Page 9 of Drive Me Wild
The sounds of clanking metal, purring engines, and mechanics jostling one another greet me as I walk into the garage. I’m going to be late to a meeting with a few McAllister race engineers, but it’s been some time since I’ve seen part of the team, and I want to make sure I greet everyone.A good impression makes a lasting impression. That’s what my dad always said. When people think of McAllister, they think of me and Blake, but in reality, we couldn’t do what we do without the mechanics, engineers, and countless employees who work tirelessly to build and baby our cars.
“Walker!”
The voice sends a chill up my spine and I briefly debate playing dead. I’ve managed to avoid Avery all weekend, but it seems like my luck has run out. He’s in front of me before I can even think of an escape plan. The fabric of the McAllister shirt he’s wearing is taut against his stomach, and the way the veins inhis neck are pulsing makes it seem as if they’re about to explode like a geyser.
“G’day,” I say, trying to come off neutral. “How goes it?”
My skin crawls as his eyes give me a once-over. Between his snarled lip and the creases in his forehead, he looks like an angry bulldog. “Spent the morning going over driver stats, and I can’t say I’m surprised by what I saw. Looks like Blake has the upper hand on you with more wins, points, and sponsorship interest. Some may say that McAllister’s success is completely dependent on him.”
Every one of my muscles seize up. I’m used to people pitting Blake and me against one another. Formula 1 is a sport where your teammate also happens to be your biggest competition. You’re working together to win the Constructors’ Championship but competing against one another for the World Championship title. Just because I’m used to being compared and evaluated doesn’t mean I like it, though, and especially not coming from Avery.
“Some may also say that without my point aggregation and aggressive defensive technique, McAllister wouldn’t be where they are today.”
“My job isn’t to defend your driving,” he says with a smirk. “It’s to make decisions that benefit the team as a whole. And just because your dad was a McAllister legend, doesn’t mean his son will be, too.”
My knees buckle as I fight the urge to lunge forward and smack the shit out of him. Hit him so hard that I send him all the way back to Milan and away from me and McAllister. But I don’t want another cut eyebrow and black eye. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Granted, that seems to be the issue. It’s why it looked like I got punched by a fucking boxer rather than a middle-aged man all those years ago.
“Don’teverspeak about my dad,” I spit out. “You’d be lucky to be a quarter of the man he was.”
We stare each other down, slowly sizing one another up. Do I get why he hates me? Sure. I probably wouldn’t like me either if I were him, but I can’t change the past.
“Oh, I’m lucky.” As he takes a step closer to me, his spicy cologne floods my senses. “But only because I know this will be the last season McAllister has to deal with you.”
And with that, he’s off to terrorize someone else.Fuck.He can’t really do that, right? I puff out a deep breath, pushing all thoughts of Avery into a corner labeled “panic about it later.” There’s nothing worse than distractions during a race weekend, so I focus on my breathing as I jog to the conference room in the motorhome. Through some sleuthing, I’ve confirmed that Avery will only be at a few of the twenty-two races this season, so at least I can avoid him face-to-face for the most part. I just need to keep my head down. That’d be a lot easier if I didn’t love being the center of attention.
I’m yellinginto my headpiece when Russell barges into my suite. I keep my eyes on the screen, desperate to find a way to salvage this game. It’s hopeless. My “teammate” keeps getting killed while reloading more ammo.Call of Duty: Black Ops 4isn’t as fun when the people you’re stuck playing with are newbies.
“This game is chalked thanks to you,” I growl into my headphones before shutting off my Xbox. Gaming is my go-to way to de-stress before a race, but it feels like every inch of my skin is agitated. I’m glad I’m not live-streaming this game on Twitch, which I tend to do a few times a week, so my followers don’t catch on to my piss-poor mood.
I lean against the plush couch in my suite and close my eyes. Maybe I need to get into yoga or meditation or something. Russell coughs in case I somehow missed his muscular frame blocking any direct sunlight from spilling through the window.
I slowly open my eyes and sigh. “Yes?”
“When’s the last time you ate, Theo?” He narrows his moss green eyes at me.
“Probably the last time you jerked off.” I scratch my forehead before throwing him a grin. “So sometime last night?”
I’ve known Russell for years. His father-in-law owns Pegasus, otherwise known as my biggest—and favorite—sponsor. Without their support and backing early on in my career, I wouldn’t be where I am today. When I achieved every junior driver’s dream of signing with a Formula 1 team, I brought Russell on as my performance coach. Our long-term working and personal relationship means he’s used to my raunchy language and doesn’t so much as bat an eye. When I told him about the time I got rug burn on my balls during sex, he simply asked if I needed him to get me ointment. I must have some redeeming qualities, though, because I’m his daughter Rosalie’s godfather.
“The race is in a few hours,” he reminds me, ignoring my comment. “You need to eat something now because you won’t have time between the press conference and heading to the pit.”
“Oh.” I chuckle. “That’s why I have a press conference in a bit. I thought it was to discuss the weather patterns over the Baltic Sea.”
I spy a tray of food on my desk—an egg white omelet with red peppers, spinach, and feta, turkey bacon, and an English muffin with seedless grape jam. I let out a low whistle. “What would I do without you, Russy boy?”
“Die of starvation,” he deadpans, pulling out a chair to sit.
We both know he’s right. Russell’s responsibility as my performance coach includes handling my diet and meal plan. Not to mention my daily routine, personal logistics, sleep patterns, travel arrangements, and pretty much anything else. If you combine a personal assistant, physiotherapist, confidante, and friend, you’ve got Russell.
“Well, cheers, mate.” I shove a piece of bacon into my mouth and savor the taste. It burns my tongue, but I suck it up and chew. “Appreciate it.”
He waves off my thanks and launches into my schedule for the rest of the day. I tune him out because I know he’ll repeat the same exact speech every hour for the rest of the day.
“I met Avery earlier,” he says, snapping me out of my daze.
There’re no lengths Russell won’t go to in order to help me stay in the best frame of mind possible, and he knows the issue of James Avery has been eating at me. He’s one of the only people who I feel comfortable sharing those details with.
“Do you now know what I mean when I said he’s the lovechild of Stalin and Mussolini?” A sour taste fills my mouth. “He puts the dick in dictator.”
