“Or I can do what you do, hook up one time and call it a night? I don’t hear you complaining about needy women and missed calls.”
Noah chuckles. “It’s worked out for me over the years. You messed up by getting together with women multiple times because that no-strings-attached lifestyle is bullshit. They always expect more time and attention. The thing with Claudia lasted way too long, and now she’s obsessed with either getting you back or driving you crazy.”
“Hey, to be fair, I didn’t think hooking up for a week was too long. It was only supposed to be a winter break thing. I warn the ladies before. The moment they start hinting at labels or long-term situations, I cut it off. Claudia didn’t get the memo because she’s never told no. Life hack: spoiled rich girls come with a private jet worth of baggage.”
He offers a weak smile. “Figure something out. But until then, keep to yourself, at least with the McCoy team. I tell you not to fuck around where you work. I actually want to compete against you, preferably while you’re on a comparable team. It would be no fun racing with guys who don’t know my every move like you do.”
“Shucks, you’re making me blush.” I press a palm to my cheek.
“Asshole. You’ll keep me sane now that I have an idiot for a teammate. Santiago joining Bandini is further proof of how there’ll always be someone faster and younger than us vying for our positions. So pull your shit together.”
“No need to harp on it. Let’s grab lunch because I’m starving.” I make my way toward the exit of the press building. This topic has overstayed its welcome.
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”
* * *
Fans tune in for Saturdays and Sundays, watching our qualifiers and races. But guess what? They miss all the fun behind the scenes, like how I get to meet with Chris and Jax for an exhilarating pre-race debriefing inside McCoy’s headquarters.
“All right, boys. It’s time for our post-race check-in. Before we begin, any comments on the new cars now that you’ve raced a few times?” Chris’s Russian accent carries words with a guttural sound. He gives off mobster vibes, with black gelled hair, thick brows, and a stocky frame.
“This one rides smoother than my most recent fuck.” Jax smiles, his hazel eyes gleaming.
Leave it to Jax to break up our shitty routine. His hair looks wild today, curls unkempt. He traded in his usual black attire for the team propaganda. Black tattoos peek out from the collar of his white McCoy shirt, trailing from his neck to his knuckles, the design intricately woven.
“Thank you for details no one wants to hear. And you, Liam?” Chris’s brown eyes land on me.
“I think I need less understeering because the balance feels off. With those changes, it’ll be perfect.”
“Okay, we can get those adjusted for you before the next practice round.” Chris writes his notes on his tablet. “Also, McCoy added extra PR training to your schedule since reporters keep bringing up the Claudia shit.”
Jax and I grunt. We hate PR reps because they’re a bunch of nosy men telling us what to do and what to say.
Chris holds up his arms. “Hey, I didn’t put my dick in a hole it didn’t belong in. Let this be a lesson for both of you.”
“I don’t get why I have to be wrapped up in this torture experience. No offense, Liam, but you fucked up.” Jax’s British accent makes the words less offensive.
“Last time I checked, there was a picture of you drunk and throwing up outside of a club in England. Not your best look.” I sip from an imaginary teacup.
“What can I say, sometimes whiskey hits you the wrong way. At least I made it outside before getting sick.” Jax gives me a sly grin.
“Was that before you took a nap in the bush?” I rub my chin.
“One man’s nap is another man’s blacking out.” Jax grins.
“Then enjoy being part of the fun. I’m sure you can use a PR tip or two.” My comment gets me an up-close look at a tattooed middle finger.
It’s safe to say we both made some careless mistakes over the break, including Jax chewing out an American reporter who made a racist comment. After he fucked with the guy’s camera, we can assume no one else on the grid will fuck with him for having a white mom and a black dad anymore.
“And for my shitty sanity and yours, please behave. Play nice with others, keep your hands to yourself, and don’t swap spit with someone who can get you in trouble with the media. I don’t give a shit what you do behind closed doors, just don’t come crying to me when shit hits the fan. My job description doesn’t include dealing with blubbering men and drama. James Mitchell has enough dirt on our team to last him a lifetime.” Chris dismisses us with a wave of his hand.
Jax and I shoot each other our classic fuckboy grins as we leave the conference room. The very same one we save for parties, pussy, and the Prix.