Driven to Protect, page 1
Driven To Protect
Table of Contents
Title Page
Driven To Protect (Gamble Racing, #4)
About the author
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 28
Author Notes
All Books by Renée Dahlia
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Driven To Protect
Renée Dahlia
Paid to protect him ... But at what cost?
Paulo's father's money bought him a seat in a Series One car, and now he needs to prove himself. Unfortunately, after a spectacular crash he finds it hard not to believe all the bad press about him. He escapes hospital to go to a dodgy bar, thinking a secret hook-up might get this all out of his system. Then he meets Cohen.
Working as a security guard in a run-down gay bar as a trans man has meant Cohen has seen a lot of things. But none as thrilling as when rich and famous Paulo offers him a new job. He can take the money and protect his boss without getting emotionally involved. Can’t he?
As the racing season progresses, they have everything to prove. Paulo needs to be the driver he knows he can be, and Cohen needs to show that he can protect the man he’s falling in love with.
About the author
An avid reader, Renée Dahlia writes contemporary and historical queer romance. Renée is a bisexual cis woman who is fascinated by people and loves to explore human relationships, with a side of humour, through her writing. Renée has a degree in physics and mathematics, using this to write data-based magazine articles for the horse racing industry. Her love of horses often shines through in her fiction, and she loves a good intrigue and to escape the real world in the pages of a book. When she isn’t reading or writing, Renée spends her time with her four children, usually watching them play cricket.
Foreword
Welcome to DRIVEN TO PROTECT, the fourth book in the Gamble Racing series.
If you love gay sports romance with a protection/security guard theme, workplace tension, and a little mystery thrown in, Driven by Passion is the book for you. This series contains a few mystery plots that continue between each book; however, I have tried to make each book a standalone read.
Please note this story contains transphobia (mostly off page and implied), asshole parents, homophobia, travel to nations where being queer is illegal, bigoted Christianity, and a police chase (in USA but written from my Australian perspective – please don’t laugh too much!).
This book is written in Australian English and some spelling and phrases may be unfamiliar to American readers.
If you are keen to keep up to date on new releases and, more importantly, sales, I recommend you sign up to my newsletter, or follow me on social media.
Social Media Links
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I hope you enjoy reading this book!
Renée
Chapter 1
October. Austin, Texas
Cohen was bored. He leaned against the entry door for Horny’s, half-inside and half-out, watching the patrons and the few stragglers wandering along Sixth Street. Sunday evenings were always quiet at Horny’s, the bar supposedly named after Texas’ famous longhorn cattle. Cohen didn’t expect to have to do much at all tonight. Given that his measly pay cheque didn’t come with health benefits, he couldn’t afford to get injured breaking up a fight, so he should embrace the boredom. His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Lilly-Anne: How’s life at Horny’s? His sister added a gif of a rodeo player being gored by a bull’s horn. Gross. He preferred the NSFW ones she usually sent.
Cohen: Same old
Lilly-Anne: Filled with horny guys?
Cohen: Ha ha
Lilly-Anne: Hey, how do you manage Mom’s bullshit?
Cohen: Why?
Lilly-Anne: Felix asked me to marry him and I know she’ll want to have a big wedding in Texas
Cohen: *flails wildly* CONGRATULATIONS
Cohen: Yeah, she totally will.
Cohen: No is a whole sentence.
Cohen knew it wasn’t that simple. Their mother was a typical Southern Belle; white and entitled. The type of person who said ‘I’m not a racist, but’ before saying something awful. The type of person who continued to dead-name Cohen and who Cohen avoided as much as possible.
Lilly-Anne: Ha. Yeah.
Cohen: What do you want?
Lilly-Anne: To stay here. But...
Cohen rolled his eyes. Lilly-Anne was a lawyer who took on some of the most complicated international taxation cases for the firm she worked for in France, and yet, outside of her work, her uncertainty stemmed from their mother’s bullshit expectations. Being the older sister meant Lilly-Anne had spent her life being responsible; aside from the time she’d defied expectations to move to Paris with her now ex-girlfriend. Cohen glanced up from his phone and cast his gaze around the place. Nothing had changed. After a while, his phone buzzed again and he read the longwinded message from his sister about not wanting to disappoint people, and expectations, and being worried about their mother and what Mom was going to say about her marrying Felix—who was a Black Frenchman—and a whole dump of other insecure crap. Their mother had a lot to answer for in the way she’d undermined all Lilly-Anne’s achievements; just because Lilly-Anne was a lawyer like their father.
For him, being a disappointment to both his parents had some benefits. He could just be himself; away from their crap. It wasn’t all roses. He had a shitty low paying job and lived in a share-house miles from the city with a never-ending parade of people who couldn’t quite afford the meagre rent.
Cohen was about to text back with something reassuring when a car pulled up at the curb and a man stepped out of the back seat. The young man—white, not quite six foot tall, slender, and probably in his early twenties—shoved his hands into his coat, a big heavy overcoat that looked like he’d borrowed it from his great-grandfather. It was fucking hot and sticky for a coat like that tonight.
