‘Let’s dance,’ Harper quickly suggests, as the motor racing conversation dies down.
I’m quick to shake my head, and before I know it Johannes is hopping out of the booth and pulling Harper onto the dance floor, screaming something about it being their song.
As Harper grinds – yes, full-on grinds – against Johannes, I wish I’d never agreed to come. The hour isn’t up yet, but I promised Anders I’d do my part – make an effort, compromise, be a good teammate. Well I’m here, aren’t I? Though I can’t currently see how this is making me a better teammate because there’s a fiery pit of something I don’t want to name brewing in my gut. It’s vicious and attacks my stress levels more than the guilt does.
Johannes’s hands are roving up and down Harper’s body. When they land on his hips, the T-shirt he’s wearing rides up, leaving a delicious smattering of blonde hair on display leading down into his stupidly tight denim shorts.
It’s not like I am or ever have been blind to Harper James. I refuse to accept that he’s quite the sensation the fans claim he is. I mean, heishot – that’s undeniable – but it’s more than that. He’s beautiful in the most classic sense of the word. His features are like something one of the great sculptors of the past would carve – godlike, perfect, clean. And then there’s his ass. It’s lean, firm, shapely and would tempt anyone to sin. Of course I’ve noticed. But then there’s also his sharp, sarcastic tongue…
He throws his head back onto Johannes’s shoulder. His eyes closed, a couple of slick curls cling to his damp forehead as he writhes and twists on the dance floor. Fuck. I absolutely do not want this image of Harper James to become engraved inside my brain.
And yet, I can’t look away. There’s an uncomfortable stirring in my shorts that makes sitting in this sticky booth that little more uncomfortable. I didn’t want to come here and now I can’t leave – trapped between the terms of our deal and the compulsion to keep on watching him.
This is so wrong. So, so wrong. I desperately want to leave, but I also really, really want to go up there and slide in between the pair. I want to be the one Harper is writhing against. I want to forget about all the crap in the world, all the pressure, all my responsibilities, and all the ways I am failing my sister, and just lose myself in Harper. That’s what I want.
I’m supposed to be here to build a relationship with my teammate. To become friends with him so we can work together.
But the burning desire inside of me is not for friendship. It’s just for him. His body held against mine. His ass in my hands. My lips on his?—
I should leave, but if I walk outside now everyone’s going to get a good look at the tent I’m pitching and it’ll probably end up on the front page of some Australian tabloid. Or someone’s Instagram.
And then everyone would know. And even worse thaneveryoneknowing is ifheknows, if Harper sees the way I’m looking at him.
I feel a sudden panic rising inside me and my breath hitches. And then it happens.
Fuck.
It happens in a kind of feverish slow motion and I cannot look away. His eyes open and our gazes meet. It’s electric, instant fireworks. It’s almost like he can hear every single one of my dirty thoughts because he looks me up and down in an assessing way, and then grins like a Cheshire cat.
Too late. It’s too late. Heknows.
He beckons me with a single finger. He’s also bloody delusional. The only place I’m going is back to the hotel. Not a chance in hell he’ll get me out on that dance floor.
I shake my head and he pouts, full on model pout, but before I know it he’s focused back on dancing with Johannes.
The spell is broken.
The moment is over.
He doesn’t know anything, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t care.
That’s the thing with Harper, I’m learning. I’m pretty sure everyone is disposable in his life. No one ever spends more than one night in his bed. He’s all hook-ups and fuck-buddies. No one means anything to him, and no one gets close. He and Johannes are obviously friends, but I don’t know whether they were ever together or not. Either way, I don’t think they’re sleeping together now. I don’t get that vibe.
It’s kind of sweet in the most messed-up sense of the word sweet. Harper seems to either dislike or distrust most other people in his life, but Johannes just seems to be his person. The only one he’ll let close.
If I ignore the green pit of something I refuse to call jealousy, I can see how they’d be cute together. I’m not super familiar with Johannes’s stats as he didn’t make much of an impact on the track last year, but this season is different. His antics outside of the track seemed to have calmed down and he’s coming on leaps and bounds to be a true competitor this year. Especially since he’s part of the new Ford-Red Bull team. I only hope Harper will learn from his friend and find a way to focus on his driving. This moment in time is perhaps not the best example of that, but amidst the pressure of competition it’s important to blow off steam. Looking at them now, it’s clear that what they have in common is how they choose to do that. It’s only 9pm and neither of them is smashed, so it’s pretty tame in comparison with what it could be.
I try to take that onboard and feel as relaxed as they look, but I’m wound up like a tightly coiled spring. This is not my idea of blowing off steam. If anything, I’m reaching boiling point.
Shit.
Why did I agree to this?
I look at the snacks that have been delivered to the table and consider scoffing the lot, just to give myself something to do. I have a strict diet, though, since every gram of weight is carefully controlled so that the car and I together hit the exact perfect mass for peak performance. I push the bowl away and instead focus on rolling the bottle of beer, which is getting slightly warm now, between my palms and picking at the label. Anything to avoid looking at the pair of them on the dance floor.
I must look bored, because when the upbeat song drifts into something slower, Harper appears suddenly back at the booth.
‘What do I have to do to get you up on the dance floor?’
