My F1 season starts strong, with me finishing within the top three for the last two races with nineteen more to go. The whole season makes up about ten months of the year with a summer and winter break worth a month each.
A racer lifestyle keeps me conveniently busy, making it hard to relax, let alone settle down. My schedule limits my time with family to a few visits per year, like during my home race and short holidays.
It’s not like I try to stay away. Distance numbs the dull throb taking up residence in my chest whenever I see my nieces. Time fails to ease the emotional distance between Lukas and me, adding to our strained relationship, along with missed calls and limited brother time.
In short, I’ve married my job because it’s a hell of a lot easier than dealing with my family.
Sounds of popping champagne bottles and laughter emanate throughout the ballroom. Whoever plans these parties sets the mood with soft lighting and low music, along with hot women and A-list celebrities. It’s the usual assortment of people. Drinks flow all night long, probably in the hopes that sponsors open up their checkbooks in the name of love and racing.
Don’t hate the racer, hate the sport where wealth funds the opulent lifestyle notorious with F1 racing. The F1 Corp showers us in hundred-dollar bottles of champagne for the hell of it, our sport not sparing a single expense. The events I attend are snazzy and excessive, with outrageous decor, Michelin-star food, and top-shelf alcohol.
My hiatus keeps me in check, my self-proclaimed dry spell holding me back from inviting any woman back to my hotel room. I should hang an out of commission sign around my neck because three women offer a classic “get to know each other more” that pains me to decline. My efforts deserve a medal of valor for not thinking with my dick for once.
My previous pride dissipates once the ultimate temptation shimmies up next to me. The smell of her hits me first, like the ocean on a summer day, a fucking intoxicating smell of coconuts and the beach.
I do a double take to make sure I’m seeing things right. Her hair reflects a golden hue, looking unreasonably soft, the same color I remember with a hundred shades of blonde woven together. My hands shake at the craving to run my fingers through her thick locks. A healthy glow radiates from her, her cheeks turning a soft pink color at my appraisal.
I withhold a groan. “Sophie, I haven’t seen you in years.” And those years have done her really fucking well.
Her green eyes widen in recognition, the two spheres reminding me of the rich forests surrounding my home in Germany.
Sophie is no longer an eighteen-year-old I met three years ago. Legal enough to drink and legal enough to fuck—and yes, I’d like to fuck. One look at her gains my interest, my dick twitching against the zipper of my pants.
With her standing next to me now, the age gap seems less daunting than before.
“Liam.” Sophie’s withdrawn voice makes me grin. She remembers me too, and shit, I like the way my name rolls off her tongue.
My dick may be abstaining like a priest, but my brain fucks like the devil. I may be all jokes and smiles, but I sure as shit love to fuck dirty, edgy, and rough. That’s what happens when you drive the fastest cars in the world. The idea of boring sex—vanilla and mundane—irks me. I don’t have time for shitty sex in a missionary position with a slow pace and sweet pecks. If sex isn’t desperate, crazed, and frantic, then people are doing it wrong.
I withhold a deep sigh when my eyes roam across her body. The silk material clings to her small curves and accentuates her waist. The fabric drapes low across her chest, revealing the upper swells of her breasts and delicate collarbone. I want to run my tongue across her skin, kissing the sensitive area before moving onto other places.
Fuck.
Maya coughs, bringing my attention toward her for the first time this evening. She looks nice, but I’m not interested in Santiago’s sister. Fat chance seeing as my dick throbs in my pants at the sight of Sophie in front of me after a few years.
A look Sophie and Maya share tell me they’ve become acquainted, with Maya eyeing me disapprovingly when she catches me staring at Sophie again.
I pull it together and remember my manners. “What can I get you two fine ladies?”
Sophie lifts a brow. “Isn’t it an open bar?”
Blood rushes to my dick at the sound of her husky voice, sounding like she smokes a pack of cigs a day. It’s nothing I’d expect from someone who looks innocent and cute like her, a petite little thing who smirks at me.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t order it for you. Make a man feel useful.” I pout my lip for extra points. Sophie’s eyes narrow when they land on me before darting off in another direction.
We engage in casual back and forth before Noah and Jax show up. I can’t tear my eyes away from Sophie’s pink lips sucking on the straw of her drink. My dick pulses, ready for attention, unaware of how the evening can’t go down how I want. And fuck do I want to go down on Sophie.
