Page 107 of On The Edge

“Nothing. You?” I ask.

“Same ol’, same ol’.” He glances around. “What were we talking about?”

“His woman,” Riggs says.

“She’s not my woman,” I say.

“You’re so full of shit, you stink, Navarro.” Evans laughs. “Other than Riggs here, whose woman has to be here because it’s her job to be, I don’t think anyone else has their female companion—”

“Much better,” I assert at the term.

“—with them every race.” He shrugs. “So from where I stand, you’re either head over heels or dick-gripped by this new chick.”

I start to refute him but remember the ruse. The pretend fouple we are. And then wonder if we’re even pretending anymore. How can we be, when I wake up to a race morning alarm clock of her lips wrapped around my cock, for good luck—in her words.

Or how I search for her in every crowd, almost as if I’m so used to her being here that I now need her to be.

She’s my good luck charm.

Or is that my lame excuse to justify why I want her here? Why kissing her before I get in the car or getting out of the car after the last lap and finding her has become my thing?

It’s like when she’s around I’m a better version of myself—less bitter about my papá, more sure of my own place, more secure with who I am and what I’ve accomplished—and fuck if it isn’t freeing.

She approves of me. She likes me. She is with me for who I am.

“I mean”—Riggs whistles—“I never thought I’d see the day hell froze over, but I’m thinking it just might be.”

“You’re such an asshole.” I laugh but know I felt much the same way a few months ago. Before Maddix. And now we’re in the After Maddix phase, and I’m not one hundred percent sure how I feel about it.

Scratch that. I know. I just am afraid to admit.

“Been called worse by better,” Lachlan says and grins. “And she gave me a blow job so . . .”

“So you didn’t mind the name-calling,” Riggs jokes.

“She can call me whatever she wants,” Lachlan says.

We all bust out laughing and when I look up, I see my papá standing across the garage.

I wasn’t aware he was coming to Suzuka for the race.

The phone call after the gala was expected and just as demanding and harsh as I figured it would be. The podium I stood on in Singapore, and his complete lack of acknowledgement over it, even more so.

“You defied my wishes.”

“I was a good boy just like you asked.”

“You took the American trash with you to the palace. She ran off like an undisciplined child. People talked. We looked like fools.” I had a retort on my tongue, but his next words sobered that. “I have warned you what I will do.”

And that? The unknown, the myriad of things my father is capable of, is what’s fucking scary.

He locks eyes with me and nods ever so slightly before turning on his heel and walking away. He barely kept his demeanor in check, but I could see the burning hostility in his expression. I caught the slightest smirk as he walked away. Fuck do I want to know what that’s all about.

I must stare after him without thinking because Lach nudges me. “You good, mate?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I return to the conversation. To the light-heartedness. To the ribbing. “All is good.”

Lachlan eyes me for a beat, silent concern in his eyes, before he nods. “Good. Now, why don’t I explain to you how I’m going to kick both of your arses on Sunday.”