Page 92 of Drive Me Wild
It may be dark under the table, but the telltale sign of his shallow breathing indicates how anxious my comment has made him. The last thing we need is for him to have a panic attack under a table mid-press conference.
“Deep breaths, Blakey Blake,” I say, lowering my voice. “No matter what team I drive for, you’ll still be the person to help me get my dick out of a water wiggler.”
He groans. “Oh God, I forgot about that.”
Rosalie had left a water wiggler—a brightly colored vinyl tube filled with liquid and glitter and beads—at my house, and I wanted to test out if it was like a FleshLight. I figured it’d be easy since the kid’s toy is slippery and squishy, but it was not.Blake ended up having to use a kitchen knife to cut through the material. It was almost a second circumcision.
“You nearly carved your initials into my manhood,” I scoff. “That’s not something you easily forget.”
“Who puts a children’s toy on their manhood for fun? Do you know how bloody?—”
“Uh, hey,” Lucas says, his blond head peaking underneath the tablecloth. His green eyes dart back and forth between us. “You guys nearly done? It’s getting a little crowded up here, and I can only talk about qualifying for so long.”
I turn to Blake. “You good?”
“Can I still get rid of Avery? With or without you, I don’t want that bloke anywhere near this sport.”
I haven’t seen angry Blakey Blake in quite some time. Wish I had a bag of popcorn. “Let loose, mate.”
My legs are stiff as I crawl back out, taking my seat once again. The amount of people in the room seems to have doubled since we disappeared. Lucas shoots us a questioning look before sharing, “Every news organization called backup during your tea party.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I apologize into the mic, holding up my hands. “Blake wanted a blowie, but I was explaining to him how inappropriate that is at a press conference.”
Blake grabs my microphone since his is still laying on the floor like a crime scene victim.
“As I was saying,” he says, straightening his back, “the FIA explicitly prohibits participating in sports wagering activities, yet James Avery is providing information regarding McAllister’s team strategy to outside parties.”
The questions come at rapid-fire speed, making it impossible to hear what anyone is saying. For once, I’m happy to sit back and let Blake handle all the talking. Taking out my phone, I check my texts.
Martin the Manager
I don’t go to one race and the press conference turns into a zoo? For fuck’s sake.
Theo Walker
Let’s meet once I’m back in London.
Martin the Manger
You make a decision while in your makeshift fort with Blake?
Theo Walker
A few of them, actually.
THIRTY-FIVE
JOSIE
A crispy tatertot with legs greets me by running full speed into my shins. Champ’s tongue hangs out of one side of his mouth while a fuzzy tennis ball occupies the other. He drops the ball expectantly at my feet as his tail wags so furiously it could double as a personal fan. Readjusting my bag so none of the contents spill out, I grab the ball and lob it down the empty hallway.
“Hi!” Ella’s head pops out of her office. “I have doughnuts. And coffee.”
I belt out a raspy chorus of Andrew Gold’s “Thank You For Being a Friend.” This early Tuesday morning call time isn’t ideal, but it’s the only free slot Kelsey and Ella both had in their busy schedules. Kelsey being a guest on an episode ofCoffee with Championsis part of our PR-plan for opening month. He won’t be here for a bit, but Ella wanted me to go over her questions ahead of time.
Plus, I need ample time to grill her about what in the absolute hell that press conference was.
Walking into her office is like entering a sports museum. Paraphernalia decks the walls, but besides a few Europeanfootballteams, all the jerseys and posters are American teamsI’ve never heard of. I grab a chocolate-frosted doughnut and a cup of coffee from her paper-covered desk before settling into the lounge chair in the corner. Before I can take a bite, Champ once again drops the ball at my feet.
