Chapter 16: Everybody Walk The Dinosaur

After being Ivy's plaything on and off for sixteen hours, we landed in Japan and headed straight for the Suzuka Circuit. No hotel, no sightseeing, no recovery time for my thoroughly drained body, just me, Ivy, and her single-minded determination to conquer another track.

"Home sweet home," Ivy announces as she punches a code into a keypad beside a sleek purple trailer parked in the paddock area.

The door slides open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing an interior that sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. The layout is eerily similar to the trailer where Ivy first raped me, same minimalist design, same purple accents, except this one features a massive king-sized bed dominating the main area.

"You sleep here?" I ask, wheeling my luggage inside. "At the track?"

Ivy shrugs, already stripping off her travel clothes. "Hotels are distractions. Here, I can focus completely."

"And the bed?"

A predatory smile spreads across her face. "That's new. Had it installed last week when I knew you'd be joining me."

A good night's sleep and one extremely thorough christening of said bed later, I'm sprawled naked across purple silk sheets, sweat cooling on my skin as Ivy moves around the trailer. My muscles ache in the most satisfying way possible, though my body still hasn't figured out what time zone it's in.

"Where are we going?" I ask, watching her pull on form-fitting athletic wear.

She glances at me over her shoulder, those purple eyes gleaming with that strange post-coital clarity I've come to recognize. Every time we have sex, she gets this look, like her brain has suddenly accessed some higher plane of existence.

"I have to do a track walk," she says, tying her hair back in a tight ponytail. "Learn the terrain, feel the bumps, understand how the asphalt contours."

I push myself up onto my elbows. "Do you want me to go with you?"

She pauses, conflict playing across her features. "I do, but I can't get distracted if you come with me." A sigh escapes her as she seems to wrestle with herself. "Actually, I need you to come with me."

I sit up, gathering the silky sheets around my waist as I study her face. There's that fierce concentration in her eyes, the same look she gets when analyzing telemetry data or discussing race strategy with her engineers.

A strange thought crosses my mind as I watch her prepare. Does Ivy genuinely believe there's something magical about our intimate moments? Like my vitality somehow transforms her, makes her superhuman on the track? As if what we do together is some kind of performance-enhancing ritual, a placebo that convinces her brain she's unstoppable?

The idea is both ridiculous and strangely compelling. Maybe it's not about any actual physical change but the psychological edge it gives her, like athletes who refuse to wash lucky socks or follow exact pre-game routines.

"I want to have you with me," she says, interrupting my thoughts as she laces up her running shoes, "but I also need to stay focused on every detail of this track. The elevation changes are subtle but crucial."

"I understand," I reply, offering a supportive smile.

Ivy hesitates at the door, then suddenly turns back and rushes toward me. Before I can react, she wraps her arms around me in a fierce embrace, pressing her body against mine with surprising intensity. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest as she holds me tight.

"We can hold hands, but that's it, okay?" she murmurs against my neck, then pulls back, her purple eyes serious.

The request feels more for her than for me.

"Yeah, of course," I say, reaching for my clothes. "I get it. Professional mode."

Relief washes over her face as she watches me pull on my jeans and t-shirt. "Thank you for understanding."

Twenty minutes later, we're walking the famous Suzuka Circuit under the warm Japanese sun. The track is eerily quiet without the screaming engines that will fill it in a few days. Ivy's hand is warm in mine, her grip firm but not possessive as we stroll along the racing line.

Ivy's grip tightens on my hand as we approach the turn one, her eyes scanning the track with laser-like intensity. Her face transforms into a mask of pure concentration, almost trancelike as she absorbs every detail of the racing surface. She's so focused I don't even know if she remembers I'm here.

"So what's the deal with you and your mom?" she asks suddenly, her gaze never leaving the apex of Turn 1.

'I stand corrected'

I let out a surprised chuckle. "Focus on the track."

"Yes, good point," she replies, nodding seriously.

