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Page 2 of Drive Me Wild (Drive Me #2)

TWO

THEO

It’s probably not the best idea to Google the dictionary definition of a fuckboy when the woman I just slept with is still in the room. I mean, sure, I have no desire to be in a serious relationship, but that doesn’t mean I’m against love or anything. I simply enjoy the female body way too much to commit myself to only one at this point in my life. Don’t get me wrong, the women I spend time with know the score; I’m careful to never make promises or set any expectations whatsoever, so it’s clear that I’m not interested in anything long-term or meaningful.

I’m too focused on my career to handle the delicate nature of being in a relationship right now. I want someone to yell at me to fuck them harder, not yell at me for being late for a dinner date. How can I stay at the top of my career if I’m not fully focused? I want to win another World Championship, and I can’t do that if I’m distracted because I’m texting my girlfriend back. So, for now, love can take a backseat to lust.

Thankfully, Jenna—the brunette who just gave me a blowjob that included moves I’ve only seen in porn—is on the same page as me. She’s probably the longest “relationship” I’ve ever had, although we’ve never done anything outside the confines of my California king. She’s a traveling consultant, but I’m on her “to- do” list whenever she’s in London. We have mind-blowing sex a few times a year, that’s it. If only all women were as casual as Jenna.

“You don’t leave until Tuesday, right?”

“Mm-hmm.” She’s already back in work-mode, typing away on her phone at rapid-fire speed. There’s nothing professional about her outfit, though. She’s wearing tight leather pants that fit her shapely legs like a glove and a silky blouse that’s now missing a few buttons, thanks to my eagerness to get her naked.

“We can grab drinks or something before you leave.” I quickly add, “If you want.”

She flicks her gray-blue eyes away from the screen, focusing on me for the first time in ten minutes. A true fuckboy wouldn’t notice the color of her eyes, right? “Theo. You’re a sweetheart, but don’t make this weird. You don’t need to buy me a drink to guarantee you’ll get laid the next time I’m in town.”

I snort loudly. Apparently, wanting to know more about Jenna than her Instagram handle and last name is one step too far in our arrangement. It’s not like I asked her what her blood type is. I like sex with a little bit of an emotional connection—which may be my problem—but at the end of the day, sex is sex. I’m not going to argue with her.

“Can I order you an Uber, at least?”

Her eyes are back on her phone as she slips on her shoes. On her way out of my bedroom door, she says, “Nope! Later, Theo.”

“Bye,” I call out, but she’s already gone.

I throw on some clothes and make the thirty-minute drive to McAllister’s headquarters. The first Grand Prix is still a month away, but McAllister’s owner, the aptly named William McAllister, insisted Blake and I come in today. I had to leave Australia a week early because of his “exciting” news. He doesn’t use positive adjectives very often, so I’m equally intrigued and suspicious.

I flash my badge at the front desk—as if security won’t recognize me—and make my way to the cafeteria to grab some breakfast. The long hallway leading from the lobby to the café is lined with photos of drivers, past and present. My photo is directly across from my dad’s, and it’s like looking at myself fifteen years in the future. My dad drove for McAllister until his MS progressed to the point where him driving was dangerous, but it was his biggest dream to have me drive for his team. A knot in my stomach forms as I brush my fingers past his picture. I quickly walk toward the cafeteria, not wanting to linger and let myself spiral down a rabbit hole of missing him.

Already in line to order a coffee is an arse I’d recognize blindfolded. I’ve only been crushing on Josie since the day I met her. I fight the urge to palm a cheek in each hand and instead tap her on the shoulder like a gentleman.

“G’day, gorgeous.”

Josie immediately swirls around, her pouty lips making a perfect “O.” She somehow makes a gray sweater and black jeans look sexy. It’s like Levi’s used her measurements to custom-make those pants because they cling to her like a perfectly wrapped present.

“Walker!” she squeals, pulling me in for one of her organ-crushing hugs. “I thought you didn’t get back from Melbourne until next week. What’re you doing here?”

“Change of plans,” I manage to cough out as she squeezes the air out of me.

“I wish you would’ve told me.” Releasing me from her arms, she goes to readjust the clip her blonde hair is held back in. Not that I mind being pressed up against her tits, but it feels nice to breathe again. “We could’ve done the video shoot for the?—”

I groan and cover my ears. “Can you at least let me get some caffeine in me before you start badgering me?”

She sings the opening chorus of Cee Lo Green’s “Fuck You” in reply. Josie’s quirk of responding in song lyrics never fails to bring a smile to my face. I probably wouldn’t find it so adorable if she had a shitty voice, but her vocals are decent enough that I wouldn’t boo her off the stage at karaoke.

