Bolted? I’m not bolting. Do I look like I’m bolting in my favourite jeans and the shirt that makes my eyes pop? I’m not yet sure that I’m not making a total tit of myself.
My hands are trembling by my sides. Do normal people feel this much stress and anxiety when trying to ask a perfectly decent guy out for dinner?
Why does this feel so difficult? It’s what I want. I want Kian. And I know he wants me because he asked me first. Yet I can’t force the words out. The silence engulfs me and I feel like I’m drowning.
He looks expectantly at me, his eyes pleading with me to ask, and I still can’t. I can’t give him what he wants.
And when I realise that, my heart shatters.
I’m glad I’m leaning against his door frame when he asks, ‘What’s the point of this, Harper? Like what? You show up here and we fall into bed together and pretend it doesn’t mean anything?’
Would that be so bad? I didn’t hear him complaining about our routine in the motorhome. It was nice, weirdly domestic, but I thought he was happy.
I go to reply, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
‘Where do you see this going? Like, I’m talking long-term. Are we still sneaking around when the season finishes? In a year’s time? What about two? Are you still showing up at my door for a quickie whenever the mood takes you? Are you still pretending there isn’t something more going on between us? Do you see a future for us or is this all just some game to you?’ Kian releases a deep, heavy sigh, like he feels better to have got all of that out in one go. I wonder how long it’s been building up for.
Knowing him, a while.
My head is spinning, every question passing through my brain like a big flashing neon sign making me wince. I don’t even know where to start at this point. All I know is that he’s asking whether I see a future with him and I just … can’t. I’m not sure I see a future with anyone. I don’t even know how to start seeing that. My brain doesn’t seem to have the right setting. I don’t think like that; I never have. I think about today, and I know that tomorrow will take care of itself. I never had any control over what happened to me as a child so I learned that plans and expectations only lead to disappointment and rejection. I started this season in the lower category, wondering if I’d ever get called up, and then on day one of pre-season training I’m catapulted into the top category through someone else’s misfortune. And now I’m here, with a win under my belt, rolling with the punches and making the most of what’s landed in my lap. It’s a dream to be here, and to be getting these results, too. And alongside Kian Walker, the man who’s been my idol for years, the man who’s making me feel things and want things that are new and exciting and … terrifying.
Kian’s still staring at me, knuckles white where he’s gripping his towel for it to stay wrapped around his body. With every silent second that goes by, the look on his face changes from hope and expectation to painful, bitter disappointment. I can’t give him what he wants, and maybe he already knows that.
Maybe it’s why he asked, finally, so he can put an end to this all together.
I wouldn’t blame him. He doesn’t really need this mess in his life. He’s trying to retain a title, maybe even break a record, and he has people in his life who need him. Who love him. He doesn’t need someone who can’t even think about a future without having a panic attack.
I watch anger set into his face and his jaw tense. His eyes harden and I can feel the wall he’s building between us, brick by brick.
I can’t even blame him. Every time I think about the crash, I can’t help but think it might have been my fault. I’ve been such a distraction to his routine. A dangerous distraction. I could have cost him his life. Am I really thinking it could be a good idea for him to be starting a relationship with someone like me?
‘Harper? What’s going on?’
The sound of my name snaps me out of my thoughts and the nervous ball of energy morphs into anxiety. The scramble of pain in my chest and the way my hands begin to tingle tell me it’s time to get out of here. There’s no fight, only flight. I can’t do this.
‘I’m, um, I’m going out. Johannes––’ I quickly fire his name out even though I haven’t spoken to him today. ‘I’m going out with Johannes. I was gonna see if you wanted to come, but you look ready for bed. So, um, see you tomorrow.’
It’s mortifying how quickly I take off along the corridor. I summon a car to take me somewhere dark and dismal. I don’t even stop to check reviews of the place online, I just ask the driver to take me anywhere I can drink and dance, and he obliges.
Once I’m inside it’s not difficult to find someone to try and lose myself in. He smiles when he realises he doesn’t even need to buy me a drink.
He then proceeds to act like I’m easy in every other way too. The first song hasn’t even finished when I feel him playing with the button of my jeans, his other hand dangerously close to cupping my dick.
I shake him off from my crotch area and his hands roam across my chest, playing with my nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt. Normally they are so receptive, pebbling at any kind of attention, but I’m just not feeling it.
I give him one more song so he can’t accuse me of being a prick-tease, but when the song ends and I try to push him away, he fists my shirt and pulls me closer like it’s part of a game we’re playing.
‘Sorry, I need to go piss,’ I say way too quickly, but his grip is tight and I feel my chest struggling to expand against the tight fabric. Any normal person would just knee him in the nuts and run, but I can’t. Someone will pull out a phone, get it on camera, and it’ll be headline news tomorrow.
So I squirm and wriggle, hoping to slowly slip out of his grasp, and when the music changes, I manage to slip out from under his arms and dart towards the back of the bar. I trap myself in the bathroom, slumping down against the wall to try and centre myself again. I used to do this all the time – go to bars and pick up guys – but it doesn’t feel right anymore.
I don’t even know why I’m here. Nobody in here is Kian, and apparently he’s all I want now. No one compares to him; no one looks at me like he does, like I could hang the moon and stars and still have time to race in every Grand Prix of the year. He thinks too much of me and I know it. He thinks far better of me than I deserve, but it was nice for a while to be with someone who cares so much.
There’s such a familiarity to Kian now that I love?—
Love?
What does love have to do with being compatible in the bedroom? When did that ever matter?