We continue walking, her eyes mapping invisible racing lines as her thumb absently strokes mine. Three minutes later, as we navigate the famous S-curves, she breaks her meditative silence again.

"Did your mom go to all of your sister's races?" she asks, still not looking at me, her eyes fixed on the subtle camber of the upcoming corner.

"Ivy, seriously. Track walk, remember?"

"Right, right," she mutters, squeezing my hand apologetically. "The shifts here are quite dramatic."

I smile to myself, finding her behavior oddly endearing. The world's most focused racing driver, who can thread a needle at 300 km/h, apparently can't walk a track without her mind wandering to my family history.

We reach the Degner curve when she pipes up again. "Does your mom know we're together?"

"For someone so obsessed with focus, you're remarkably distractible," I tease, gently bumping her shoulder with mine.

She finally tears her eyes from the track to give me a sheepish smile. "Sorry. My brain just works differently when you're around. Part of me is calculating braking points, and another part just wants to know everything about you."

"Tell you what," I say, squeezing her hand as we round the corner. "I'll make you a deal. Focus on your track walk now, and I promise I'll tell you everything you want to know about my complicated family history when we're finished."

Ivy's purple eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line of annoyance. She looks like she wants to argue but instead gives a curt nod.

"Yes, of course," she says, her tone clipped. Despite her agreement, her grip on my hand tightens possessively, as if afraid I might slip away if she loosens her hold even slightly.

We continue our path around the circuit in relative silence, though I catch her stealing glances at me whenever she thinks I'm not looking. Her thumb still traces small circles against my skin, an unconscious habit she's developed that sends little sparks of electricity up my arm.

The minutes stretch on as we navigate the remainder of the course. I can feel Ivy's restlessness growing with each step, her body practically vibrating with contained questions. The technical focus she usually maintains is clearly battling with her newfound obsession with my personal life.

As we finally walk past Turn 18, Ivy abruptly stops, whirling to face me with the excited impatience of a child on Christmas morning.

"Okay, I'm all done," she announces, not even attempting to hide her eagerness. Her eyes are bright with anticipation, all pretense of professional track assessment abandoned. "Now tell me about your mother."

I can't help but laugh at her transparent enthusiasm. "That was the fastest track walk I've ever seen. Did you actually absorb anything about those last few turns?"

"Of course I did," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm a racing genius. Now stop stalling and tell me why your relationship with your mother is so strained."

Her directness catches me off guard. Most people dance around family issues, but Ivy dives in headfirst, as fearless off the track as she is on it.

I sigh, looking past Ivy to the empty track stretching behind her. Something about the vastness of it reminds me of the distance between me and my family.

"My mom never really saw me," I admit, the words coming easier than I expected. "Her entire world revolved around Melissa's racing career. I was just... baggage that got dragged along to tracks across the country."

Ivy's eyes soften, her grip on my hand tightening slightly.

"She had Melissa in karting by age five, and everything, literally everything, became about maximizing her potential. Our house was decorated with Melissa's trophies. Family vacations were planned around race schedules. Dinner conversations centered on racing strategy."

"And you?" Ivy asks, her voice gentler than I've ever heard it.

I laugh, but there's no humor in it this time. "I was the kid sitting in the corner of the garage with a book, or hanging out with mechanics who felt sorry for me. My mom barely noticed if I was there or not."

We start walking again, but slower now, with no real destination.

"When I started dating Blair, my mom completely lost it," I continue, surprising myself with how easily I'm divulging my secrets to Ivy. "Called me a disgusting, traitorous slut right to my face. Said I was betraying Melissa by sleeping with the enemy. She actually tried to kick me out of the house, packed my bags herself. Dad had to physically block the door."

"Interesting," Ivy whispers, her purple eyes wide.

"Yeah. And when I started streaming? She laughed in my face, told me I'd make more money with an OnlyFans. Nothing I did was ever good enough. Not racing-adjacent enough."

Ivy stops walking, turning to face me fully. "What about when Melissa lost the F2 championship last year?"

