Page 27 of Drive Me Wild (Drive Me #2)

TWENTY-SEVEN

THEO

My bedroom is painfully quiet, and it’s not the peaceful kind of quiet where you can easily fall back asleep. It’s the loud silence that leaves you alone with all your thoughts. The kind that gets you so worked up that you overthink and reevaluate.

When counting sheep for the thirtieth time fails to lull me into a peaceful slumber, I quietly slip out of bed and head downstairs. What a fucking shitshow the past twenty-four hours have been.

Filling a kettle with water, I place it on the stove to warm up. Maybe a cuppa will calm my intrusive thoughts. My contract is all that’s been on my mind as I tossed and turned. Well, that and making a complete arse of myself to my family. There’s no doubt I’ll have to go on an apology tour after the race, starting with my mum and ending with Richard. Thank goodness I keep my own flat here in Melbourne, because spending the night at my childhood home after that fight would’ve been… uncomfortable, to say the least.

“Care for some company?”

Josie stands at the entryway to the kitchen wearing one of my McAllister shirts, the letters on the front so faded they’re barely visible. My racing heart immediately slows down. “What’re you doing up, princess?”

She walks over to me, kissing my shoulder before settling onto the stool to my right. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“Six-hundred count thread bed sheets aren’t nearly as comfortable when you don’t have anyone to cuddle with.”

“Poke fun all you want, but you know my sheets are superior.”

She laughs while picking up her phone, reading the messages that are lighting up her screen. I nearly ask who she could possibly be texting at this hour before remembering the different time zones.

Suddenly, she starts saying “oh my God” repeatedly while she taps away, her nails creating a clackity-clack noise. I wiggle in my seat, wanting to be let in on what’s going on. My FOMO gets worse when it involves Josie.

I rest my head on her shoulder, reading her messages with Kelsey. Hmph .

Kelsey Wells

Are you around next Saturday for a tasting? Would love to get your millennial feedback on some dishes.

P.S. Jamie is consulting on the menu.

Jamie Wolff, in case that wasn’t clear.

Josie Bancroft

OMG. How did you get him!? Did you have to sell him your kidney?

Kelsey Wells

Have to get his name tatted on my forehead, but it’ll be worth it. I showed him the cocktail menu, and he has some great ideas for pairings.

Josie Bancroft

LOL. Yay! Can’t wait. I’ll come hungry.

“Who’s Jamie Wolff?” I ask with a furrowed brow.

“He was the runner-up on season seven of MasterChef !” Josie squeals. “His whole thing is elevated street food. On one of the episodes, he made this burger with a coffee rub and caramelized onion that was positively to-die for . It sounds odd, but the flavors worked and the judges nearly pissed themselves at how good it was.”

My smile grows as she gives me an in-depth explanation of the dish. I love how she talks about the burger, as if she had actually tried it. Hell, I feel like I’ve tried it thanks to her descriptions.

“Look at you, getting all chummy with your fellow foodies.” I chuckle. “It’s too bad the tasting’s not during the week, though.”

Josie tilts her head, her blonde waves moving to the left as she does. “Why?”

“The Dutch Grand Prix is next weekend.”

“Bloody hell.” Closing her eyes, she runs her hands over her face. “I didn’t even think about the race.”

I could never forget a race… it’s what my life revolves around. It’s what hers does, too.

A deep sigh comes from her chest. “I have a lot of time off I haven’t used.”

“Isn’t it a little last minute?”

That’s what she told me when we went to Le Mans. McAllister asks for at least two weeks’ advance notice.

“I’m sure I can convince Rhys to make an exception,” she says, almost to herself. “Plus, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, you know? When else am I going to be invited to a menu tasting with a MasterChef contestant? And it’ll be good for me to be there. Bars are all about the experience and the food is obviously a big part of that. I want to make sure the dishes are unique enough to make us stand out but also not too fancy that it’ll turn the average bloke away. We have to toe the line of being good food, but not four-course sit-down meal good.”

Us? We?

“So, you’d be missing work for other work? Isn’t that, like, against the rules or something?”

Her shoulders lift into a shrug. “It’s not like I’m missing the race to help Catalyst or something, babes. And how I spend my time off is none of McAllister’s business.”

But it’s my business .

