Page 92 of Out of Control

I meet Sofia’s eyes. Pride brims in them and fuck if my chest doesn’t constrict.

I hold Stavros’s stare. The muscle pulses in his jaw but he smiles. How can he not? I just gave him his first podium of the season.

And I sure as fuck feel the glare from Cruz who placed fifth. Respectable but out of the glory. And after me—the guy who’s tainting his little sister’s perfect image.

When I walk off the stage, covered in champagne and gloating like the motherfucker I am, Stavros holds his hand out to stop me.

I pause. I meet his eyes. I say, “It’s amazing how much you like how dangerous I am when I win for you, now, isn’t it?”

He grunts, but I don’t wait for a reaction. I don’t have to. I have media and PR and all the superfluous outside noise that comes with this sport. It’s a love-hate thing when all you want to do is sit on your ass for two minutes, down an ice-cold beer, and relive every glorious second of it.

Oh, and kiss your woman.

Anything to avoid the shitstorm I no doubt stirred up in private. Within the team. With Cruz. With fucking everybody.

But as I enter the garage for the first time, I come face to face with Cruz and the fucking pissed off look on his face.

“That was dirty,” he spits out. “But it seems that’s all you know, isn’t it?”

“What was? Passing you in traffic? Taking the advantage? What was so dirty about it?” But I know he’s talking about more than just what happened on the track. I know.

“Everything about it. Ignoring Alec on the radio. Pushing when you were told to defend. I’ve heard the recording of your comms.”

“Apparently I didn’t.” I shrug nonchalantly. “You’re only pissed because your ego is bruised. If you’d done it, it would have been the best fucking move ever, no?”

“We’re a team. I’m one. You’re two. That’s how it goes.”

I step into him. I welcome the fucking fight. And not just because of right now, but because of everything else he’s saying—implying—and fuck him if he thinks I’m going to stand here and take it and not defend myself.

“If it comes down to you and me, Cruz, it’s me all the fucking way. Don’t you forget that.”

“Exactly my point.” He glares at me, jaw clenched and hands fisted. His words referring to something way more important than racing.

But only he and I know that. No one else in this garage listening and pretending not to does.

“You’d do the same and you know it,” I grit out.

“No. I don’t think I would.”

I glance over to where Sofia has just stepped into the garage and then falters when she sees us squaring off and the small crowd of crew gathering around us.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?” I taunt. I can’t help myself. “You forget, no one tells me what to do. Not you. Not . . .”

“Stavros?” Cruz asks, tilting his head to the side, a slight smirk to his lips as if he just caught me in something I won’t cop to while standing in front of all these people.

“Fuck off,” I say evenly.

“It still eats you all this time later that he picked me back then over you? That—”

“That you were so awesome your papá paid him to?” The hurt teenager I was lashes out. Even the man I am today can’t stop him. Not after years of it building up. “Nah. I earned my stripes. I didn’t have anyone paving my way for me. I didn’t have—”

“No, but you sure as fuck knew how to screw over other people to get there. Take what you want from them and leave them to deal.”

I stare at him. Itching for him to throw that first punch. Needing him to so that I have an excuse to defend myself. To not be who they all want me to be—the aggressor. The villain. The fucker who screws up.

And as much as I want to give that to them, there’s a woman standing fifteen feet away who I can’t do that to, no matter how fucking bad I want to.