“You sure you want to come in here?” Cohen asked. A few inches taller than himself, the man wore cheap jeans and had a ball cap pulled low over his face. His shoes... well, they were expensive and told a very different story.
“Yeah, I just need a night away from everything.” He had a smooth British accent with a hint of South America. Not enough of a hint for Cohen to pinpoint exactly where he was from except that he was definitely not from around here.
“To disappear?” Cohen guessed. It was his job to profile people, and this man sounded like one of those rich kids who were educated internationally. Keeping him safe from all the grabby hands of the regulars was going to be a whole task tonight, even on a quiet night like this one. Cohen couldn’t decide if it was a good thing; goodbye boredom, or a bad thing; no health coverage...
“Yeah.” The man brushed past Cohen, nothing rude, just determined to get inside Horny’s, and moved towards the bar, walking with a slight stiffness like he had a sore back or something. Dean poured him a whiskey and the man used a very expensive phone to pay for it. Cohen could see the palpable interest from all three patrons in Horny’s. It was so unwise to flash anything of value around here. The man was just asking to be robbed. By the time Cohen had moved from the door to stand beside him, Stanley was already hovering beside him.
“Hey, leave him alone. Let him wallow in peace.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” Stanley, one of the regulars, was a huge bear of a man; a gentle giant who used his size to his advantage. A man like the newbie was the perfect mark for Stanley, who would fuck him then rob him, and leave him thinking he’d had a great night. Plenty of men came here searching for exactly what Stanley offered. Normally, Cohen wouldn’t bother interrupting. He wasn’t paid enough for it to be any of his business. The other two patrons returned their focus to their game of pool.
“Stanley. I swear I could tip you on your ass before you’ve even bent down to steal his shoes.”
The man shot Cohen a wide-eyed glance. “My shoes?” He had the most amazing eyes; deep brown with flecks of gold and black in them. Cohen flung his hand out and covered the man’s phone with his own hand before Stanley could grab it.
“Perhaps you should leave.” Cohen shouldn’t care this much about a stranger; nice eyes and a handsome face weren’t enough of a reason to get involved in the likely upcoming mess. The sudden urge to get the man out of here and away from the vultures hanging around waiting for a piece of him became a cold lump in Cohen’s stomach.
“You’ll protect me.”
Cohen sighed. “Don’t be naïve. Stanley and I could be working as a team.”
“But you work here.”
“And I get paid shit. I have all the motivation to rob clients, especially ones who aren’t ever coming back here.” Cohen didn’t hate this job. It wasn’t exactly his dream job, but it paid his bills and people tended to leave him alone. Mostly he just wanted to get through the night without some naïve rich fucker getting himself stabbed or shot. The man nodded and used his other hand to lift his whiskey to his mouth and sip. Cohen breathed in sharply. The last thing he ought to be doing was getting distracted by a pretty man and his full lips, or the warmth of his hand under his own hand. Cohen removed his hand.
“Just watch your back, and your phone. I have a job to do and it’s not babysitting some rich pretty-boy who wants to be fucked by someone.”
The flash in the man’s eyes told Cohen that he’d guessed right. Well, he’d offer to do it, but Stanley was probably more the man’s style. Big, burly, and a clumsy charm about him that hinted at the type of roughness men looked for when they dropped into Horny’s. Nice looking wealthy young men didn’t come to grubby gay bars on the Dirty Sixth unless they wanted something Cohen couldn’t give them.
“You watch sports, boy?” Stanley slung his arm around the man who didn’t move.
“Some.”
“You see that car race today. Some fucking shit that.”
The man pulled his hat lower and seemed to shrink further into his ridiculous coat. “Yeah?”
“I hope Sanchez is okay. Was a hell of a hit he took.”
If Cohen hadn’t been watching closely, he wouldn’t have seen the muscles in the man’s jaw tighten temporarily. Interesting.
“Gamble is my favourite team, you know. When I was a baby gay, it would’ve been unheard of to have an openly gay driver...”
“D’Grieg.” The man whispered. Cohen tried to keep his attention on his surroundings—his job—but the newcomer was the most interesting thing to happen here in weeks.
“Yes. He’s so out of my league, and his boyfriend is so hot... It’s just super cool to see that rep in sport, you know.” Stanley’s chatter washed over Cohen. He knew nothing about car racing. It always seemed so macho, yet here was Stanley happily talking about some gay driver. Who knew?
“Yeah.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Didn’t come here for talking.” The man rubbed his lower back, then drank another tiny sip of his whiskey.
“Well, you ain’t going to get much drunk drinking that slowly.” Stanley hooted with laughter at his own joke. Cohen leaned on the bar, watching the rest of the room, but there was nothing to watch. Cohen pulled out his phone to google this gay driver and saw Lilly-Anne’s message. Shit. Luckily it was quiet tonight, even for their own usual standards, so he quickly replied.
Cohen: Sorry. Work stuff. Give Felix a big kiss and we’ll talk how to manage Mom later. As if he was the expert in that; his strategy was to leave home, then block her so he could decide when or if to talk to her.
