Page 6 of Hot Lap (Speed Dating #1)

Her eyes pop open and she jerks upright with a gasp. Their foreheads crack together with a sickening thud.

"Fuck!" Reece jerks back.

"Shit! Ow! Mother fucker ! Ow-ow-owww!" Maiken falls back against the pillows, clutching her head. "What the hell ?"

"Sorry! My fault, completely my fault." Reece winces, palm pressed to his throbbing forehead. "Didn't mean to startle you."

She groans. "Holy shit, my skull's splitting in two."

"Ice. You need ice." He stands, still rubbing the spot where they smacked skulls. "Don't move. I'll sort it."

Reece gets ice cubes from the suite’s bar and wraps them in a washcloth. He fetches water and digs ibuprofen from his kit, then returns to the bedside, handing her the makeshift ice pack.

"Here. These too." He offers her the water and the pain meds.

“Thanks.” Maiken takes the pills and downs the water while pressing the cold cloth to her forehead. She grimaces. “So where the hell am I, did we fuck, and did I enjoy it?"

"Whoa, no. Wynn Hotel, my suite. We crashed out fully clothed." He sits beside her again. "Nothing happened beyond sleep. What parts of last night are you tracking?"

She squints at him, then nods and peers around the luxurious suite. "Laughing my ass off. An arcade, I think? A driver named… Hector, right?” Reece nods and she asks, “Did we break into a bakery or something?"

"No breaking and entering, just a 24-hour place." He smiles, relieved she remembers some of it. Then his gaze lands on her wrist as she adjusts the ice pack. Five dark bruises mar her pale skin, and a rush of pure rage makes the blood pound in his ears. "Your wrist."

Maiken lowers the ice and frowns at the purple-blue fingermarks. "Damn. That's thanks to your asshole non-friend. I totally forgot about that."

Reece takes her hand, turning it to examine the damage. His jaw tightens. "Should've broken his fucking fingers right there. No question." That’s the same certainty he applies to racing decisions — direct, no hesitation.

"You stopped him." She pulls her hand back. "Look, I should?—"

Pounding on the door interrupts her and she startles.

"Reece! Open this goddamn door!"

"Fuck me." Reece stands. He doesn’t want Graham in the room being an asshole to Maiken, but before he can move, the electronic lock clicks and the door swings open.

Ah, fuck. Why didn’t he throw the security latch? Bloody rookie mistake, that.

Graham Pritchard strides in like he thinks he owns the place. He stops abruptly, taking in the scene: Reece standing by the bed, Maiken sitting up with an ice pack to her head, still in yesterday's clothes. His lip curls as his gaze narrows.

Reece steps forward. "This isn't your?—"

Graham cuts him off with a sharp gesture. His gaze goes from contempt to malice. "Get out, slut. Now."

"Excuse me?" Maiken lowers the ice pack, eyes wide, voice instantly angry.

"You heard me." Graham sounds venomous. "Whatever he paid you, consider it enough. Get your shit and get the fuck out."

"Don't you fucking talk to her like that." Reece steps between them. "You don't know shit about her."

His father sneers. "I know an opportunistic whore when I see one."

"That's my wife you just insulted."

“Wife?” Maiken and Graham repeat the word simultaneously. She sounds shocked. He sounds disgusted.

With slow deliberation, Mai slides off the bed and takes her purse from the nightstand. Her cheeks are red, eyes hard and glittering. Reece wonders if she’s going to punch Graham in the mouth before he can. He’s perfectly okay with giving her the first shot.

He reaches for her, but she skirts his touch. “Mai, wait. Please. You don’t have to leave.”

Graham jabs a finger at him. “Shut up.”

She crosses the room to where she kicked off her boots and pulls them on, unhurried and in complete control.

She straightens, smooths down her clothes, and runs her fingers through her wild hair.

Then she lifts her chin. Mai regards Graham with the iciest gaze Reece has ever seen aimed at the man, and sniffs dismissively.

“No wonder your son hates you. You’re a real piece of shit. ”

Graham’s brows arch and Reece thinks he’s actually surprised.

Reece goes to her. "I want you to stay."

She’s in the doorway now, but pauses to look at him, and he hates the anger and hurt behind her gaze.

“I didn’t come here to be part of your daddy revenge porn, Reece Pritchard.” Then she walks out, slamming the door behind her.

Graham's lip curls. "At least she knows when to make an exit."