I look down so she can’t see the way my lips have settled into a petulant pout that refuses to leave. Everything she’s saying makes sense, but that doesn’t mean I like her missing a race. Josie’s not only my girlfriend; she’s my support system. She’s the final person to wish me luck before I hop into my car, the only person whose laugh can make me feel better after a shitty practice, and the person who cheers the loudest when I win. Blake may be the fan favorite, but I’ve always been Josie’s favorite.

“Hey,” she says, cupping my cheek and forcing me to look at her. She thinks her brown eyes are dull and boring, but they’re not. They’re the color of my favorite hot cocoa topped with cinnamon. They drive me wild. “Are you upset?”

I shrug. “I’m going to miss you, is all.”

“I’ll miss you, too, baby. But it’s just one race,” she tells me. “You’ll be so busy, you’ll hardly notice I’m gone!”

Not likely. “Will you still watch?”

“Don’t be silly. I haven’t not watched a race in years. It’ll just be from my television instead of from the pit garage.”

That last part is the part I don’t like. “And you’ll be at the next race, right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The same reason you won’t be at this one. Your priorities are elsewhere.

She looks at me with a fraught plea in her eyes. Fuck. I know she wants me to be okay with her missing the race, and I am. Well, I’m trying to be. This is important to her. And I’m not like Josie’s exes.

“Just making sure.” I shoot her an understanding smile to ease her nerves. “The tasting will be amazing. I’m jealous.”

“Don’t worry,” she promises. “I’ll send you lots of photos.”

I’m not sure which Grand Prix will be worse; tomorrow with my family mad at me or next weekend’s with Josie not in attendance.

The clacking and grinding as engineers with tools in hand work on my car pounds in my head. Thump, crank, whoosh. I take a small sip of the coffee Blake brought me, but immediately spit it back into the cup. When I do drink coffee, I like the taste disguised by milk and artificial sugar. I thought drinking it black would jolt my system awake, but no such luck.

“Stop acting like it’s motor oil,” Blake scoffs. He takes a sip of his twin coffee, not even flinching as he swallows. Gross.

“Don’t disrespect motor oil. That tastes way better than this .”

Blake rolls his eyes before nodding at the entrance of the garage. “You know she was coming?”

I shake my head. My mum’s wearing an old McAllister shirt—from my dad’s racing days—but the number and last name still work. She steps over kidney-shaped oil stains on the concrete as she makes her way over.

“Hey, Mrs. Walker,” Blake greets my mum as she pulls him into a hug. “How’re you?”

“Blake,” she lightheartedly reprimands. “How many times am I going to have to tell you to call me Laura?”

He shrugs sheepishly. Blake’s known my mum forever, but he feels weird about calling her anything but Mrs. Walker. She should take it as a compliment. Not everyone earns the respectable miss, missus, or mister from Blake, who refers to most people by their last name or as “that fucker.” Hearing him call Ella pet names will forever sound foreign to me.

“Probably about a hundred more times.”

I place my motor oil coffee on the workbench behind me, needing to free my hands so I can crack my knuckles. “What’re you doing here, Mum? The race isn’t for a few more hours.”

Turning to me, she says, “I was hoping you had some free time to chat.”

“We have a press conference in five,” I admit with a frown. “Are you?—”

“I’ll get it pushed back,” Blake says, as if it’s no biggie. “Is an hour enough time?”

Before either of us can respond, Blake strolls off to work his magic. And by magic, I mean he’ll come up with some insane excuse as to why we have to postpone the conference. He’s a good friend, especially because we both know moving a press conference is going to piss off a lot of people with tight deadlines and strict schedules. He may not care what people think of him, but I do.

I lead my mum up the stairs to my suite on the second floor. It’s a tight space, only big enough to hold a desk, two-seater couch, and mini fridge, but it’s home away from home.

“This looks like your childhood bedroom.” My mum laughs to herself. “Minus the race car bed and Power Ranger posters.”

Looking around, I see what she means. Video game cases are stacked on every available surface, and McAllister memorabilia is tacked on the walls. The protein powder and weights are new, but besides that, it’s got the same vibes as eight-year-old Theo’s room.

She takes a seat on the couch, crossing her legs in a lady-like manner. “We should talk about last night. I never let your dad start a race if we were in a fight. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Probably.” I’m nervous that if I say anything else, I’ll end up shoving my foot in my mouth. Again.

