by Lauren Asher
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
Her body tenses at the sound of my voice. I’m not off to a great start by the looks of her grimace, rigid body posture, and stilled hand holding her straw. But I can work with it. I shoot her a dazzling smile that makes women drop to their knees. Tested and verified.
I remain motionless as her almond eyes look up at me. My heart rate speeds up as I gaze upon her, taking in her smoky eyes that cloud at my perusal, lush lips that purse, and high cheekbones I want to run my knuckles across. Her dark hair piles on top of her head, begging to be let down. A few soft curls escape and trail down her thin neck. Her dress dips low, accentuating tan skin and a fully displayed back. My fingers itch to stroke her skin and test how soft it is.
She pulls me out of my thoughts. “And if I do mind?”
Shit. Forgot I asked her a question. “I would probably sit here anyway then.” I give her a wide smile, enjoying her quick tongue.
“Fine, go ahead.” She lets out a soft sigh and waves toward the empty booth in front of her.
Don’t need to be told twice. I settle myself into the seat, adjusting my pants because my semi hard-on is pressing against the zipper. My throat welcomes the burn from a swig of Scotch. A little bit of liquid courage to make it through this conversation without flirting with her.
“I wanted to apologize about earlier because I shouldn’t have insinuated something like that. I’m not proud of myself for what I said.”
Brown eyes linger on my face as she gauges my sincerity. I take another look at her because shock still courses through me at how she disarms me. Her bone structure adds to her allure, along with full red-painted lips, long lashes, and straight, white teeth. She has a strikingly exotic look—a Spanish heritage evident by her dark hair, tan skin, and hint of an accent.
My head takes off. I imagine her red lips wrapped around my cock as she sucks me off, her lipstick marking me while my hands tug on her hair. Can’t help my sexual appetite when I fuck like I race—wild, risky, and often. Blame the adrenaline rush or feeling like a god behind the wheel.
“It’s fine.” Her flat voice tells me differently. Fine is a woman’s equivalent to a land mine because you have absolutely no idea when or where that shit will explode.
“It isn’t, and I don’t want to annoy you anymore. Honestly. I want to put it behind us and say I’m sorry for insinuating you slept with your brother.” I withhold the urge to cringe at my own stupidity.
“Consider it dealt with. Apology accepted.” She fiddles with the straw of her drink.
“What are you doing here with your brother?” I take another sip of Scotch, the cold liquid sliding against my tongue.
“I’m actually following him around this whole year.” She tilts her head at me.
Great. She’ll be spending ten months with us, and I already fucked up.
“You’ll be attending a lot of races then. Are you a fan?”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “My weekends growing up included following my brother everywhere. Kart races, real races, all the Formula phases. He has the talent.” She looks down at her hands. “Of course, I’m excited to join him because I’m proud of how far he has come. New car, team, and everything.” She glances at me, her eyes gleaming in the low light of the bar while her lips fight a smile.
I smirk at her. “He’ll be in good hands with the equipment and engineers. Bandini cars are the best. There’s a reason they’re the most sought-after team, so it’ll give him an advantage. But he still has to deal with me.”
The sound of her soft laugh stirs something up inside of me.
“How do you keep your ego in check?”
“I don’t.” My grin expands.
She rolls her eyes, and fuck if it doesn’t turn me on. Her delicate features entice me, tempting me to scoot in closer to check her out and catch a peek at her chest. But I stop myself because I have a cap of one sleazy move per day. I can’t believe I insinuated she slept with her brother. I’m losing my touch.
“You need someone to rein you in.” Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink before she shakes her head. “I mean, not me, but it’s always good to be grounded.” She puts a stray curl behind her ear.
“Being grounded is dull. I don’t drive cars at two hundred miles an hour to stay boring.”
Her lips purse and her brows pinch together. “Being grounded isn’t boring. It’s realizing that, when all of this—” she waves her arms around us—“is over, you still have people there for you in the end. Good people who are humble because no one wants to hang around an asshole.”
I’m going to guess I’m the asshole here. I sit with her words and consider my situation. But I know good people—who is she to judge me when she’s young and naïve?
Her phone rings. “I better get going. My ride is here.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Her face flashes with surprise before she recovers. Mine probably matches hers because I can’t remember the last time I walked a girl out of anywhere except a club.
I get up from the booth and offer my hand, acting the part of a gentleman. She looks at it for a moment before placing her palm in mine. My skin buzzes at the physical contact. She shivers when my thumb runs across her palm, her soft skin smooth under my calloused digit.
Hmm. Her body reacts to mine in the same way.
I remove my hand from hers and place it on her exposed back as I lead us toward the entrance of the hotel. Our physical connection is an exciting development, one worth exploring further at another time. She sucks in a breath when I stroke my hand down the ridges of her spine. I tend to be a cheeky bastard. Her skin feels warm and soft beneath my palm, her shallow breaths matching the rhythm of our feet.
Maybe I’ll enjoy having Santiago around after all because it seems like her hanging with us will stimulate me. I want to see what other responses she has to me. Or under me. Or on top of me.
I need to get myself under control.
We exit the hotel to find her brother leaning against a town car near the entrance.
