“Great.” Scarlett swallowed. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Me too.”
We didn’t speak about anything non-workout-related for the rest of the session.
She’d given us both the wake-up call we needed, so I ignored the cramp in my chest and carried on with my training.
Later that night, I drove my Bugatti to a borough in north London. Its seclusion, wide-open roads, and indifferent law enforcement made it a hotspot for local high rollers who liked to indulge in a bit of street racing without the complications of other car scenes-namely: leaks, paps, and drugs.
There wasn’t a race scheduled this week, but people usually showed up anyway to brag about their latest vehicle or indulge in friendly competition.
Tonight was no exception.
A half dozen cars were already parked in the meetup lot when I arrived. My headlights sliced a bright swath through the group before I cut the engine and joined them.
I recognized everyone there. A footballer from Chelsea, a B-list actor with a supporting role in a major fantasy series, several rugby players…including Clive.
A wave of something unpleasant burned through my veins.
“Donovan.” Simon, the footballer, greeted me first. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been busy. You know how it is.” I returned his one-armed hug and slapped him on the back before saying hi to the others.
I stopped at Clive and gave him a cool nod.
The image of him and Scarlett flirting at Neon rose, unbidden, in my mind, and a wave of something unpleasant hurtled through my veins.
Clive leaned against his car, his self-deprecating demeanor stripped in the absence of potential bed partners. He was a regular at these meetups. I hadn’t lied when I said I’d met him through Poppy, but we saw each other here more often than at her parties.
“Surprised you’re not with your girl,” he drawled. I wasn’t the only one thinking of Scarlett. The mere evidence that she existed somewhere in his filthy mind made my muscles coil. “Never seen the great Asher Donovan that possessive over someone. Must be serious.”
The others’ ears visibly perked up. Society painted women as gossips, but truthfully, no one talked more shit than a group of blokes.
“I don’t know what you’re on about.” If I displayed an ounce of genuine interest in Scarlett, Clive would swoop in like a fucking bird of prey. He liked stealing others’ partners just to prove he could.
“No?” His smile told me he didn’t believe a word I said. “Damn. You’re even more into her than I thought. Since you want to play dumb, I’ll refresh your memory. Black hair, great ass, looks like a young Liz Taylor? I was about to close the deal with her before you interrupted.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t about to close anything.” My pleasant tone belied the dangerous thrum in my chest. “She actually has good taste.”
“Yeah, and she was eating my shit up. All the girls do.”
“Yeah? Has she contacted that number you gave her?”
That wiped the grin off his face. “I liked her, you know,” he said, his narrow gaze assessing. “She’s fit, she’s funny, she can carry a conversation. I get why you’re so twisted up about her.”
Prior to Saturday, I didn’t have a problem with Clive. Like I told Scarlett, he was a fuckboy and a bit of a tool, but those things were par for the course when it came to professional athletes.
After Saturday, I’d die happily if I could smash his face in before I croaked.
His acute observation about my feelings toward Scarlett raised several alarms-he’d only seen us interact once, so the fact he’d hit the nail on the head didn’t bode well for me-but I ignored the warning bells for now.
It wasn’t like the three of us would ever inhabit the same space again.
“So, is she a good shag?” he asked. “If she is, I might take her for a ride once you’re done with?-“
I moved before he had a chance to blink.
His sentence cut off with a surprised grunt and the slam of muscle against metal. The rest of the group, who’d been following our exchange like avid spectators watching a tennis rally, broke out into a chorus of oohs.
Anger muffled their jeers and narrowed my focus on Clive. The air sparked against my skin like a live wire; my blood pumped with the ferocity of a charging bull.
I imagined slamming him against the car again.
Imagined my fist in his face.
My knee in his groin.
I wasn’t a violent person, but when it came to Scarlett being hurt, my values unraveled.
I get why you’re so twisted up about her.
If he only knew.
“Don’t talk about her like that again,” I said, soft enough for Clive’s ears only, steely enough for him to hear the implicit threat.
He raised his hands in surrender. “I guess I have my answer.” His tone contained equal hints of triumph and unease.
With one reckless move, I’d shredded my neutrality. He knew exactly how I felt about Scarlett-but wiping that smug look off his face had been worth it.
Yet it still wasn’t enough.
A physical fight would provide short-term satisfaction, but I wanted to hit Clive where it would really hurt.
“How about a friendly wager?” My smile didn’t match my words. “Fifty grand says my Bugatti beats your McLaren.”
Clive’s eyes narrowed. I loved my cars, but he had an unhealthy obsession with his McLaren. It was his pride and joy, and if he could marry it, he probably would.
He also had an ego the size of Jupiter and a reputation for being a sore loser. Rugby, racing, it didn’t matter. He needed to be number one.
“Double it and make it a hundred,” he said.
So predictable. “Done.”
With my brand sponsorships and transfer money, I made significantly more than Clive did in a year, but he had family money to back up his professional salary. However, the word on the street was that most of his inheritance was locked in a trust, so his doubling of my initial challenge was driven by pure ego.
Our spontaneous race lacked the bells and whistles of a planned competition. There were no cheering crowds, no drinks and music.
There was only us, our cars, and the road-just the way I liked it.
Simon volunteered to count us down. We drove to the main road, and he took his position in front of us, using his shirt as the starter flag.
Three.
The powerful growl of the engine vibrated through me, sharpening the edges of my anticipation.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.