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THE RACE BETWEEN THE PRETTY BOY AND THE BAD BOY
NICOLE DYKES
1
SEBASTIAN
I fly over the finish line, adrenaline pumping insanely through my body as I make my way to victory lane, ready to celebrate my win. Some of my colleagues love to make a big show of hopping out of their cars, engaging in antics ranging from making snow angels on the finish line to doing literal flips.
But I do what’s expected of me, climbing out of my car and waving to the crowd with a big grin on my face, showing off my pearly whites.
I’m surrounded by the pit crew and tons of reporters. The crowd in the stands goes wild, and that high from earlier flies even higher as I’m approached by Leslie Adamson-Phillips, her microphone in hand and red high heels holding her up.
She’s smiling as she walks over to me. “Sebastian Harris. You’re on a hot streak. Four wins in a row! How do you feel?” Leslie is one of the top sports reporters in the world and is as cool as a cucumber as she begins the interview, knowing I know what to do. We’re both seasoned professionals in this business.
“I’m on top of the world, and I owe it all to my team. That last pit stop was a brilliant call,” I say into the microphone, knowing how to work the crowd, knowing what I’m allowed to and expected to say after a win.
“I’ll say,” she indulges me, giving my crew props. But then she leans in, a devilish smirk on her painted red lips. “Lennon was close on that last lap. Were you nervous?”
Leslie knows exactly what she’s doing. What she has to do because it’s all part of a great big game.
The back of my neck prickles at the mention of Axel Lennon, my nemesis and the bane of my existence. The bastard nearly sent me into the wall, and there’s no question of whether it was on purpose or not. He wanted to win. None of that’s fake. He wants the title this year, and I’m going to take it from him with this hot streak.
Axel Lennon has had it out for me since we were both rookies a mere five years ago. Always on my ass. Always battling for the title. The man is the epitome of arrogance. And even though I won this race, he’s surrounded by just as many people, if not more, than I am right now.
The media scurries for an interview with the bad boy.
Because that’s his role in the racing world. He gets the black leather jackets and edgy ads, while they put me in the innocent, pretty-boy bullshit.
And it’s all bullshit.
Axel Lennon is no more bad than any of us, but his dark hair and eyes, and that sinful body graced with black ink, makes for marketing gold. And pitting him against me, the blond-haired, blue-eyed, clean-cut kid from Kansas, has made a lot of people a lot of damn money.
Axel and me included.
It’s not hard to hate him on camera. The guy is full of himself—arrogant and selfish, on and off the track. He watches out for no one but himself. He fights dirty and has no problem slamming a competing car into the wall so he can cross the finish line.
He’s reckless with no damn morals.
I hear Leslie clear her throat, her pretty eyes zoned in on me as if she can read exactly where my thoughts have gone, spurred on by her question. “Of course not.” I smile big, knowing it’ll make my dimples pop out for the camera, and send the viewers a wink. “I have to get going, but I’ll see you all at the next finish line.”
Leslie thanks me, then addresses her adoring audience before we go off the air. Then she places a hand on her hip, her bright red fingernails standing out against her black skirt. “Admit it. That fucker pissed you off.”
I’ve known Leslie for a while now. Racing is in her blood. Her father was the Mitch Adamson—hardcore racing legend, and her brothers raced motorcycles for years. Legends in their own right. And she happens to be married to the top racing agent in the country, Cash Phillips.
The same Cash who represents Axel. Therefore, she’s the wife of my enemy in so many ways, but she knows how this all works, and if anyone knows our rivalry is mostly a gimmick, it’s Leslie.
“He just wanted the win. Can’t fault him for that.”
“Knock it off, Sebastian.” She rolls her eyes, her long eyelashes fluttering. “This rivalry bullshit is going to get you killed. Either you need to take it more seriously”—she points her finger at me, and then motions over to where Axel is giving an interview—”or you need to call him off. Because he is taking it seriously. He’s out for blood.”
I scoff at that, “Axel hasn’t taken anything seriously in his entire life.” I’ll admit it was a close call though.
“Winning is everything to him.” Her eyes meet mine, turning cold as steel. “Don’t let them control your destiny, Sebastian. They’ll ruin you, and they won’t lose a minute of sleep about doing so.”
I want to ask her to tell me more, to elaborate on that because it sends chills through my entire body. But she just gives me a sinful wink—rivaling my over-the-top bubblegum-sweet wink from earlier but injecting a dangerous edge to hers—before she calls her crew to head to her next interview.
