“Are those the same people who left you passed out next to a urinal? Because they’re not wrong.”
Damn. She does not hold back. Somehow, I find it...refreshing.
Woe is me. A rich boy who has everyone and their mother kiss my arse for fifteen minutes in the limelight. Hanging around someone like Elena reminds me of how very human I am. It’s humbling while also scaring the hell out of me.
“Speaking of unpredictable, I could say the same about you. This morning’s show was something else… Did you pack all those nighties for me?”
Her cheeks turn the best shade of pink. “It’s what you deserved.”
“Do people know about this side of you?”
“The one that doesn’t go down without kicking and screaming? Oh, yeah.”
“I’d rather have you screaming than kicking, but I’m game if that’s your kink.”
Her cheeks go from pink to blood red. “You can’t—”
“Talk to you that way? I can’t tell you how, after your little show, I jacked off to the image of you bent over my bed while I fucked you? It sure was one way to get me high before a race.”
Elena’s eyes roam around the garage, landing everywhere but where I want them.
I snap my fingers in front of her face. “You can play your little games, but I can play mine. And I assure you I’ll get the better deal out of this.”
A crew member calls me over to prepare for the race.
“I better get going. Enjoy the Prix.” I love getting under her skin. Elena’s smooth, tan, wouldn’t mind kissing every inch skin.
Yup. I’m so fucked.
“Good luck,” Elena mumbles under her breath.
I throw her a smile over my shoulder before hopping into my car.
The crew pulls me up to my third-place qualifying spot. My P3 location lands me behind Noah and Santiago, the Bandini boys who battle with McCoy during every Prix.
Flame retardant gear protects me from head to toe, ensuring my safety if anything were to go awry. My arse shakes from the rumbling of the engine.
Lights above me illuminate before going black. My trainer presses against the pedal, and my car accelerates. I race down the first straight of the Prix. The wheels grind against the rough pavement as I recreate yesterday’s practice drive I completed in McCoy’s simulator machine.
“Welcome back to the grid. Liam, Elías, and a fuck ton of others are behind you, so keep up the good work.” Chris, the team principal, speaks into the team radio. He’s a man of choice words and a no-nonsense attitude.
“Tires feel good. Engine is hot as hell.”
“Sounds like it’s working then. I’ll check in soon.”
My car rips up pavement, lap after lap. I pit, giving the crew two seconds to change my four tires. Rubber meets the road, propelling me down the pit lane before I reenter the race. After pitting, I need to work my way back up the rankings.
“Liam’s in front of you. On the next turn, go on the outside instead of the inside. Cut him off before you hit the straight road.” Chris’s voice reverberates through the tiny earpiece.
My car creeps up behind Liam’s navy one. Everything in this sport is down to a millisecond, which means every turn—every goddamn tire rotation—matters. I pull up to the side of Liam’s car before I brake. He takes the inside like Chris thought, and I keep on the outside.
My car surges past Liam’s, his engine no match against mine. I rush down the straight at over three hundred kilometers.
“Now beat Elías back into his rightful place,” Chris snorts into the mic.
“So, to the back of the grid?” I muster between pants, my breathing growing heavier as the engine warms behind me.
Chris and my main engineer laugh as I cut in front of Elías at the next turn.