Page 10

There are at least six pairs of eyes on us as we sit next to each other on the jet.

Anna’s jaw is practically on the floor as she looks up from where she’s frantically typing on her laptop. Her surprise quickly morphs into joy with a beaming smile that tugs her whole face upwards. I’ve never seen her look so happy in all the years I’ve known her. She gives me a little wink and a subtle thumbs-up.

Urgh.

No one needs to know about the argument Harper and I had in the bar after the podium finishes in Melbourne. We’ve smashed out a whole other Grand Prix in Azerbaijan since then. The highlight reel consisted of me not only qualifying first, but also finishing top of the podium, again. That’s three out of four so far this season. More evidence, if I needed it, that my approach works.

Harper finished fourth in both the qualifier and the race, which is actually incredibly impressive for a rookie in his first season. Maybe, I grudgingly acknowledge, his approach works for him.

Since the night out with Harper and Johannes, I’ve calmed down. A little. I’m not so angry anymore, at least. The truth is, I can’t deny that something has changed the way I look at Harper. It’s not something I would ever openly admit or, heaven forbid, act upon, but there are flickering thoughts of him on repeat in my mind. Maybe I’m sexually frustrated – I can’t remember the last time I had sex. But no matter how much meditation I do, or how many cold showers I take, I cannot rid my mind of the image of his shirt riding up, of the sandy skin of his belly with its blond fuzz. Or his curly hair against his damp forehead as he writhed against Johannes on the dance floor. It has fuelled many hot jerk-off sessions. The cold spray, like a thousand tiny needles piercing my skin, only made me hotter as I took myself in hand and fantasised about teaching the rookie a proper lesson, with my dick in his mouth. Even now, sitting beside him, the scent of him in my nostrils, I have to call upon every single meditation mantra in my arsenal to maintain my neutral expression and composure.

He went out with a few of the other drivers, including Johannes, after we all finished top five in Azerbaijan, and I even dragged my sorry ass out to the dinner portion of the celebration. I saw it as a compromise, but on my terms this time. I made conversation with the other drivers and techs, and I didn’t even clock-watch. I enjoyed an ice-cold glass of sparkling water and no one expected me to get up and shake my ass. Better yet, I didn’t have to watch Harper shake his.

‘Why are they looking at us like we’ve both got two heads?’ he stage-whispers to me as the jet door is closed and the steps are dragged away on the tarmac. The rest of Hendersohm are indeed still watching us like we’re animals at the zoo. They’re clearly expecting a show of some kind, but I’m not about to risk everything I’ve worked for my entire life. In public, Harper and I are exactly what Anders demanded of us: a team.

In private … well, that’s another matter.

‘Might be something to do with us breathing the same air and not fighting about who gets the bigger portion.’

He responds with an easy laugh and slowly everyone goes back to what they were doing before.

We’ve clearly got the same idea about keeping Anders happy. We didn’t plan this. I took my usual, preferred window seat looking over the wing – and he casually plopped himself down next to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So he is capable of behaving like a grown-up when he wants to.

Don’t be a dick, Walker, I think to myself as I put my noise-cancelling earbuds in and tune out the world for the flight to Miami. I offer him a piece of gum to make up for it, which he takes.

It’ll be all right, I tell myself. We’re going to be all right.

Which is exactly when it all goes to shit.

* * *

My phone startles me awake in the middle of the night.

I blink as the world comes into focus. It’s 4.18am and Harper’s name is flashing across the screen.

There’s a new level of frustration unlocked inside of me, because this call undoes all of the good work we’ve been putting in. I almost don’t answer, but on the sixth ring I hit the green button and scratchy, tinny music blasts down my ear.

I don’t wait for him to speak.

‘This is really bloody selfish, James! I don’t know why you think this is okay. You know how important sleep is in the days leading up to a race. I have a routine. I have a system. I need to get in the zone. You know all this and yet you still wake me up in the middle of the night just two days before the race!’

