Page 11 of Drive Me Wild (Drive Me #2)
ELEVEN
THEO
The Monaco Grand Prix is the slowest and toughest race to win. It’s also one of the highest-pressure races since you’ve got everyone from Sebastian Stan to Serena Williams in the paddock, watching and waiting for you to either cock up or win. What’s ironic is that the Monaco track isn’t super exciting for the drivers. There are virtually no areas to pass or overtake—it’s not impossible, but it’s rare. Unless a crash occurs, a pit stop goes horribly wrong, or something happens with your car, the grid formation stays consistent throughout the race.
As the lights go out, I unleash my power unit’s full torque, giving me enough muscle in my rear wheels to maintain my P2 position as we head into the first lap. Besides a few upsets during the race—Blake’s tires wore heavily during the final few laps and my engine nearly overheated—McAllister secures two podium wins. Blake may be my teammate and friend, but it sure as hell feels nice to come ahead of him every once in a while, even if it’s only by 2.17 seconds.
The celebrations have already begun by the time I shower and change. I bounce around to a few yacht parties before ending my night at the annual Dom Perignon after-party. It’s so exclusive that they don’t even reveal the address of the event until an hour before it starts. Not every driver gets a de facto invitation, so it’s always a crap shoot who will be there. McAllister, and now AlphaVite, are the only teams with a standing invitation for their employees.
This year’s party is being held at a massive estate on the outskirts of Monaco. I have no idea who currently owns the property, but I’m almost positive Elton John did at one point.
I make my way through the twists and turns of the expansive home, passing marble statues of women holding jugs and egregiously expensive art that looks like it was drawn with crayon. When I finally make it to the backyard, I’m greeted by the quiet drip of an ice sculpture and the blaring sound of animated conversations. Hollywood directors sip on good quality wine while models and actresses take selfies and mingle underneath the charming lanterns scattered across the party.
I mill around, chitchatting and accepting congratulations on my win, before spotting Lucas and Harry tucked away at a corner bar.
“Evening gentlemen,” I greet as I order a cocktail from the bartender.
Lucas barely gets a “hello” in before Thompson is talking my ear off. It’s his third Formula 1 season, but his first year at this party and shell-shocked doesn’t begin to cover it. His cheeks are flushed baby pink with excitement, and his amber eyes light up like a carnival ride as he spots celebrity after celebrity.
“Is that Sydney Sweeney?” he guffaws as the Euphoria actress waltzes past us. His jaw is nearly touching Lucas’s Valentino slides. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure it is. I’ve had a crush on her since… well, forever.”
A knowing grin pastes itself on my face as I sip my cocktail. The glitz and glam of Formula 1 hasn’t jaded him in the slightest. He’s just happy to be here. It doesn’t hurt that he worships the ground Lucas walks on, giving my friend a nice confidence boost.
“You should go talk to her,” Lucas encourages. “I’m sure she’s impressed with your driving today.”
“Yeah?” Thompson tears his gaze away from Ms. Sweeney. The way his body angles toward Lucas in a bid for approval is sweet. “You think so?”
I nod. “Hell, even I’m impressed.”
Harry downs the rest of his drink and looks at us with the confidence only a twenty-four-year-old with just a few seasons under his belt has. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
“He’s precious,” I tease Lucas, nudging him with my elbow. “He’s like your puppy.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Lucas flips me the bird. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a groupie.”
“Technically, I do,” I say back. “Blake’s low-key super obsessed with me.”
My driving partner’s been parked at a nearby table with his manager, Keith, talking about God knows what. If the devil works hard and Kris Jenner works harder, then Keith works the hardest of all. That man is legendary and manages some of the top athletes in the world. He offered me representation when I first joined Formula 1, but I didn’t want to sign with the same person as Blake. The two of us compete enough, so the last thing I needed was to compete for a manager’s attention, too.
“Where’s his better half?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen Ella all night. Or Josie, for that matter.
“Talking to Zach Lavine.”
I tilt my head. “Who’s that?”
“He plays for the Bulls,” Lucas says, as if that points me in the right direction. “Chicago’s basketball team.”
Ah. The only American sports teams I know are from Boston. The Red Sox, Braves, Celtics, Bruins, and finally, the New England Patriots. Lucas is from Massachusetts, and his hometown team loyalty runs deep.