“Maya, let’s go! The driver’s been waiting.” Santiago’s voice booms off the walls.
Maya. I like the name.
She jumps a foot away from me, breaking our contact. Her eyes glare at me before she says a rushed goodbye and walks away. I shake my head, trying to rid my naughty thoughts, a gesture worth chuckling at. Her perky ass stands out, the tight black material of her dress hugging her curves. Damn. I definitely will like seeing her around.
Her brother helps her into the car before he turns back toward me. His stare speaks a silent warning I choose to ignore, instead deciding to shoot him a cocky grin and a chin tip. He disregards me and enters the car.
5
Maya
The air in the car is thick with tension, and not the good kind. Bright lights reflect off the car’s window as we pass through the city. Santiago hired a driver to take us to the gala, reminding me how I’m in over my head. A poser surrounded by the rich and famous.
“Why were you walking out of the hotel with him?” Santi seethes.
“He actually came to apologize for what he said at the press event. We chatted and then I came outside. It’s not a big deal, no need to get annoyed.”
Placating Santi has been my job for years. He tends to be a situational hothead, much like other F1 racers. High-stress situations usually call for it.
“You should stay away from him. Hell, stay away from most of the F1 drivers. They’re not here for happily-ever-afters, white picket fences, a dog, and two kids. They fuck around. A lot.” His hands clench in front of him.
“You are aware I lost my virginity like four years ago, right? No need to protect me anymore when my virtue is no longer intact.”
If looks could kill, Santi would have murdered me twice already in this car alone. Wrong joke at the wrong time. Message received.
“I don’t want to be aware. No. Keep that shit to yourself. These guys are different from boys yo
u dated in college. They’re the ultimate fuckboys. Liquor, ladies, maybe even drugs. Who the hell knows. I haven’t hung around them much since I kept to myself with Kulikov.”
“I’ll be careful. But Noah is part of your team now. We’re all stuck around one another and I don’t want things to be awkward with us. At least not more than they have to be.”
No use denying my physical attraction toward Noah, but I can sure do my best for Santi. I owe him that much.
I give him a sweet smile while I pat his hand, hoping to calm him. His lips tip down. He must be concerned because none of my usual tactics are working on him.
“You’re my little sister so it’s my job to protect you. Be careful, okay? I can’t keep an eye on you all the time. Especially with someone like Noah. His bedroom has a revolving door and a waiting list.”
My body tenses. Thanks for the reminder. Nothing like a classic manwhore, one so stuck in his ways he can’t see straight. Good thing those types of relationships aren’t on my radar.
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m up to only good, remember?” I shoot him a goofy smile.
He grins at my cute stupidity and tugs me in for a hug, constricting my air supply.
“I love you. You know that, right?” His chest vibrates while he speaks.
I return his hug with a squeeze. “Of course. I love you too. Now let’s go party!”
The swanky event, in fact, surpasses my original idea of a sponsor party. I picture old men rubbing elbows and chatting about their stocks. But it’s all so much more. We walk into a ballroom decorated to the nines with crystals and flowers hanging from the ceiling, waiters walking around with food, and dripping champagne towers on several tables. I grab a couple of fancy-looking appetizers while I walk around the room.
Lots of bigwigs visit to shake hands with the elite of racing. But the scene includes unlimited alcohol, a decent DJ, and silk dancers spiraling from the ceiling. It resembles more of an overdone wedding than a gala for race car drivers. F1 is pretty hip, not going to lie.
Santiago reluctantly leaves me to my own devices after being called over by his agent. He gives me a warning look before walking away, but I brush off his worries with a flick of my hand. I follow his rule of not talking to the other drivers. But he can’t fault me when others talk to me because I can’t control everyone else. Loopholes make life interesting.
I occupy a seat at the bar when He Who Is Definitely Up to No Good shows up and sits next to me. His intoxicating cologne short-circuits my brain cells. Somehow his hair already looks like a disheveled mess and his bow tie lays crooked against his pressed shirt. His unruliness brings a smile to my face. Sturdy hands that caressed my spine an hour ago hold another glass of Scotch. I regret looking Noah straight in the eye, caught off guard by a penetrating gaze, his deep blue eyes framed by thick, long lashes.
A simple smile he sends my way tugs at my lower half. I can’t control my body’s response to him, especially when he looks at me like he wants to kiss me.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone at an event like this?” Noah’s voice has a rough sound to it like he spent the night partying and drinking—sensual and gravelly all at once.
“Aw, you think I’m pretty. How charming. Santi left me alone because he’s busy kissing ass.” I point a pink-nailed finger toward my brother who is chatting with a group of sponsors.
“More than that.” Noah’s megawatt smile makes my heart clench. Well, don’t you have a way with words. “Ah, a day in the life of a celebrity. A tough cross to bear.”
I chuckle. “I doubt I’ll ever get used to hearing that. Can’t imagine my brother as a celebrity. So weird.”
“It takes time. Wait until he’s followed around by paparazzi to the point where he can’t even eat or shit in peace. This place corrupts the best of us, surrounded by endless money, booze, women—you name it. A playground for the privileged.”