‘Kian?’

He sounds plaintive. Lost.

‘Harper? What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

My mind races as I imagine all sorts of horrendous scenarios. A terrible accident, a career-ending injury, gun violence.

‘Harper? What the hell’s going on?’

‘Kian … come you … can you … come you and get me?’ His words are slurred and he can barely get them out in the right order. ‘Can’t rememem-r-r-ememember the name of … th’otel.’

And then it hits me. He’s drunk. Harper James is blind drunk.

Here we go again.

The moment I start to let my guard down with him! The exact fucking moment!

And yet, I swing my legs out of bed and pull on a pair of loose sweats. I call an Uber and in the six minutes it says it will take for it to get here, I grab a T-shirt, a hoodie, my phone and my keycard. I shove my feet into my shoes and blink at the bright lights as I stagger towards the lift and press the button.

Yes, I’m going to get him, but make no mistake: I’m absolutely fucking livid.

* * *

‘Get in,’ I say roughly, as I manhandle my teammate into the back of the Uber.

I found him half collapsed on the pavement outside a club where a bouncer had deposited him and was vaguely keeping an eye on him. I nod to the man and desperately hope he either doesn’t recognise us or doesn’t care.

Fuck.

I slide in beside Harper and ask the driver to return us to the hotel. Harper’s lucky we’re not alone here, otherwise I’d be going absolutely berserk. We can’t afford to have any of this leaking to the press.

‘Hhhhh … he left me,’ Harper murmurs as his head hits my shoulder. ‘Everybody leaves me. But never him. Tonight … he … he left me.’

The words are sad, and for a moment I’m worried he’s about to start crying, but he’s just drunk. This is what happens when you drink like a fish. When you rely on alcohol to lift you up or bring you down or make you forget. It starts to consume you. It scrambles your brain. It turns you into someone else.

Ishould know.

I don’t know what to say to him, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because his breathing levels out and soft snores fill the back of the taxi as we slip through the Miami streets. It’s 5am, but there’s a surprising amount of traffic.

It’s forty minutes back to the hotel and he sleeps through almost every second of it. While I’m grateful for the silence, inside I am absolutely fuming.

It makes total sense now, the way he idolises Tyler Heath. My dad. The great Tyler Heath. Oh yes, he was truly great.

A great drunk.

A fantastic cheat.

And even better liar.

He used to hit the motor racing party circuit harder even than he hit the track. Until it all caught up with him and then it didn’t matter how great he was behind the wheel. None of it mattered.

Fuck him. And fuck Harper James.

And yet, I find myself wondering, who left him? I don’t even know who he went out with tonight. I don’t spend a lot of time scrolling social media, especially during the season. I find it ruins my concentration and eats away at my ability to focus. One split-second decision on the track could cost me the title. Or my life.

Sliding out my phone from my sweats’ pocket, I pull up Johannes’s Insta stories – it seems like a pretty good place to start. And there he is. The man whose body has been haunting my shower time is sandwiched between Johannes and a half profile of a guy who looks familiar. Long wavy brown hair that, if I wasn’t so tired, I’d probably remember who it belongs to. There’s a series of photos that Harper’s been tagged in. The three of them are chilling at the bar, captured in various poses throughout the evening, gradually getting drunker and wilder.

The final photo shows Johannes with his arms around the man with the chocolate curls. The way they’re looking at each other it’s clear they’re about to kiss, and a few feet off to the side, his face half in shadow, is Harper. The expression in his eyes is hard to read at first, but not if you know him like I now do. I doubt Johannes even knew Harper was in the photo when he uploaded it, but I zoom in so I can get a closer look. There’s pain there for sure, but what hits me deep in the pit of my stomach is the despair.

I scroll forwards and there’s a four-hour gap of nothing, before a blurry image appears. It seems to show a set of abs against a crumpled white sheet, lit artistically from the side, and splayed over the chest is a head of curls that are easily identifiable as belonging to the gorgeous man from the bar. There’s no text to accompany it, just a small red heart in the bottom corner.