“Oh, that’s cool.”
Lucas takes my comment to mean I want to hear about this Lavine fellow’s career stats and highlights. I half-listen to what he’s saying for the next thirty minutes before excusing myself to the bathroom. Josie is still nowhere to be seen, so I shoot her a text as I make my way past a group of models reapplying their lipgloss.
Theo Walker
Where are you, princess? Want to see your gorgeous face.
Josie Bancroft
I’m looking for umbrella!
Walking out of the bathroom, I head down the spiral staircase that leads back outside to the party. It’s a gorgeous night, with diamond-like stars breaking through the midnight-blue sky. There is absolutely no need for an umbrella.
Theo Walker
It’s not raining.
Josie Bancroft
For a drink. Cute baby umbrella.
A voice memo follows her latest text, featuring a slurred version of Rihanna and Jay Z’s “Umbrella.”
Theo Walker
You want a drink umbrella? Why?
Josie Bancroft
Yes. And purple.
Theo Walker
Purple? You’re not making any sense, angel.
Josie Bancroft
Do u have a purple lighter?
If I had a suspicion that Josie was drunk before, this confirms it. Her pet peeve is when people don’t type out the full word. “U” instead of “you,” “R” instead of “are.” According to her, unless you’re disassembling a bomb or at a funeral, there’s no reason you can’t spend an extra five seconds to type out the entire word. I once texted her “thx, u 2,” and she threatened to block my number.
Josie Bancroft
NVM. Located.
Theo Walker
Why do you need a purple lighter and a drink umbrella?
I wait for three little dots to appear to indicate she’s typing, but they don’t show up. It’s another two hours until I spot her. The white sequined mini dress she’s wearing hugs her figure in a way that makes me jealous.
She’s chatting with Russell and Sam—Blake’s performance coach—waving her arms wildly as she talks. Both men are laughing at whatever she’s saying and a jolt of jealously slithers down my neck. Russell’s no worry, but Sam? He’s a single, handsome dude in his thirties, who’s looking at Josie the same way I do—with intense attraction. Nope. No, thank you, kind sir.
“‘Ello, gorgeous,” I say, sidling up next to Josie. Turning to the two men, I nod. “Russell. Sam.”
“Walker!” Josie squeals loudly. “Hi!”
Just then, the song the DJ is playing switches to a remix that Josie must like because, without a word, she’s dragging me to the packed dance floor at the edge of the lawn. Bye, Russell. Bye, Sam. The hanging lights above us change color, pulsing to the music. Sweaty bodies are pressed together, but the only one I’m focused on is Josie’s. She’s grinding against me like we’re at a Vegas strip club and I won’t pay up unless she performs. Fuck , I want her. Despite the drinks I’ve had, my dick is hard and ready to party.
“Your eyes are beautiful,” Josie tells me, her words slurring together. She snakes her hand up and around the back of my neck, and my heart skips a beat when she presses her forehead against mine. “Like the ocean.”
Lust swells inside my chest as she runs her nails against my scalp. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out how drunk she really is. Her lips are so close to mine, I can almost taste the vodka on them. This is way more than a buzz; this is black-out. Her eyes are glazed over, her movements sloppy and loose.
“I think we should head back to the hotel,” I announce, channeling the maturity of my inner-Lucas. Josie needs water and her bed. I fucking detest vomit, but I’d rather she do it in the privacy of a hotel bathroom than at an elite, private party.
She responds by leaning forward and tracing her tongue against my lower lip. My vision momentarily goes blurry. No one’s paying any attention to us, but the boldness of her actions surprise me. Someone went from “we can’t ruin the friendship” to “let me lick your lips in public” very quickly. If she wasn’t so drunk, I’d be thrilled.
I gingerly remove her hands from my neck. “C’mon.”
“To your room,” she clarifies.
“To my room,” I repeat dumbly.
“Mm-hmm.” Her lips brush against my neck, leaving a trail of kisses. “Then I want you to fuck me until my throat’s sore from screaming your name.”
Excuse me? All the blood rushes from my head and goes straight to my dick. I’m getting harder by the minute. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped dancing until Josie swats at my hip.
