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“But now you do the same thing, participate in the media circus.” What an enigma, this one.
“I was fascinated by the athletes and wanted to know everything about them, how they got to be the best in the world at their craft. And I wanted to control the narrative of what got told. I guess that’s why I can relate to your fans wanting to know about your personal life, little things about you. Media was in my blood, the family business, I just went a different direction.”
“Let me guess,” I smile, “they do not approve.”
“They do not. You’re a bunch of barbarians driving around in circles all day and my work in social media is an embarrassment. Working with disgraced barbarians on social media is a triple threat.” Mallory is staring at the concrete ground beneath her, her face blank and zoned out, no fire. The paddock has grown quiet and it’s getting chilly here in the desert now that the sun has long since gone to bed for the night.
“Here,” I say, handing Mallory one of my team jackets that’s hanging on a wall nearby. Again, asshole, not monster. “So this is a revenge plot, I can dig that.”
“No, I just want what I want and this is how I’m going to get it.” A little bit of sass has returned to her voice and some color to her face.
I reach for her hand to help her off the ground and she takes it. Her fingers are cold as I pull her up. I have several ideas on how to warm her up. Even if now is not the time, I want her sassy mouth back and I want her to argue with me. God help me, I don’t know why I like her arguing with me. Last I checked, I was not a masochist and I have no mommy issues. “And what is it you want?” I ask and pull her closer to me than is just a friendly assist off the ground.
“I want you to behave this weekend and not insult the press,” she puts both hands on my chest and bats her eyelashes at me, feigning innocence. The same trick she used to pull off her ridiculous cat shelter scheme. Unfortunately for her, my balls are still firmly attached to my body and not in her possession.
“I can’t make you any promises,” I say, putting my large hands over hers and holding them in place on my pecs.
“Right,” she pulls her hands back and steps away, “You’re not a promises kind of guy, are you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she turns away, my jacket floating around her, far too big and long. But I like how it looks on her. “Can you take me back to the hotel, it’s getting late and we have a lot to do this weekend.”
Ah, classic deflection. “Aye,” I nod and grab the keys to the loaner Ferrari I’m driving this weekend from the local dealership. She’s right, though. I don’t do promises anymore. No one keeps their end of the bargain, so what’s the point? She wants what she needs out of me to get back at Daddy, and I want what I need out of her—mainly her legs wrapped around me while I’m buried inside of her. Seems there’s a contract negotiation to be made here.
>
Another day.
The ride to our hotel is starting to look like a silent one as Mallory’s eyes get heavy and she struggles to keep them open in the warm, comfortable seats with the engine lulling a soothing lullaby. “How did you get here?” Comes a whisper as she curls up facing me.
“Private jet,” I answer immediately.
“Don’t be a dick,” she replies in the same whisper as if it’s a request to me, not a demand. As if she doesn’t have the energy to fight. Shame.
“Worked my ass off.” That’s the honest truth, unlike DuPont who sailed in from Monaco on his money and family name and keeps his place on the grid only because he pays for it. It’s a bloody insult to all the parents like mine who sacrificed everything for their kid to make it here.
“I can Google the facts, Lennox. How did you get here?”
I sigh, debate taking the long route back to the hotel so we can stay in the car together and I have a chance to swing the conversation back to my comfortable topics, but she needs sleep. “Pop built me my first kart when I was 3 years old. It was all downhill from there.”
“Three? How can a three-year-old drive anything?”
“You were born being a danger to society behind the wheel, guess I was the counterbalance.”
“I bet you were a cute kid,” she yawns.
“You’d have to ask my Mum.”
“Does your family ever come to races? The internet would love embarrassing photos of you as a kid.”
“No, almost never. I’m not interested in sharing my family with a few million people who follow a phony version of me online, either.” I also can’t bear to see their disappointed faces when the truth of Celeritas is thrown into their faces, everything they sacrificed for me pissed away over greed and fame. I won’t do it to them.
“I’m trying to make it less phony, you know,” Mallory whispers so quietly I can barely hear her. Her eyes have blinked close and her head rests back into the leather seat.
I want to carry her up to her hotel room and tuck her into bed. Let her wrap her hands around my neck and feel her head tuck into my chest. Feel like a mighty hunter carrying home the spoils of victory. Her eyes are closed, long lashes folded over one another. Tiny, soft breaths pass over her soft lips.
But if I pick her up and carry her into this hotel, she’ll be on every predatory celeb blog and gossip rag by tomorrow morning along with jealous women slut-shaming her or horny dudes leaving comments that reveal why, in fact, they’ll never have a woman like Mallory in their lives.