It doesn’t take a genius to read between lines: Johannes hooked up with the hot guy from the bar, and Harper drowned his sorrows. Quite why Johannes posted this to his stories I’ll never understand, and I suspect he’ll get an early morning wake-up call from his PR team telling him to take it down, but the damage to Harper has been done.

Is this what Harper meant? Did he feel like Johannes abandoned him tonight for whoever this man is? Surveying Harper’s face I’m trying to figure out if it’s heartbreak etched in his face?

Is that what this has been about all along? Is Harper in love with Johannes? I almost feel pity for him because that kind of unreciprocated love –must be awful. Having to see the person you love go home with someone else –must be gutting.

It makes sense when I look back at the last few weeks. Harper moved so freely when he was dancing with Johannes. His eyes lit up with every touch, and they looked like they fitted so well together.

I sigh and lean back against the headrest. Beside me, Harper shifts and then is peaceful again, his cheek firmly pressed into my neck.

I wish I didn’t feel so much sympathy for him. It would be easier to hate him, but I don’t.

The sun’s starting to rise as I guide him down the corridor to his room, his arm around my neck and mine virtually holding him up around his back. This is going to look so bad if someone sees us right now.

He’s starting to come round, the bright lights of the hotel clearly having an effect, but it’s making it harder for him to coordinate as he rebuffs my every touch.

‘Where’s your keycard?’ I ask, not wanting to risk patting down his pockets. Not when he’s wearing the skinniest jeans I’ve ever seen on such ripped thighs.

He shrugs in a way that would be comical if I weren’t annoyed with him, and I lean him up against the wall while I decide what to do.

There’s nothing for it. I have to pat him down, but my search comes up frustratingly empty. He’s managed to hold on to his wallet and phone – full credit to the bouncer, I suspect – but there’s no sign of his keycard.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

‘You’re a twat,’ I say. ‘I can’t ask reception for another keycard without alerting them to your current state. In any case, I can’t leave you here on your own and I’m not dragging you back down there. Argh! Why are you such an idiot?’

Two days before qualifiers. Two days, and he decides to be this irresponsible. Never mind the impact his own performance will have on the team – now it’s affecting me, too.

‘Your bed it is, then,’ he suggests cheekily, and for a second the wickedest smile I’ve ever seen flashes across his face. It’s so fast that if I hadn’t been looking right at him, I’d have missed it. I almost want to leave him in the corridor to figure it out for himself.

Yet here I am, reliable as ever, leading him like a dog on a leash to my room. This should not be happening. I don’t fancy sleeping on the floor, but we can’t share a bed again. We just can’t. Although it’s nearly 6am, with jetlag and everything, I’m still in desperate need of a few more hours of sleep, but it looks like I don’t have a choice.

A heavy groan escapes Harper’s lips as I plop him onto my bed. His lids flick open and I’m surprised by the bright eyes that meet mine, like his sober, rational mind has finally woken up. If he even bloody has one.

‘Mmmm. Why is your bed comfier than mine?’ He grabs one of the pillows and punches it to create a little nest for his head. ‘Like a cloud. So soft. Mine’s too … springy.’

I don’t want to know how he’s tested that, my brain doesn’t need to produce any images right now of Harper bouncing around. Naked. With some other guy.

‘You want anything?’ I ask. ‘Glass of water, maybe?’ Of course he shakes his head.

I pull a spare blanket and pillow from the wardrobe and begin to make myself a makeshift bed on the floor. Both my back and my hips are going to hate Harper for this, but it feels like the smarter choice compared to the impact that sleeping next to him will have on my psyche.

I turn around and he’s undone his jeans and he’s desperately trying to kick them off. Of course they get stuck halfway down his thighs, leaving him trapped in just his boxers and an unbuttoned shirt. The trouble he’s having with his coordination right now would be comical if the sight of him undressing weren’t being burned into my retinas.