I turn toward him and glance down at his outfit. He pulls off a tuxedo, looking roguishly handsome with smooth material clinging to his body. My fingers twitch at the temptation to run through his tousled hair that hints at his rowdiness.
But I don’t because it’ll ruin my efforts to be good.
“Did this place change you?” I try to keep my voice neutral, not giving away any feelings. He’s the last person Santi would want me to hang around with.
His eyes harden. “I was born into it. Son of a legend and all.” He flashes me an eye roll. “So technically, no, since it’s all I’ve ever known. Can’t be corrupted by something that made you.”
I scrunch my nose. “We aren’t like that. We were raised in a small home by modest parents. Santi didn’t even go to college, so he could race to make money. Gave up a lot to pursue a dream. He paid my parents back everything they’ve ever invested in him because it means the world to him to provide for them.”
“Humble beginnings make the best success stories. Your brother signed a twenty-million-dollar contract though, and that’s a lot of money, so with it comes responsibility.” His eyes stare intensely into mine.
I sigh, aware of Santi’s most recent financial gain. He may surround himself with pompous people, but he isn’t like most of these greedy and egotistical guys.
Noah takes a big sip of his drink. I copy him, chugging my champagne—a dose of liquid confidence to dull my nerves.
“What was it like being a kid around here?” I look across the room, imagining a young Noah hanging out with these people.
“While growing up, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. And I still do. But my dad isn’t exactly father of the year. Nannies took care of me while my mom was off yachting the world. But woe is me, the hard life of someone who has it all.” The sadness in his voice betrays his attempted nonchalance.
“Do your parents come to see your races?”
“Every now and then. Dad’s coming to the Barcelona one. My mom’s another story, occasionally popping in when it’s most convenient for her and her friends.” He tips his glass and clinks it against mine before we both drink to that notion.
I sense parent issues with this one.
He looks at me with bright eyes. “What about you? What brings you to the crazy life of F1 racing?”
“Do I need a reason besides my brother competing?” I smile at him.
“Well, I assumed you were here for me, but now that you mention it, that sounds plausible." He hits me with a playful grin that sparks something inside of me.
I shake my head at him. “I just graduated, and I wanted to travel the world.” I hold back on mentioning my vlog because I don’t want to be judged by someone like him—a man who thrives and succeeds.
“Well you picked the right year to join. You get to see exotic locations with a bonus of me kicking your brother’s ass. You can’t Pinterest that shit.”
I throw my head back and laugh. His cockiness has no bounds, but I like the way he teases, uncaring with a glint of mischief in his eye.
“How do you fit your head in your helmet? I’m worried it must expand the more people stroke your ego,” I say with fake concern.
“I have one custom made to avoid that issue.”
We continue our banter until someone calls him away. He looks unenthusiastic at the interruption, his feet remaining planted to the ground.
“Duty calls.” I tilt my empty glass to him.
He sends me a smirk and mock salute as a goodbye.
I explore Melbourne on Friday since Santi has a busy day with practice and press events. As interesting as his plan sounds, I decline his invitation to join him.
I spend the day taking photos and discovering the city. A local street-art tour gains my interest, and I enjoy the ability to fade into the group while surrounding myself with fellow tourists. When I hang with Santi, it feels like I’m on display. The attention he receives stifles me. People always take pictures, ask questions, or request autographs. And I hate feeling watched. He tells me everyone eventually gets used to
it and I won’t notice them after a while.
That type of complacency scares me.
The rest of the day goes by quickly. Newfound privacy comforts me so much that I eat lunch alone, at a table for two no less. My solo day seems short-lived when an old man sits in the chair across from me. He eventually gains the courage to strike up a conversation after fifteen minutes. I politely engage in the discussion of his arthritis, nodding along like I understand the struggles of chronic pain. He even shows me about one hundred photos of his grandkids.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for never saying no, because how can I look that poor older man in the face and decline seeing photos of his little tater tot? His words, not mine. I can’t. So I end up spending an hour entertaining a man named Steve, even offering him a signed Bandini baseball cap as a parting gift along with a promise to text him a picture of the Prix track on race day. I don’t know the risk of giving a grandpa my cellphone number. But he seems sweet, so I give in.
My mom calls me while I’m walking down a side street.
“Cómo estás?” My mom follows my vlog religiously, commenting on all my posts with encouraging messages and quotes. She’s cute like that. I even get texts with gifs as a way for her to express her feelings.
“I’ve been having fun so far. Santi’s pretty busy with the business side of things. I don’t know how he finds the energy.”
We stayed out late and he got up at the crack of dawn to go drive on the track. Meanwhile, I hit the snooze button about five times before I finally got up.
“He lives for the sport, so he puts up with the social side of things. Keep an eye on him because he works too hard.” There goes my mom, always the worrier.
“I’ll try my best. I can’t do what he does, schmoozing and boozing. People here are snooty and full of themselves.”
“I’ve been reading gossip about those different drivers. Men like Liam Zander and Noah Slade pop up all the time, and you should see what women say about them. Don’t get me started on Jax, that man has trouble following him like a bad smell.” Her voice fails to hide her disdain. I don’t ask for more information because gross details don’t interest me.