“I didn’t realize you were so upset about Richard and me being together,” she reveals, shaking her head. “And I need you to know that my love for your father is irreplaceable, honey. Richard doesn’t change how I felt about him. How I feel about him. I’m not effacing any of the memories we created; I’m simply making new memories with someone else.”

I stare at my hands like they’re a long-lost Picasso that’s just been rediscovered. “With Richard.”

“You used to like Richard,” my mum reminds me. “Quite a lot, if I remember correctly. He and Dad took you to your first rugby ga?—”

“But do you not see how weird that is?” I say, brasher than intended. “He was Dad’s manager , Mum. His best friend. They were together every day, and now you’re with him.”

“Theodore, you’re making it seem like we were having an affair.”

Shrugging, I avoid eye contact. “Well. Were you?”

“Theodore Chase Walker.” My mum’s voice is so stern that my back automatically straightens. “I didn’t go through twenty-two hours of natural labor with you to sit here and have you accuse me of nonsense.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, shame heating my cheeks. “I know.”

“I loved your father, and I loved our life together.” She reaches out and clasps my hands in hers. “There’s no rulebook on how to handle grief. And I miss your dad. Every single day.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. And do you want to know what’s so nice about being with Richard? I can talk to him about your father. We’re able to share memories and tell stories and help one another heal. It’s nice having someone I can relate to on that level.”

The tears come without warning. One second, I’m dry-eyed and the next, I’m sobbing so fiercely, I can’t catch my breath. I collapse into myself, my chest heaving as hot tears race down my cheeks. My throat becomes so thick, I can barely swallow.

“Oh, honey,” my mum murmurs. Wrapping her arms around me, she holds me as I tremble uncontrollably. We stay like that until the unmistakable sadness loosens its grasp around me. I’m winded by the time I can sit up and breathe without feeling like I’m choking.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” I admit, wiping my face with the back of my hands. “A little. And I’m sorry for what I said last night. I didn’t mean to yell at you like I did. It’s just weird for me to see you with someone Dad was so close with, I guess.”

“You’ve got to admit, he’s better than Jim, though.”

I snort loudly. Before Richard, my mum dated a bloke named Jim, who was… interesting. He moonlighted as a ventriloquist, and not a very good one, if that says anything. “The grocery store clerk was better than Jim, Mum.”

She chuckles and ruffles my hair. “And next time, come talk to me instead of bottling it all up, okay? This is a weird transition for all of us, but we’ll get through it together.”

“It’s weird for you, too?”

“Absolutely.” She laughs and pats my cheek. “Living with someone new after twenty-seven years of marriage is a huge adjustment. Did you know Richard likes his dishes to soak overnight before putting them in the washer?”

She throws me a pointed look, which makes me laugh. One of my dad’s biggest pet peeves was when one of us left our dirty dishes in the sink. We always happened to forget, and he got stuck either hand-cleaning them or placing them in the dishwasher.

“Dad’s probably rolling in his grave right now.” I chuckle. “He’d hate that.”

“Probably,” she agrees with a laugh. “And we do talk about your dad, honey. You’re not in Melbourne to hear it, but I promise, we do because he’s a part of us all.”

He’s also part of McAllister.

“And he’d be very proud of you, Theo. We all are.”

Taking a deep breath, I lean back into the couch. “I haven’t re-signed my contract yet.”

My mum raises her hands to her cheek in mock surprise. “I gathered that from your zero to one hundred behavior last night.”

Embarrassment floods my cheeks, although I know she’s teasing me. “Things are complicated. There are some clauses I don’t agree with, and McAllister’s being difficult.”

“Ah, is that the legal jargon Josie was referring to?”

“Something like that.” I sigh. Jos was only trying to save Richard from my wrath and stop me from losing it, but she knows nothing about contract negotiations.

“Are they not offering you enough?”

She’s not being malicious, but her words sting more than they should. I could quit racing tomorrow and still be set for life. I’ve been smart with my money and I have invested wisely. I do splurge on certain things like my travel sheets and private plane, but those are necessary for my mental health. “C’mon, you know I don’t care about that, Mum.”

“Then what is it?”

I run my hands over my face. The last thing I want to do is open Pandora’s box before a race. Quite frankly, Pandora needs to suck a dick and fade into obscurity. I’d like things nice, neat, and clean with no dramatic blow ups, thank you very much.

“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her. “Everything will sort itself out.”

I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Or ever, for that matter. Flashing my signature carefree smile, I pray she believes me. God knows I don’t believe myself.