Page 1 of Drive Me Crazy
ONE
Ella
IT’S SO cold out that my nips could be classified as weapons of mass destruction. I walk down the sidewalk, shivering against the biting chill as a light layer of snow dusts against my shoulders. My winter jacket is a lot better at making me look like an extra-fluffy marshmallow than keeping me warm.
Buildings stretch toward the night sky and cast eerie shadows onto the cars careening down the street at a break-neck speed. When I first moved to the city—hell, even a few months ago—the sight of the skyscrapers and classic yellow taxis brought a smile to my face. Now they serve as mocking reminders that the concrete jungle thoroughly whooped my ass. And not in the kinky spanking kind of way. More in a that-hurt-so-badly-I’m-never-sitting-again way.
I would’ve been more than happy to ghost everyone in Manhattan, but Poppy insisted on a proper send-off. It’s the only reason I’m dragging my ass to her place in twenty-degree weather. When I finally arrive, I’m so focused on thawing my frozen fingers that I walk straight into a Hot Wheels piñata.
Oh my God.
Poppy’s entire Midtown apartment has turned into a racecar enthusiast’s wet dream. Signs reading “Yield to Party” and “Race in Progress” cover the walls, and checkered flags hang from the ceiling. The only thing indicating this isn’t a four-year-old’s birthday party is the excessive amount of alcohol in the kitchen.
I spy my best friend through the red, black, and white balloons floating around aimlessly. My mouth falls open, but no words come out. She’s propping up a life-size, custom cut-out of Formula 1 legend Blake Hollis with his arm draped over some unknown woman. A woman who just so happens to have my face photoshopped over hers.Lord help me.
Blake looks gorgeous as per usual, but nothing ruins a pretty face more than a bad attitude. It’s no wonder his team wants to have a biography written and released in less than a year. He needs as much good PR as he can get after last year’s train wreck of a season.
I’m studying the display, contemplating how I’d look if I were supermodel tall with boobs faker than Monopoly money instead of five-foot-two with run-of-the-mill B-cups, when Poppy pulls me in for an organ-crushing hug.
“Ella! What do you think?” She twirls in a circle, arms above her head. “Perfect, right?”
“It’s perfectly on theme,” I agree, taking another bewildered look around. It’s over-the-top, but then I wouldn’t expect anything less. Poppy has the impressive ability to hyper-focus on a project to the point where it surpasses even the highest of expectations. It’s annoying as hell when her projects happen to be my love life and floundering career, but I’ll admit her apartment looks good. I wouldn’t mind turning Blake’s cardboard body into some type of dart board, though.
Jack bounces over from where he’s sitting on the couch. He looks like he just walked off the cover of a billionaire romance novel with his perpetual smirk. He greets me with a one-armedhug before turning to Poppy. “Can I be done blowing up balloons?”
“I thought you loved blowing.” Batting her piercing blue eyes, she flutters her lashes innocently. “That’s why I gave you that job in the first place.”
“Ha.” He rolls his eyes, a teasing quirk at the corners of his mouth. “I do. I just prefer it be muscular blonds with daddy issues instead of balloons.”
The conversation snowballs into Jack’s latest dating mistake on a long list of many. He’ll probably be Poppy’s new project once I’m gone. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying not to focus on how much I’m going to miss them.
As if she can sense the chink in my armor, Poppy sighs dramatically and says, “It’s not too late to back out and look for another job in New York.”
I’m not sure how many times we can have this conversation before my head implodes. Two more times tops. Maybe. I throw my arm around her shoulders and gently shake her.
“It’s definitely too late for that. I’m going,” I confirm. A cold thrill goes up and down my spine. “And it’s a phenomenal opportunity.”
When I reached out to my mentor, George Phillips, for advice after leaving PlayMedia, I’d been expecting some career guidance. Instead, he offered me a job to be his feet-on-the-ground co-author for Blake’s authorized biography. I haven’t done much writing since my podcast,Coffee with Champions, blew up and I’m excited to get back to my roots. After what happened, the thought of podcasting, or even being in a recording room, makes my body flood with panic. I don’t want to be constantly reminded of that. But writing? That’s a safe space. It doesn’t hurt that I’ll be halfway around the world, either.
“Fine,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Butthen you have to promise me you’ll find out how manySports Illustratedmodels Blake’s slept with.”
I hit a balloon floating by at her and she quickly swats it away from her raven black hair to avoid any static aftermath. Poppy’s not big on sports, but she’s big on celebrity gossip, and Blake’s one of the athletes whose prowess has earned him international notoriety and prestige.
“Those aren’t the questions he’s going to want to answer, Pop,” I tell her. Blake’s extremely private. There’s also a slight chance I’m already on his bad side after comparing his partying last year to Paris Hilton circa 2006. I don’t think asking the McAllister driver his body count is going to earn me any brownie points.
“You’re no fun.” She sticks out her lower lip. “At least confirm the rumors that he has a huge dick.”
“I’d like to know that one, too,” Jack agrees with an aggressive head nod. “Honestly, if you could make a comparison chart of every driver’s dick size, I feel like that would be really beneficial to us all.”
Resting my face in my hands, I let out a groan. “Can I please have a drink before either one of you saysdickagain?”
A wicked grin spreads across Poppy’s lips as she leads me into the kitchen. She’s created a menu of drinks and snacks with Formula-One-themed names. I take a small sip of my McAllister Martini, cringing as the strong taste burns my throat. This isn’t a martini; it’s a hangover in a glass.
“I hate him,” Poppy announces to no one in particular. “It’shisfault you’re leaving.”
She says it so casually that it takes me a moment to realize who she’s talking about. Connor Brixton. She refuses to call him by his name. I wish she wouldn’t refer to him at all.Adios, au revoir, and arrivederci, motherfucker.
“I left PlayMedia of my own accord,” I remind her. Digging my fingernails into my palms, I shrug my shoulders. Ididn’t have much of a choice, but at the end of the day, I quit; they didn’t make me leave. “Can we not talk about this?”