‘Whaddaya doing?’ he slurs. ‘I won’t bite…’ He gives me the cheekiest little side-eye. ‘Unless you ask me to.’

Shaking my head at him, I try to hide my actual reaction with a disapproving look. He, on the other hand, seems unaffected and continues to kick at the stiff denim without success. I could leave him like this, hogtied by his own incompetence, but I’m not sure the thought of him rendered physically submissive in this way will help my peace of mind.

‘You need some help there, buddy?’ I ask.

He hums his approval and in the blink of an eye, my hands are on him again. How is this the second time I am undressing Harper James?

‘Stop kicking – you’re making it worse!’ I say, exasperated by his futile attempts to help.

‘Johannes says they make my aaaaassssss look great.’

Even I can’t deny that.

‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘Not. Great. K-Kian.’ He annunciates his response with intense effort and then looks up at me. He stops squirming and then says, ‘Tobefair –’ it comes out as all one word ‘– I’m not alone, am I? You’re here.’

His hand clasps my wrist, stopping me from walking away.

‘It’s not like you gave me a choice, did you? When you call me drunk and alone, thrown out of a club for God knows what. I couldn’t just leave you, could I?’

‘Ev’ryone else did,’ he says with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

It’s getting harder to ignore his throwaway comments. It reminds me that I actually don’t really know him at all. I know he’s a party boy who doesn’t take anything seriously, and who knows how to push all my buttons, but that’s it. I don’t know anything about his family, his goals, or his life outside the circuit. We’re teammates, and somehow also strangers.

I sigh. When did I start feeling sorry for the asshole who’s been making the last couple of months an absolute misery? Okay, not an absolute misery, but harder than they needed to be.

He’s still clinging to my wrist like it’s a lifeline. He pulls himself up into a sitting position until we’re so close I can feel his breath on my face. I expect him to stink of beer and disappointment but instead I get a sweet, fruity aroma, as though he’s spent all night drinking cocktails.

‘Sometimes, I think you’re one of the most boring people I know.’ He’s smiling as he speaks, suddenly able to articulate his words as though the drunken fog has momentarily cleared so he can impart these words of infinite wisdom. ‘But then other times you look at me so … primal, you know? And it makes me wonder…’

‘No, I do not know. What are you going on about?’ My tone is defensive, and I hope he’s too pissed to notice. Instead, he suddenly tightens his grasp on my wrist.

No wonder his steering control is so good with this grip.

‘Aha! See…! Your eyes lit up. Bet you love a pair of cuffs, tough guy.’

‘Shut up, James.’ I try to pull away, but even when he loosens his hold there’s something still rooting me in place.

He doesn’t know. He can’t. Nobody does.

I’ve dated both men and women, but I’ve only ever been romantically linked to one person – who happened to be a woman – and I haven’t left a trail of beefcakes, starlets or wannabes to sell stories to the tabloids about what I’m like in bed. So nobody knows. Except…

Clearly, Harper’s a little bit more observant.

‘Tell that to your little friend, Mr Half Chub.’ He stares down at my crotch.

He’s right. There’s no hiding a semi in the grey joggers I’m wearing, especially when I didn’t put underwear on in the 4am haze of the dash to get my Uber.

‘Would you just roll over and start sleeping off the inevitable hangover? You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether I’m hard or not.’

‘I’m barely touching you.’

This time, I properly shake him off and he releases me without a fight. Except, his hand moves to my thigh, his fingers creeping up the soft cotton of my joggers and I don’t want him to stop.

‘You’re so … responsive.’

His fingers dance higher and higher up my thigh until the pads graze over my erection. I’m fully hard now. There’s no denying it. But I’m not alone. His dick is tenting in his boxers and I can’t help but lick my lips.

I’ve seen clickbait headlines in the past about guys coming forward with stories about the ‘best night of their life with Harper James’. Most of the time I just thought it was glory hunters hoping for their five minutes of fame, or trying to get Harper to come back a second time. Even I know that’s not how he worked. You get one chance with Harper James and that’s it.