"Shut the fuck up!" Reece rounds on his father, standing tall. "You don't walk in here and disrespect her. Not happening. Not ever."

“Give me a fucking break and save your precious bullshit for another day.”

"You self-righteous dickhead. You have no idea what you just did."

Graham scoffs. "I saved you from your own bloody stupidity. Have you seen what's online? Photos of you two all over Vegas, stumbling into that tacky chapel? Do you have any idea the damage control I have to do?"

Reece’s pulse pounds in his temples. "The only thing that needs controlling is my urge to throw you out a fucking window."

"Is that any way to speak to the man who made your career?"

"Made? You? " Reece laughs bitterly. "I'm the one who drives the car, Graham. I'm the one who puts his life on the line every race weekend. Not you."

"And I'm the one who makes sure you have a car to drive."

“No, that’s Branca .” She’s Reece’s new manager. Branca Flores, whom he hired in Graham’s stead last spring. His father’s still livid about that, but the fucker did it to himself.

“Mm-hmm. Signing with her was a brilliant move, boy. Look where it’s gotten you.” Graham’s as cold as ever. "Do you think sponsors want a driver who married some skanky Vegas stripper? What the hell were you thinking?"

Reece freezes. "How did you know she's a dancer?"

Graham waves that away. "CircuitJerks had her name within an hour of the photos leaking. Mai-Lan Rouge. Burlesque performer at The Golden Oyster. You couldn't find someone trashier if you tried."

Reece clenches his hands. "Her name is Maiken Lange, and she's my wife ."

Graham ignores that. "Get your shit together. We're due at the airport in two hours, and you need to issue a statement before CircuitJerks runs those photos with their own spin. Claudia’s drafting it right now."

What the fuck? None of this is Graham’s business. He’s not Reece’s manager. He’s not even associated with PNW Nitro. "What statement would that be?"

"That last night was a drunken mistake and any marriage license obtained while intoxicated is invalid.

" Graham's voice is clipped, business-like, as if this is just another PR fire to put out.

"We'll have legal handle the annulment paperwork, but you need to be on that plane to Qatar. Your team is?—"

"No."

The single word hangs in the air.

Graham's gaze narrows and his head tilts. "Excuse me?"

"I said no." Reece crosses his arms. "No statement. No annulment. Simple as that."

His father's face darkens. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You think this is a game? Nitro is twelve points behind in the championship with two races left. The team has sponsors, obligations. Your contract?—"

"I know my bloody contract inside out. Branca just renegotiated it and nothing in it says I can't marry whomever I fancy."

Graham’s laugh is cold and dismissive. "A stripper you met last night? Be serious, Reece."

"This isn't negotiable." Reece holds his ground the way he would against any competitor trying to force him off his line. "Maiken is my wife. She stays my wife unless she decides otherwise. That's her call, not yours, not the team's, not the sponsors'. Absolutely not negotiable. End of discussion."

Graham’s chin comes up and he gets that arrogant sneer that always makes Reece want to punch his own father. “I don’t know how you turned out to be such a self-destructive idiot. God knows I tried my best. But, fine, blow up your career and everything I’ve done for you.”

“Everything you’ve done for me?” Is this man for real? “You mean like bloody Peony Jones-Musgrove?”

Graham’s expression turns to concrete. “I’m finished saving you from yourself, Reece Ayrton Pritchard.” With that, the bastard strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Reece slumps onto the bed and scrubs his hands over his face. Should he go after Maiken or give her some breathing space? He’s not entirely sure.

He should call Wyn, get ahead of this. Explain the marriage before Graham gets to him first and spins this into something ugly.

Except what’s the point? Wyn will listen to Graham's version, nod in all the right places, and file it away for future reference. Like their father trained him to do since childhood. Wyn’s strategic like that.

Proper calculating. It's what makes him a formidable driver and a bloody infuriating brother.

Reece tried to protect his little brother from the worst of their father's manipulation, but he failed at that too. He was the first-born son, but he's never been the favored one. That honor belongs to Wyn — Graham's perfect little spy, his eyes and ears in Reece's life.

The irony of this whole fucked-up situation isn't lost on him. He’s spent years playing it safe, keeping his personal life locked down tight, and giving Wyn as little as possible to report back to Graham. Rightly so, because twice now he’s let his guard down and twice that’s ended in an epic shunt.

First Peony and now Maiken.

Graham seizes any opportunity to undermine him and give Wyn an advantage. Every single time, without fail. "That's how you win," he's said so many times, Reece has come to hate those words.