My jaw tightens at the memory. "Mom blamed me, of course. Said I distracted Melissa by dating Blair, that I divided her focus when she needed family support." I shake my head, anger rising in my chest. "The truth is, Melissa lost because my mom burned her out. Years of relentless pressure, never being allowed a normal childhood, always being told that second place was first loser, it finally caught up with her."

Ivy lets out a low, mocking laugh, shaking her head. "Sounds to me like your sister just couldn't handle the heat. Racing separates the predators from the prey." She runs her fingers through her purple-streaked hair, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Though I must admit, it's somewhat disappointing. It would've been far more entertaining if I stole you away from your sister rather than your ex."

"That's not nice," I say, but I can't help the small laugh that escapes.

Her purple eyes gleam with something dangerous and possessive. "I'm only nice to you, Nick." She steps closer, her thumb tracing circles on my wrist. "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

The intensity of her gaze makes my stomach flip. I clear my throat, suddenly eager to shift the conversation away from my family's dysfunction.

"What about you?" I ask. "How did you end up this way?"

Ivy's expression shifts, hardening into something analytical and cold. She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

"It was simple, really," she says, her voice taking on an edge I've come to recognize as dangerous truth. "I demanded their support. When they hesitated, I forced their hand."

"Forced their hand? What does that mean?"

She shrugs, the gesture deceptively casual. "My mother wanted me to follow him into corporate law. My father thought racing was too dangerous." A smile spreads across her face, all teeth and no warmth. "So I sold my grandfathers jewelry, family heirlooms, to buy my first kart. When they found out, they were furious."

"Jesus, Ivy. How old were you?"

"Nine." Her voice carries no remorse. "I told them they could either support me properly or I'd keep selling everything I could get my hands on. I'd already figured out where my father kept his most valuable pieces."

I stare at her, trying to process this glimpse into her childhood. "That's... intense."

"It was effective," she corrects, squeezing my hand possessively. "By the time I was ten they saw how serious I was, they'd hired the best coaches in Europe. By twelve, they were fully financing my junior career. Sometimes people need to see how passionate you are to get what you want."

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "I'd never do something like that. I couldn't just manipulate people into supporting me."

Ivy's expression softens unexpectedly, her fingers reaching up to brush my cheek with surprising tenderness. "That's because you're too good for this world, Nick. Too kind." Her thumb traces my lower lip as her eyes hold mine. "But don't worry. I'll take care of you from now on. You don't need to be calculating when you have me."

There's something both comforting and terrifying about her promise. Before I can respond, we round the corner heading back to the paddock and nearly collide with Blair. She's clutching a coffee that sloshes dangerously close to the rim, her usually immaculate appearance noticeably disheveled. Her electric blue hair sticks up at odd angles, and dark circles shadow her silver eyes.

Ivy's posture immediately shifts, shoulders squaring as she steps slightly in front of me, creating a barrier between Blair and myself.

"Weren't you supposed to be at the media pen an hour ago?" Ivy asks, her voice dripping with contempt. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Blair's eyes dart between me and Ivy, her silver gaze lingering on our intertwined hands. Something flickers across her face, something raw and wounded that vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

"Overslept," she mutters, taking a sip of her coffee. Her hand trembles slightly, causing more liquid to splash over the rim. "Jet lag's a bitch."

I notice now the wrinkles in her team shirt, the way her racing boots are laced unevenly. This isn't the meticulously put-together Blair West I know. The Blair who would rather die than appear unprepared, who used to lay out her clothes the night before races with military precision.

"Jet lag?" Ivy scoffs, her voice sharp with mockery. "Your body should be used to it by now." She presses herself closer to my side, her hip bumping against mine possessively. "Unless something else is keeping you up at night?"

Blair's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath her pale skin. "I'm fine," she snaps, but the dark circles under her eyes tell a different story. "Just working through some setup issues with the engineers."

Ivy lets off a cruel laugh.

"Sure."