“You’re drunk, Jos,” I finally say. Almost all her body weight falls against me. I’m pretty sure if I took a step back, she’d tumble to the ground like a wilted flower. “Very drunk.”
“I was drunk the last time we slept together,” she points out.
Fair fucking point. But we were both drunk then, and right now, she’s hammered and I’m tipsy at best. As much as I want to spend the night between her legs, she’s not in the right state of mind to make that decision. If we sleep together again, she’s going to be dead sober so she can damn well remember me making her come, over and over and over again.
“Well, if you’re still horny tomorrow, we can discuss it then.”
“I will be,” she says without hesitation. She leans forward like she’s about to tell me a secret. “I get wet just thinking about you fucking me with your perfect co?—”
“Nope!” I practically shout. I need her to stop speaking before the tent in my pants becomes too obvious. “Let’s get you to bed. We can talk there.”
“Your bed?” A small frown plays on her lips. I love how she’s looking at me like I’m a present waiting to be unwrapped.
“Sure, Jos,” I concede, not sure how else I’m going to convince her to leave. “You can sleep in my bed.”
She mumbles something about how we won’t be doing much sleeping, but I tune her out and stay focused on getting her out of here in one piece. Wrapping my arm around her waist to keep her upright, I walk us toward the front of the party. If I wasn’t worried about Josie toppling over, I’d enjoy the envious looks of every male we pass. Are they surprised I’m pulling the hottest chick here? Well, I would be pulling her if I wasn’t quite literally pulling her into an Uber.
The ride back to the hotel is a testament to my willpower. Josie wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted me. I momentarily blackout when she tells me she got herself off thinking about us having sex. I didn’t know such dirty words could come out of someone with such a sweet smile, but I do know that my blue balls may kill me.
Josie’s stripping the moment we’re in the privacy of my hotel room. “Unzip me, please.”
At least she’s a polite drunk.
She piles her hair on the top of her head and waits for me to do as she asks. I quickly slide down the zipper, fighting off the urge to skim my fingertips down the curve of her spine. I hand her a clean shirt from my suitcase, desperately keeping my eyes trained on the wall behind her and not the teardrop shape of her breasts. When I’m certain she’s dressed, I finally look at her. She’s staring at me with a frown, her lower lip jutting out. It’s the sexiest goddamn pout I’ve ever seen.
“You don’t want to have sex with me anymore,” she says in a resigned voice. “Why?”
“Of course I do, Josie.” I sigh. I cannot believe I’m having this argument. “Why do you want to have sex with me ?”
Besides the fact that I’m extremely handsome, wildly hilarious, and talented as hell, of course.
“You’re my favorite banana.”
I tilt my head, unsure how a conversation about us having sex has anything to do with a banana. Josie hates bananas; she stares at them like they’re the reincarnation of an evil spirit. “Um, okay. Good for me, I suppose.”
Josie starts mumbling the chorus of “Good 4 U,” which adds zero clarification. I walk over to the mini fridge and pull out a water bottle that probably costs ninety bucks. Handing the bottle over to Josie, I watch as she slowly takes a few sips. She’s going to be miserable tomorrow morning when she wakes up to a mariachi band performing inside her brain.
After drinking half of the bottle, Josie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Do you like bananas?”
I let out a confused laugh. “Yes.”
“What kind?”
Maybe I’m more drunk than I thought, because the look Josie’s giving me makes me feel like an idiot for not understanding what in the bloody hell she’s talking about. Is there more than one type of banana? Does she mean ripe versus unripe?
“We can revisit this conversation in the morning,” I suggest, because I’m too tired and confused to dig for more.
I strip down to just my briefs before leading Josie to the bed. She snuggles into the quality comforter and eight-hundred-thread-count bedsheets. No, the hotel doesn’t provide Egyptian cotton sheets and a newly dry-cleaned duvet. I bring my own because the thought of random people having slept in this same bed just a week ago makes my insides squirm.
“Theo?” Josie mumbles a few minutes later.
“Yeah, Jos?”
When she doesn’t answer right away, I assume she’s fallen asleep, but then I hear her tired voice. “You’re my favorite.”
A curious flutter stirs in the pit of my stomach at her words. Soft, deep breathing indicates that the alcohol has lured Josie into dreamland so there’s no need for me to respond. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed she didn’t get to hear that she’s my favorite, too.