Page 9 of Drive Me Wild (Drive Me #2)
NINE
THEO
I top the times at all three practice sessions and keep the momentum going through each segment of qualifying. Blake comes behind me in second, having finished just 0.001 seconds after me—a frustratingly narrow margin for him. He seems okay with it, though. Ella’s mellowed him out in the best way possible. His performance has never been better, and his attitude doesn’t make mechanics cry and engineers shake in their boots. It’s a win for everyone.
The two of us head to the press conference that’s held for the drivers in the top three starting positions. Lucas is already there, chatting with some reporters. The race has only been over for thirty minutes, but the silver rings he wears are already back on his fingers. While I have a partnership with Adidas, Lucas has one with Gucci. He’s been in Vogue for his style more times than I can count, but he’s the least conceited person I know.
“Nice job out there,” he congratulates me. “You too, Hollis.”
“Thanks, Adler,” Blake and I say simultaneously.
“You guys do know each other’s first names, right?” Josie says, appearing at Lucas’s side. Her camera is hanging around her like a necklace. “You’re not just awkwardly using last names as a cop out?”
I point my thumb at Lucas. “Of course not. This is Larry, and this,” I wave my finger in front of Blake, “is Bill.”
Josie’s laugh is soft and sincere. My dick twitches underneath my race suit like it remembers the sound and wants to say a nice hello. Christ . I need to jerk off before she comes over later so I’m not too tempted to try anything with her. But if something were to happen on its own—like we end up playing with one another instead of a game—I would be all for it.
She chats with us for a little before disappearing into the sea of reporters and journalists. Lucas, Blake, and I sit at a long table, ice-cold water bottles and microphones stationed in front of each of our seats. The Formula 1 logo looms behind us, just in case anyone forgot what this press conference is for. The questions are low pressure—reporters inquiring about the condition of our cars and the track, any concerns, or predictions we have about the upcoming race.
“Walker!” someone from SkySports shouts. As soon as I make eye contact with him, all the other voices in the room quiet. The steady drone of the air conditioning buzzes as I wait for the question. “How do you feel about securing your second pole position of the season?”
I lean toward my microphone, interlocking my fingers in front of me. “Some people like missionary or doggy-style the best… I’m not going to lie; my favorite position happens to be pole.”
The room erupts into a chorus of laughter. Press conferences tend to get boring after a bit, so I’ve made it my personal mission to liven things up a bit. A sex joke here or there never killed anyone—at least, I don’t think. I’ll have to ask Ella, whose true crime and mysterious death knowledge is alarming.
“In all seriousness,” I continue, “it feels great, but as you know, it’s truly anyone’s race tomorrow. Every driver wants to deliver a win, regardless of where we start on the grid.”
Josie, being the most punctual human on the face of the planet, knocks on my door the moment the clock switches from seven fifty-nine to eight p.m. I wonder if she sets an alarm in the morning or if she’s one of those people who naturally wakes up at the same time every day.
“You ready to get your arse kicked, Walker?” she greets me. “I’ve been stretching my thumbs all afternoon.”
I open the door to my hotel room, letting her pass by me. She’s wearing a matching beige sweatsuit, her blonde hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Is it a Netflix and chill sort of outfit? My guess is no, but a man can dream.
“I’d rather you spank my arse than kick it.”
Josie swivels her head and looks at me. “A naked woman isn’t going to pop out from behind the curtains, is she?”
It takes me a minute to realize what she’s insinuating. It takes me another minute to realize that Josie’s the only person I’ve slept with in the past few weeks. Not only that, but I haven’t even tried to sleep with anyone else. And it’s not like there weren’t options, because trust me, there were. I’m not a sex addict by any means, but I do get laid on a regular basis. And it’s been over a month since I last slept with someone. What the fuck? I’m not concerned that I haven’t had sex in a few weeks; I’m concerned that I don’t care.
“Don’t worry,” I tease with a grin. “I threw her out before you got here.”
“Ah.” She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Fuck . I wasn’t trying to make her uncomfortable. “Well, I appreciate it.”
Before I can tell her I’m kidding, she plops onto the couch. “So what’re we playing?”