She stops singing and gives me a quick once-over. “So, what’re you doing here? Do you have a meeting?”

“With the big boss himself,” I reveal.

Josie wiggles her eyebrows. “I thought you were going to say with Andreas. Getting in trouble for sending a beauty shot of your balls and what not.”

“My balls are beautiful,” I inform her with a cheeky wink. “I can show you?—”

“And look at the time!” Josie’s hands fly up as if hiding from my words. “I’m late for a meeting!”

Looking down at my watch, I realize I’m the one running late. I quickly grab a chocolate chip muffin and matcha latte and make my way to the conference room called Innovative . Josie claims that McAllister must have hired some inspirational speaker on shrooms to name the rooms in this place.

Blake’s already seated when I walk in. His dark hair is messy, per usual, making it look like he just rolled out of bed, although I’m sure he’s been up for hours.

“Morning,” he greets me before doing a double take. “You look like you had a rough night.”

“The sex was rough”—I shoot him a wink—“but the night was great.”

Blake rolls his eyes as if he wasn’t doing the same exact thing about a year ago before his girlfriend Goldy—my nickname for Ella—domesticated him. It’s for the best, but I could live without his judgmental attitude at the moment.

“Any idea what this meeting is about?” Blake asks as I sink into an open chair.

I shrug. “Fuck if I know.”

“Maybe they’re telling us we don’t have to go to so many damn sponsorship dinners,” Blake says, his eyes lighting up.

Blake despises small talk and schmoozing, but Formula 1 is pay-to-play. If we expect our sponsors to pay upwards of two hundred million pounds a year to let us race, then we have to play their game like we’re show ponies. I don’t mind going to the events. People telling me how great I am? Don’t see a problem with that.

I take a bite into my muffin and audibly moan. Fuck . If I had to decide between a repeat performance of this morning’s blowjob or this muffin, I’d choose the muffin. No hate to Jenna, that’s just how good it is.

“Want some?” I ask Blake, flicking a crumb off my pants. “It’s really good.”

He shakes his head. “I already ate, but thanks.”

I fight the urge to ask if he ate his girlfriend for breakfast. Blake’s sense of humor doesn’t quite allow me to poke fun at him and Goldy.

“Suit yourself,” I say with a shrug.

When the door opens, I expect William to walk in, but what I don’t expect is the man who once threatened to ruin my life to waltz in behind him. A chocolate chip goes down the wrong pipe and I start coughing. The way I’m hacking up a lung sounds like I’ve been smoking for thirty years.

What the hell is James Avery doing here?

“You okay, mate?” Blake questions, half-rising from his seat. I know he’s certified in the Heimlich maneuver, but he’ll crack my ribs if he tries that. Holding up a hand, I wave him off.

“Wrong pipe,” I choke out . “No dramas.”

It takes me another minute before I can actually breathe again. Breathe is a very loose term, considering I’m near hyperventilating. I haven’t seen Avery in a few years. He’s sporting a small beer belly now, but other than that, he looks the same—like a piece of shit with ears and eyes. I absentmindedly touch my left eyebrow. The small scar that runs through it is courtesy of good ‘ol Avery the asshole. A part of my life I’d rather not relive.

“Theo, Blake,” William finally says. “Meet James Avery.”

Hearing his name aloud makes my stomach drop out of my ass, through the floor, and land all the way in the depths of hell. That’s where all my memories of this fucker are kept.

Blake stands up and sticks his hand out. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well, Blake,” James says, pumping Blake’s hand. “Can’t believe it’s taken me this long to meet the Formula 1 legend.”

Does he want Blake to take out his dick so he can suck it, too?

Blake waves off his comment like it’s no big deal that he’s won six World Championship titles. It’s the entire reason his biography is the damn talk of the town—scratch that, the world. The release party is a few weeks away, and while it hasn’t even come out yet, no one will quit chattering on about it. Blake this. Blake that. McAllister has two drivers but apparently, only one of them warrants attention right now.

“Walker,” he says curtly, his lips pursing together as if my last name makes him nauseous. “It’s been a long time.”

Not long enough.

I nod and mutter, “Avery.”

Blake watches me, trying to gauge what the fuck is going on. Unfortunately, we have an audience and I’d need about six uninterrupted hours to get into that, anyway. William and Avery sit opposite of Blake and me at the table. When William starts talking, it quickly becomes clear what he’s going to tell us. I’m not religious, but I pray to God I’m wrong.