Reforming my ways and staying out of trouble takes a lot of work. My brain wins, running through everything that can go wrong if I hook up with someone like Sophie. She’s the daughter of a powerful team principal who wouldn’t appreciate me trying to seduce his daughter, no matter how friendly I am with Noah.
Thoughts about losing my contract and risking my career make my dick deflate because nothing kills a hard-on quite like the thought of losing everything I care about.
I look at Sophie, committing her to memory, possibly for my nefarious plans with my right hand later. Everything about her appeals to me, from the way she laughs at Maya’s jokes to how her green eyes narrow when she catches me staring too long.
Sophie happens to be a temptress with shit timing. The whole situation seems like a joke from God, my penance for being a dick to women before. Getting shafted by my team wasn’t enough punishment. There’s nothing worse than denying myself the hottest chick.
I mentally pat my dick.
Just you and me for now, pal.
Tension in the pit garage chokes me. The Chinese Grand Prix, a usually fun-as-fuck race, feels tainted by my nerves. I drink water to combat nausea and the dryness in my throat.
Jax pats me on the back with a bronzed hand, pulling me away from my negativity as he passes me my helmet. We match, wearing similar flame-retardant gear while looking distinct with customized helmets.
“Try to not let the pressure get to you. As much as I want to kick your arse into next week, I’d rather do it with your head in the race.” He runs a hand through his short curls.
I tug on the zipper of my suit. “Says the guy who spends twenty minutes in the bathroom before every race. What are you doing in there? Deep breathing exercises?”
He cracks his neck, drawing my attention to his tattoos starkly contrasting against his pristine white race suit. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“No shit. I know you don’t have a chick in there so it’s probably something weird and kinky you do by yourself.”
“Fuck you very much, arsehole. I happen to like relaxing before a race.”
“With all the partying you do on the side, I don’t blame you. I don’t know how you function half the time.”
He shoots me a mischievous grin. “Probably because I have you to clean up my messes for me. Nothing says a good night’s rest quite like you tucking me into bed.”
Through everything, we remain as tight as teammates can be, not compromising our friendship for competitiveness. Any time he needs me, I’m there for him. A random call at 2 a.m. to pick him up from some seedy side of town while he sports a new shiner? No problem. He needs me to help him get out of bed after a complete binger the night before, including removing women from his hotel room? I got it. Random last-minute request for my private jet? Let me call that in. That’s how it is between us, no questions asked.
I struggle to hide my smile. “God, you’re fifty shades of fucked up. You know that, right?”
“My issue is that I know it all too well.” He walks off toward his race car.
My gloved hand pats the hood of my race car before I slide into the cockpit, the tight space welcoming me back. The steel-gray color glistens from the sun and pit lights while the steering wheel blinks back at me in a silent hello. I take a deep breath, welcoming the scents of oil and rubber.
I pop on my helmet and flip down my visor, ready to get this shit on the road.
Honey, I’m home.
Do you know what happens when you race cars at two hundred plus miles an hour? Adrenaline. I crave a cold beer and a good fuck after a race, except I can’t do anything like that until my recent headlines blow over.
New season, new me. What an affirmation.
The adrenaline high from winning the Grand Prix makes it difficult to contain my excitement during the latest press conference. I sit with Jax and Noah as we answer F1-related questions from reporters. No use complaining about these boring parts when I get to live my dream every damn day.
What more can I ask for? Well, maybe the removal of my newly acquired purity ring, but fuckers can’t be choosers.
I school my features when a reporter asks about my upcoming contract agreement. “I love the team at McCoy, and they’ve been great with me over the past few years. The company knows what they’re doing, so I’m holding out to see what happens. Call me an optimist.”
“How is your relationship with McCoy after everything that occurred in the media this winter break?”
“Things couldn’t be better, and the team is ready to win this season. McCoy is my priority and my race car is the only woman in my life.”
Noah holds back a laugh next to me. His blue eyes and dark, wavy hair shine from the bright lights. The asshole knows things with McCoy are rocky, ever since Claudia threw a heel at my head when I pulled the plug on our brief sex-capade. Thank fuck for fast reflexes. Sadly for her, her tantrum didn’t have the desired effect of rough makeup sex because vindictive women don’t do it for me.
The rest of the conference feels mundane once reporters move on to someone else.
Noah pulls me aside once the F1 Corp member announces the end of the conference. He tugs me in for a hug and a smack on the back before letting go. “You need to figure out something to fix this relationship thing. You’re going to end up getting screwed out of a contract if McCoy can’t trust you to not screw up again. Other teams are probably wondering what you’ll do next. You’ve created a media shitstorm that reporters can rave about.”