I toss her the case of the game. I’m on the cover of the newest F1 racing game, alongside Everest driver Harry Thompson and Ithaca driver Frankie Talmud. It doesn’t come out for another few months, but they sent me an early copy. I’m not a bona fide beta tester, but I do give them thorough feedback. If a game with my face is going to be sold, it damn well better be the best game out there.
She bursts out laughing. “Obviously, you’re going to win! That’d be embarrassing if you didn’t, Walker. It’s a video version of what you get paid millions to do in real life. That’s like Mary Berry losing a baking competition or something.”
“I haven’t played this yet!” I protest. “But we can play something else if you want.”
I list a bunch of games. League of Legends, Hearthstone, Fortnite, World of Warcraft, Arena of Valor . Josie stares at me as if I’m speaking ancient Egyptian. “What about Super Smash Bros. ?”
She combs her fingers through her hair. “Isn’t Super Smash Bros. the name of that micro-brewery out in Kensington?”
“You’re kidding,” I say with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Please tell me you’re kidding.
“Of course I am.” Her easy-going laugh alleviates the tension in my neck. “God, you should see your face, Walker. It’s like I told you I ran over the family dog.”
Relaxing against the comfortable couch cushions, I let out a satisfied sigh, glad that I don’t have to end our friendship immediately. I get to work setting up my PlayStation while Josie scrolls through her Spotify to find a playlist for us. She has playlists for every mood, situation, feeling, and thought. I have no idea what types of songs should be on a playlist called “crying in the shower” or “dancing in my room at two a.m.” but somehow, she does. She claims she’s not bilingual, but she knows music better than I know English.
Josie’s still choosing a playlist when I finish readying both controllers and choose the right settings for the game. “Christ, Bancroft, are you sorting through the damn national archives?”
“Found it!”
A Khalid song flows through the surround sound system, and Josie smiles to herself. She relaxes next to me, our thighs brushing against one another, and she starts asking questions—what buttons control which part of the car, how accurately aspects like understeer and DRS are represented in the game. It’s hotter than any dirty talk I’ve ever experienced.
“Want to make a bet?” I query, my eyes twinkling.
“The last time we made a bet, I had to eat a hot chili pepper and spent the night tossing,” she reminds me with an eye roll. “So, no.”
“You won’t spend the night praying to the porcelain God with this one,” I promise. “If you win, I’ll tell you a secret. If I win, you tell me a secret.”
Josie toys with the buttons of the controller, familiarizing herself with it. “You do realize I’d be setting myself up for failure, right?”
“Nu-uh,” I argue. “You’re playing as the best Formula 1 driver—me—and I’m giving you a thirty-second head start. Plus, I told you I’ll pause the game at any time to help you.”
Josie’s blonde eyebrows lift thoughtfully. She’s not one to make rash decisions, so I dig my heels into the patterned carpet as I wait for her answer.
“I also got cookie dough ice cream,” I blurt out a minute later. Patience isn’t a virtue I have.
“Well, why didn’t you lead with that? It’s a bet. Best three out of five?”
For someone who’s not super competitive, Josie is very well-versed in smack talk. I pause the game a few times to double-check that I’m hearing her correctly. I’m not sure if some of the things she’s saying are made up or just extremely British, and I make a mental note to double check with Blake later.
“Why do you like the F1 game so much?” Josie asks after the first round is over. She stretches her legs like we’re about to go for a run. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of work-life balance if you’re playing your job during your downtime?”
I keep my eyes focused on changing the settings so the track acclimation doesn’t affect the optimal racing line. “When my dad got really sick, he couldn’t come to the track as often, so he bought it for us to play together.”
As far as most things go, I’m an open book. Want to know what razor I use to shave my pubes? I’ll send you the link. Curious about my gym routine? I’ll have Russell send over a detailed workout regime. Dying to know what cologne I wear? I’m not going to gatekeep the information. I don’t mind sharing my life. The more people know me, the easier it is for me to make a name for myself and for people to remember me.
But my dad? That’s a different story. Talking about him is like pouring gasoline on my heart and leaving a lit match in my lungs.
“Who was better?” Josie’s question brings me out of the fog. “You or him?”
“He kicked my arse almost every time,” I admit with a chuckle. “He was the best at everything he did.”