My prayers go unanswered.

Turns out, I should’ve made a deal with the devil.

For the third time in a row, someone bangs on the bathroom door. It sounds like a jackhammer doing the cha-cha-slide against my skull. Can they not hear me emptying the contents of my stomach? Rude .

“It’s Blake,” a familiar voice calls through the door.

As if I wouldn’t recognize who it is after twenty years of friendship.

“I’m a little busy,” I weakly call out. I thought I was done throwing up, but then the realization that I’ve been sitting on a bathroom floor with my face centimeters away from a toilet seat that hairy arses have sat on hits me. “Or is that not obvious enough?”

I make an exaggerated gagging noise and will him to leave me alone. I miss the old Blake who would just buy me a beer and let me sulk in silence. Domesticated Blake does feelings .

“Open the goddamn door before I kick it down,” he growls.

Okay, well, sometimes he does feelings.

I shrink at the sound of his voice. It would make any dog’s tail sit snugly in-between its legs. Given the fact that Blake’s single-handedly cost McAllister thousands of dollars in repairs thanks to his hot-headedness, I don’t doubt his threat.

I flush the toilet before standing and opening the bathroom door. Blake squeezes his imposing frame into the small crack I’ve left him. Now I’m nauseous and claustrophobic. Lovely.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, poking me in the chest.

“What was what?”

He narrows his dark eyes at me, not amused. “Let me reenact. William says, ‘I’m pleased to announce that James is our new CEO. We wanted to introduce you before the press release goes out.’ Then I go, ‘Welcome to the team.’ And then you projectile vomit matcha and a half-eaten muffin all over the table.”

If Blake ever quits racing, he could easily make a name for himself in Hollywood with that performance. Maybe be the next Bradley Cooper.

I sigh loudly. “Why are you asking me what that was if you clearly have a grasp on it?”

Running his hand through his hair, he glowers at me. “Are you done being an asshole?”

“Are you mad you’re not the biggest asshole in the room for once?” I snap. My head is pounding, and I’d like to talk about literally anything but this . When I see Blake’s jaw start to tick, I briefly worry about my safety.

“Out with it, Walker.” He sighs after a moment. “What’s going on?”

Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I blurt out, “James Avery wants to murder me.”

Blake’s deep laugh fills the otherwise silent room. He thinks I’m kidding. I really wish I was.

“I’m serious, Hollis,” I say nervously. “He’s threatened to kill me.”

Numerous times, actually .

When he finally calms himself down, he tilts his head at me, his brows harrowing tighter. “Okay, humor me. Why does he want to kill you, Theo?”

“I dated someone he knows… and let’s just say, it didn’t end well.”

I don’t mention that the person happens to be his daughter, Christina. That period of my life is one I don’t like thinking about, because every time I do, guilt wraps around me like an ugly scarf. It’s the reason I never told Blake what happened with her.

Christina Avery and I were not on the same page. Hell, we weren’t even reading the same novel. She was annotating a Nicholas Spark’s romance, and I was listening to a Stephen King audiobook. She’s the entire reason I triple-check with anyone I sleep with that they’re cool with casual.

He leans against the door and releases a deep breath. “You think he holds a grudge?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. Of course he holds a grudge. I not only fucked his daughter, but I fucking broke her heart.

“Okay, well, it’s not like the CEO goes to all the Grands Prix. Out of sight, out of mind, you know? He shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

If only it were that simple.

“My contract expires at the end of the season,” I remind him with a tight smile.

Up until now, I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been delivering consistent wins and points for McAllister since they signed me. Hell, I won two World Championships with them. But now, the new CEO, who once promised to ruin my life like I ruined his daughter’s, has a say in whether they renew my contract or not. And I bet he’s going to push hard for the not option.

“Fuck, Walker,” he swears.

“Why do you think I just spent twenty minutes on the bathroom floor, mate?”

I like being rock-hard, not stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad are we talking?” he probes, his chiseled jaw tensing. “Seven? Eight?”

I take a moment to think about it. “Probably thirteen.”

Blake slams his fist against the bathroom door. The harsh sound reverberates against the tiled floor, and I’m surprised the wood doesn’t split in half. Or that Blake’s hand doesn’t break.

I worked way too hard to get here to let Avery ruin it. At McAllister, you’re the best and everyone knows it. There’s no way to be forgotten, but there is a way to be replaced, and there’s no way I’m letting that happen. I just have to prove why I deserve to be here. Because I do. My dad knew it and I know it, too.