Page 18 of Drive Me Wild
“Oh.”
“Yep. So I wanted to get ahead of any drama,” Martin says. He runs a hand over his bald head, the smooth skin gleaming under the harsh hotel room lights.
“I wish I could rub your head.”
Coffee dribbles down his chin as he opens his mouth. “What the fuck?”
“Like a crystal ball. That way I could predict the future of my contract negotiations,” I explain with a grin. “Martin the Fortune Teller has a nice ring to it, eh?”
He laughs deeply, shaking his head. “You’re weird, Walker.”
If the paparazzi called meWeird Walkerinstead of my other names, I probably wouldn’t be in this fucking situation.
EIGHT
JOSIE
Race weekends are either sohectic that I forget to drink water for extended periods of time, or so calm that I could head back to the hotel for a quick catnap and no one would have any idea.
Today is a shitstorm worthy of a tornado report on the local news.
The morning starts off normally, but quickly devolves after Blake crashes his car during morning practice. Unexpected rain hit while the cars were out and he took a turn too quickly, forcing it into the overrun and barriers. The team has to rebuild it in time for qualifying tomorrow, or he’ll start at the back of the grid.
Then Theo spent thirty minutes during a live interview with SkySports discussing why his spirit animal would be a red fox. Is his assessment accurate? Yes. He makes some good points. Is it necessary? Absolutely not, and now his team is running way behind schedule.
I head to the conference room for some semblance of peace and quiet. I set up a few Instagram and Facebook ads for our newest line of merchandise before typing “must-see landmarks in Le Mans” into Google. The French Grand Prix is still weeksaway, but tons of Formula 1 employees and team members extend their stay in France and head to Le Mans to attend the 24 Heures du Mans, the world’s oldest and most well-known endurance race, the next weekend.
Although researching the city of Le Mans as a kid is what initially led to my interest in motorsport, I’ve never actually visited—never felt the need to. I may have been born there, but the only thing French about me is my love of wine and cheese. Other than that, I’m crumpets, tea, and “All Hail the King” through and through.
But according to the internet—and of course, I believe everything I read on the internet like the millennial I am—connecting to my birth city will give me a better sense of self. So I’m going. It’s time for me to explore my French beginnings, outside of my love for charcuterie boards.
I’ve been creating a guide of all the things I want to do once I visit. I’m busy making a reservation at a cocktail bar I discovered on Instagram when Theo appears in the doorframe. The blue shirt he’s wearing makes his eyes pop and hugs the contours of his muscles, highlighting the work he puts in at the gym every day.
“Hey,” Theo greets me, head cocked tentatively. “Can I come in?”
I give him what I pray is a casual and cute smile. “It’s a free country, babes.”
“Bahrain is actually a constitutional, hereditary monarchy,” he says matter-of-factly. “According to Blake.”
I shake my head and smile. Blake knows a little about a lot, thanks to his love for watching documentaries. “Well, it’s a free conference room at least, so you may do as you please.”
The smile on his face widens. “What aboutwhomI please?”
Nope. I can’t let a few orgasms get in the way of my favorite sparring partner. I start singing “Thank u, next” by ArianaGrande, and a low chuckle rumbles out from Theo’s chest. He once told me I’ve got more songs in me than a jukebox.
As he makes his way over, I quickly switch tabs, so it looks like I’m doing actual work. Theo settles into the chair to my right because, of course, in a conference room with ten chairs, he has to pick the one where I can smell the masculine deliciousness of his cologne.
He rests his large hand on my forearm. I hate that my mind automatically thinks of the magic he can do with those fingers. “Are you annoyed with me?”
My brain short-circuits as his hand torches my skin. “I’m annoyed with you quite often. You’re going to have to be more specific, Walker.”
He snorts and sweeps his hand from me, as if the simple touch wasn’t making my heart forget to beat.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen you much since the last race, and I wanted to make sure you’re not avoiding me after…” he lowers his voice, “you know.”
If I’m avoiding you, it’s probably because every time I look at your lips, I imagine them pressed against mine.
“We’re good,” I reassure him. “No dramas, mate.”
