Page 64 of Handle Me

Now Brex looked torn between his approval and his duty. Finally, he agreed.

Dropping into the Ferrari’s low-slung seat was like coming home. I hit the ignition, and it roared to life with what used to be my favorite sound in the world. I still loved its animalistic purr, but it didn’t even occupy the top ten spots anymore. All of those were now held by Miss Lola Bishop. It wasn’t just the tiny gasps and moans holding those spots. It was the frustrated groan when I made a tasteless joke or the small huff of annoyance when I challenged her. Along with a half dozen other intimate noises she’d made just for me.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware that my pants felt very tight.

It was not normal to feel this way about a woman I barely knew.

No, that was bullshit. I knew Lola. I knew little stuff, like how she liked her coffee, and big stuff, like the feelings she masked so carefully from the world. And maybe someday I would know all the rest—if I didn’t fuck it up before then.

I steered the Ferrari carefully out of the car park’s bumpy entrance, more aware of its low frame than the crowds. But as soon as I was on the street, I realized what Brex meant.

The waiting crowds went from curious to rabid. A few managed to get past the security blockades, rushing toward my car. Some of them had cameras. Clearly paparazzi. But most of them just looked like ordinary people, and they were screaming my name.

There was a time when I would have wanted this. Not because I wanted to be famous, exactly, but because attention like this would mean I’d done it. I’d risen high enough on the circuit to have fans. People who followed me not because of my DNA but because of my driving.

My fingers clenched on the steering wheel. I hated this, and no amount of handling or prep would ever get me used to this.

I glanced in my mirror, slightly relieved to see Brex was right behind me.

I hated that, too. The relief. It meant I wasn’t just getting used to this, I was submitting to it. And there wasn’t a submissive bone in my body.

When we finally rounded the street, driving far enough away that the crowds grew sparser before petering out altogether, my phone rang. I glanced at the dash and smiled.

I accepted the call. “Hey, Mum.”

“Where are you at? You sound like you’re driving,” she said warily. “You aren’t on the track, right?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes because, somehow, I was sure she would know if I did. “No, I’m in London.”

“I wondered...”

I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“There are just some stories in the press.”

“Do you mean the tabloids?” I asked. “Because you can’t believe their bullshit.”

“They’re just reporting that you went to the hospital with Clara’s family.” She paused, and I knew she was waiting for me to confirm or deny.

“I did.” There was no point in lying to her. Plus, I never lied to my mum. Once again, she’d know. “They sent Lola Bishop to, uh, give me a makeover.”

“A makeover?’ She sounded strained, and for a second, I thought she was shocked, then I heard her muffled laughter.

“It’s not funny. She tried to throw out half my clothes.”

“Remind me to send her a thank you note,” Mum teased. “But a makeover doesn’t explain why you’re in London if she was sent to you, or...”

“Or?” I prompted.

“Or why there’s a picture of you two kissing in a club last night on TMI.”

“Fuck.” It had been dark in there. I don’t know how anyone got a good shot of us.

“Anders,” she said disapprovingly.

“Sorry, mum, but sometimes fuck is the only response. I mean, how clear is this picture?”

“They’re pretty sure it’s you,” she said flatly, “and I’m your mother. I know it is. So, it seems like Lola is doing a little more than giving you a makeover.”