Stanley was still talking about the gay driver—D’Grieg, who’d apparently won a race or something—and generally being a pest to the newbie, while Johnno and Adam played pool. The owner and barman, Dean, had disappeared out behind the bar, probably smoking weed near the trash in the laneway. Stanley elbowed the man, who closed his eyes in time with Stanley’s touch as if the nudge had really hurt.
“Yeah, see what I mean. That fucker Rainier just clipped my man Sanchez.” Stanley pointed at the television above the bar where a couple of race cars smashed into each other. One car carried on racing, while the other spun around and slammed into the barrier. The man’s mouth moved as if he were talking to himself. Something about it didn’t make sense as the man didn’t even look up at the television.
“Can you believe that?”
The man shook his head slightly, still not looking at the television. “Rainier didn’t need to send it up the inside. Stole the racing line.”
“Yes. You get it.” Stanley gripped the man’s shoulders tighter. “I fucking love that racing team. Seeing D’Grieg win today was amazing, you know.”
The man flinched.
“Stanley.” Cohen removed Stanley’s hand from the man’s shoulder. “Let the stranger drink in peace. I’m sure he didn’t come here to chat about...” Cohen waved at the television. “Car racing.”
“Not just any car racing. Series One. Cohen, don’t tell me you don’t watch the best racing in the world? Those guys who drive those cars are heroes. Fuck me. Can you imagine how fucking freaky it would be to sit in one of those cars at that speed?”
The man’s fingers tightened around his glass of whiskey, but he didn’t move.
“Come on, my dude. You obviously know about it if you knew Sanchez had the racing line. Two fucking DNFs in two years at this track. It’s bullshit.”
“Last year was engine failure.”
Stanley threw his arms out and roared. “Fuck. You do know.” In his energetic motion, he accidentally knocked the man’s hat off. The taut muscles in the man’s jaw stood out and he glanced up at the television for the first time. Cohen tensed, waiting for this to go wrong. Experience had taught him that accidents like this were often the trigger point for a fight. But the man didn’t move. His stillness gave Cohen the chance to analyse him. He was incredibly handsome, in a baby-faced kind of way, like the singer in a boy band. His eyes were his most striking feature.
“Fuck me.” Stanley’s normally loud voice dropped to a whisper. “Sanchez? Holy fucking shit. Sanchez? At Horny’s? What the fuck are you doing in the dirty six?”
“Just needed some time out.” The man—Sanchez—still hadn’t moved.
“Stanley. Maybe pick up the man’s hat.” Cohen needed to intervene before this went south. He didn’t expect Stanley to obey him, yet he threw himself on the sticky floor of the pub, grabbed the hat, and brushed it off.
“Keep it.” The man shrugged one shoulder.
“Seriously?” Stanley’s reaction made no sense. The hat looked like one of those cheap tourist ones you could get at any cheap corner shop; nothing special.
“Yeah. Want me to sign it?” Sanchez radiated a lack of enthusiasm, like he didn’t want to do that.
“Stanley, leave him alone.”
“Fuck off Cohen.” Stanley grinned. “This is Paulo Sanchez. He’s, like, my second favourite driver.”
The man barked out a surprised laugh; the loudest noise he’d made tonight. “Thank you.”
Cohen gulped as the grin made Sanchez completely stunning. When his brown eyes glowed with good humour and his smile showed off a gorgeous dimple in his left cheek, he was staggering. Fucking hell.
“I’m guessing my teammate, D’Grieg, is your favourite?” The man’s smile disappeared and he went back to staring into his whiskey.
“Fuck yeah. Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s really you. Sanchez?”
“That’s me.”
“This is the greatest day of my life.” Stanley’s smile was a delight. “I’m sorry I tried to steal your phone. God, so fucking embarrassing. I thought you were just some rich mark who wanted a good fucking.”
Chapter 2
Paulo swallowed. Yes. He was a rich guy who’d come here seeking a good fucking. If he couldn’t escape being famous here—in a rundown gay bar in a dodgy part of Austin—he never would. What were the odds he’d meet an S1 fan here? As soon as the big Black man with an impressive array of tattoos had slung his arm over Paulo’s shoulders, he’d let himself hope that he’d found someone to fill the grubby need he had to get topped.
Three races in a row with no points only added to the frustration pulsing in his veins. Just his bloody luck that his best chance in months to get relief would be a fan of Gamble Racing and his teammate. Ondrej D’Grieg. Everyone’s favourite queer pinup boy with his gorgeous historian boyfriend Hudson. He wasn’t jealous of them or their love. He was envious that they were both the type of gay men that the media liked. Handsome in a wholesome, attractive way, as well as being generally nice people who were successful and rich. Nothing like his own messy pansexual adoration of people who confidently lived as themselves and fuck what the world thought. There was nothing Instagrammable about Paulo’s desires, and photo shoots with supermodels like Delynda didn’t even get close to the way he would rather be fucked than... He breathed out slowly. It was no one’s business but his own, and literally only a problem because he was famous and because of who his father was.