“And what exactly do you suggest I do? I can’t help how Claudia keeps spreading rumors about whatever we did.” I find the process of defending myself exhausting.
He smirks at me. “Keep your dick out of any girls for a while. Think you can handle that?”
“Or I can do what you do, hook up one time and call it a night? I don’t hear you complaining about needy women and missed calls.”
Noah chuckles. “It’s worked out for me over the years. You messed up by getting together with women multiple times because that no-strings-attached lifestyle is bullshit. They always expect more time and attention. The thing with Claudia lasted way too long, and now she’s obsessed with either getting you back or driving you crazy.”
“Hey, to be fair, I didn’t think hooking up for a week was too long. It was only supposed to be a winter break thing. I warn the ladies before. The moment they start hinting at labels or long-term situations, I cut it off. Claudia didn’t get the memo because she’s never told no. Life hack: spoiled rich girls come with a private jet worth of baggage.”
He offers a weak smile. “Figure something out. But until then, keep to yourself, at least with the McCoy team. I tell you not to fuck around where you work. I actually want to compete against you, preferably while you’re on a comparable team. It would be no fun racing with guys who don’t know my every move like you do.”
“Shucks, you’re making me blush.” I press a palm to my cheek.
“Asshole. You’ll keep me sane now that I have an idiot for a teammate. Santiago joining Bandini is further proof of how there’ll always be someone faster and younger than us vying for our positions. So pull your shit together.”
“No need to harp on it. Let’s grab lunch because I’m starving.” I make my way toward the exit of the press building. This topic has overstayed its welcome.
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”
Fans tune in for Saturdays and Sundays, watching our qualifiers and races. But guess what? They miss all the fun behind the scenes, like how I get to meet with Chris and Jax for an exhilarating pre-race debriefing inside McCoy’s headquarters.
“All right, boys. It’s time for our post-race check-in. Before we begin, any comments on the new cars now that you’ve raced a few times?” Chris’s Russian accent carries words with a guttural sound. He gives off mobster vibes, with black gelled hair, thick brows, and a stocky frame.
“This one rides smoother than my most recent fuck.” Jax smiles, his hazel eyes gleaming.
Leave it to Jax to break up our shitty routine. His hair looks wild today, curls unkempt. He traded in his usual black attire for the team propaganda. Black tattoos peek out from the collar of his white McCoy shirt, trailing from his neck to his knuckles, the design intricately woven.
“Thank you for details no one wants to hear. And you, Liam?” Chris’s brown eyes land on me.
“I think I need less understeering because the balance feels off. With those changes, it’ll be perfect.”
“Okay, we can get those adjusted for you before the next practice round.” Chris writes his notes on his tablet. “Also, McCoy added extra PR training to your schedule since reporters keep bringing up the Claudia shit.”
Jax and I grunt. We hate PR reps because they’re a bunch of nosy men telling us what to do and what to say.
Chris holds up his arms. “Hey, I didn’t put my dick in a hole it didn’t belong in. Let this be a lesson for both of you.”
“I don’t get why I have to be wrapped up in this torture experience. No offense, Liam, but you fucked up.” Jax’s British accent makes the words less offensive.
“Last time I checked, there was a picture of you drunk and throwing up outside of a club in England. Not your best look.” I sip from an imaginary teacup.
“What can I say, sometimes whiskey hits you the wrong way. At least I made it outside before getting sick.” Jax gives me a sly grin.
“Was that before you took a nap in the bush?” I rub my chin.
“One man’s nap is another man’s blacking out.” Jax grins.
“Then enjoy being part of the fun. I’m sure you can use a PR tip or two.” My comment gets me an up-close look at a tattooed middle finger.
It’s safe to say we both made some careless mistakes over the break, including Jax chewing out an American reporter who made a racist comment. After he fucked with the guy’s camera, we can assume no one else on the grid will fuck with him for having a white mom and a black dad anymore.
“And for my shitty sanity and yours, please behave. Play nice with others, keep your hands to yourself, and don’t swap spit with someone who can get you in trouble with the media. I don’t give a shit what you do behind closed doors, just don’t come crying to me when shit hits the fan. My job description doesn’t include dealing with blubbering men and drama. James Mitchell has enough dirt on our team to last him a lifetime.” Chris dismisses us with a wave of his hand.
Jax and I shoot each other our classic fuckboy grins as we leave the conference room. The very same one we save for parties, pussy, and the Prix.
