and easy. It’s about each other. And it’s about holding ghosts at bay, one in particular, because after all, this is Daytona and this particular ghost in this particular place brings up issues for both of us. We deal with it together because, apart, we just might not be able to hold our own, either one of us.

So, we take the long way around. Map each other’s bodies with our hands. With our mouths. With whispered things that we can’t say in front of anyone else, but it’s okay because those things belong to just us, anyway. Work up to the place where it’s so good that you wonder if your heart is gonna keep fucking pounding like it is, or if it will just decide to give up and cry uncle. Panting and straining, trying to just crawl the fuck into each other. It’s awkward and sweat-slicked and enough to drive away any demon, any doubt, any ghost, any fucking thing except what we’ve got. 

And after. Laying sprawled on our clothes, sticky with sweat and come. Watching the night moving away, the stars blinking out a few at a time. A dog barks down in the infield, reminding us that there are a few thousand people camping not too far away and wouldn’t this make a hell of a splash on Speed TV?

Shuffle around and manage to get dressed in the half light. We sit on the hauler and watch the sun come up. 

Daytona will come alive in a little while and, once again, we’ll be NASCAR superstars. Ready to face the public, make nice to the media, suck up to the sponsors. Get behind the wheel of our 3400 pound race cars and try to go fast enough to be first to the checkers. Cheat the grim reaper one more time, if we’re lucky. This is what we do.

This night that we just spent? This is who we are.

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Gwen - gwen@cryptoffic.com