Josie opens her mouth to say something but decides against it, instead sitting back on the couch. “Ready for game three?”
It turns out, she’s the one who’s not ready for the third game. She loses, horribly. The effort is there, but the quick combination of braking, cornering, and acceleration is not something Josie exceeds at via a video game. I give her props for not trying to knock my controller out of my hand, though, because I’m sure she wanted to.
“Secret time,” I announce happily after having kicked her cute ass. “Hit me, Bancroft.”
She smacks my arm. “Like that?”
I shake my head and chuckle. “Nope. Tell me something juicy.” I hum the Jeopardy theme song as Josie takes her sweet time thinking of a secret.
“What if it’s not exactly a secret?” Josie asks while tilting her head. “More just something not a lot of people know.”
Hmm. I shrug. “That works.”
She takes a deep breath before releasing it slowly. “Andrew wanted to move in together. Well, he wanted me to move into his condo. He owns it already, so it wouldn’t make sense for us to have rented somewhere else, but yeah.”
Oh. I was expecting a secret, like she used to match the rubber bands on her braces to her outfits. Not that . I’m not the type of bloke who gets flustered, but right now, my cheeks are taking on the hue of wild cherries. The one topic Josie and I tend to skirt around is her relationship— former relationship, I should say—probably because I didn’t like Andrew and he didn’t like me. My dislike stems from the knowledge that no one will ever be good enough for Josie. His dislike was that I shamelessly flirted with his girlfriend and rubbed our friendship in his face more than necessary. Oops.
“You weren’t ready for that?” I ask once I get my voice back.
“I only owe you one secret,” she reminds me with a wink. “And I’m pretty sure you owe me ice cream.”
Josie bounces happily in her seat when I return with a bowl piled high with cookie dough ice cream. She’s easy to please. Some women want diamonds, some want designer purses, but Josie just wants a bowl of her favorite comfort food. It’s probably why our friendship works so well. I don’t have to pull out all the stops or try to impress her. She’s happy to spend time with me, and she’s even happier when there’s dessert, too.
It’s nearly midnight when we decide to call it a night. Even though I have to be up in less than seven hours, I don’t want Josie to leave. I want to kiss her—gently, roughly, slowly, desperately, sweetly. It’s all I can focus on. It’s all I’ve been able to focus on. I feel like a drug addict because one hit of Josie and I was hooked, and I’ve been desperate to get my next fix ever since.
Before she opens the door to leave my suite, I stop her. “I want to see you again.”
“We see each other all the time, babes. That not enough?”
“That’s not what I meant.” I brush my fingers against her cheeks, which are rapidly turning pink. “But you knew that.”
I meant I can’t stop thinking about the way you kissed me like you were dying of thirst and I was water. I meant I’m desperate to spend an hour between your legs until you can’t handle any more pleasure. I meant I want to feel you come on my cock while you moan my name, begging for more.
Josie’s eyes widen and she starts singing Justin Bieber’s “What Do You Mean?” I can’t help but let out a loud laugh. Her ability to pair a song to every situation is impressive. Doesn’t matter if it’s an obscure song from the seventies, or a Top Ten hit on the radio.
“I mean,” I continue, “that I want to fuck you until you can’t stand straight. And I say that with the most utmost respect.”
Josie’s uncharacteristically quiet. I’m starting to wonder whether I laid all my cards on the table too soon when she finally says, “But we’re friends.”
“Friends are supposed to have fun together,” I point out, my eyes dwelling on her lips. “And we had a lot of fun.”
My dick agrees. We haven’t even done anything sexual tonight, and my balls ache for her touch.
“Sex will only complicate things, Theo. I don’t want either of us to end up getting hurt.” Her voice is slightly apprehensive. I’m not sure what to make of it, and I don’t know if she does, either. “Let’s just stick to friends, okay?”
She blinks her chestnut-brown eyes at me, silently asking me to agree as if I could ever say no to her. I haven’t stood a chance at that since the day we met. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and nod. “We’ll always be friends.”
Her lips spread into a smile that would make any grown man fall to his knees. I would know because I have to lean against the door to support my weight the moment she leaves my suite. I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I hate doctors, but I’m seriously starting to think I need a neurologist to examine my brain.