Is this mine?

I’ve thought the question before I have a chance to work out whether I want it to be.

I almost shake my head at my own thoughts.

Absolutely not. There’s no way I want to be a notch on his very big bedpost. He’s also way too drunk to be able to consent to anything.

But now he’s stroking me through my sweats and I don’t want him to stop.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, the words coming out breathless.

‘Anything you want, sweetheart.’ The term of endearment sounds dirty on his lips.

What does anything even mean? A blow job? A hand job? Does he want me to fuck him? Is he a bottom or a top? Or both, like me?

I’ve been with men before, but not for a while. I know what I’m doing, I just never expected to be contemplating doing it with Harper James.

Except I want to. Every feather-light touch is driving me crazy. The pounding of my own heart rings in my ears and I know I’m starting to pant. It’s almost sensation overload. Too much. Too much him.

‘What do you want, Kian Walker?’ He says my full name like I hold some kind of power here. I don’t. I am flooded with the instinct to submit to him and just let him do whatever he wants. I’m sure anything would feel good at this point.

His other hand comes up to cup the side of my face, angling my head so I’m forced to look him in the eye. They were glassy maybe half an hour ago, and he was almost out of it, like the alcohol had dulled his shine. Now they‘re the clearest blue I’ve ever seen. Crystal, like the colour of the sea. He seems to be completely back in control. That drunk guy who was upset about being abandoned by his friend is gone, and cocky, swaggering Harper James, rookie and social-media fuck-boy, is back.

I can’t speak. What would I even say? Instead, I lean into his touch so that we’re knee to knee on the bed. If he didn’t want this – hell, if I didn’t – then now would be the time to back off. No impossible lines would have been crossed. We could put this down to a drunken mistake on his part and a sleep-deprived one on mine.

But, nope. We’re both leaning closer and in an electric moment our lips touch. Lightly at first, apprehensive, almost like there’s been more than a flirty five-minute build up to it. Maybe there has. Maybe it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been more.

It’s been there in the back of my mind every time I catch a glimpse of his bare skin, his playful smile, his beautiful blue eyes. The vulnerability beneath the mask.

The snark from him that never failed to rile me up. Yeah, he’s been on my radar for more than five minutes.

Not that I ever expected this.

In a swift move, I’m pinning him to the bed and we’re both thrusting against each other, clothed erections brushing as we tussle for dominance in the kiss. It’s wild. Thrilling. Like nothing else I’ve ever experienced before.

I’m more turned on than I have been in years, like I could cum from just this level of contact alone. Harper’s hand snakes around my waist and he yanks my sweats down, exposing my buttocks. I twist my hips so the joggers come off completely so my dick has room to breathe.

He breaks the kiss only to pull off his shirt and throw it to the floor. I manage to kick off my sweats from around my ankles whilst trying to keep my lips in contact with any part of his skin I can get access to.

It’s rabid. I’m like a wild animal searching for my next meal. My teeth nip at the skin of his jaw, neck, collarbone, and down to his nipple. Lost in the taste of his salty skin, I feel like I’m losing my mind. It’s sheer perfection as I swirl my tongue around the little pink nubs, and Harper’s hand finally makes contact with my erection. It’s both a relief and a torment.

He fists my dick with his grip and I’m groaning against his mouth. Oh, God, it’s incredible. It’s too much and not enough at the same time and I feel a great wave starting to build inside me.

‘Kian…’ he moans, and his raspy voice saying my name catches me completely off guard.

It’s like a bucket of freezing cold water being thrown over me, stilling all my movements as I meet his eye. The questioning look I see there is concern but also confusion.

‘Fuck.’

I breathe out harshly, my forehead resting against his. The wave recedes like an enormous falling tide as I finally come to my senses.

And then I’m pushing off Harper and he lets go of my dick to raise both hands in a kind of awful parody of a man being arrested by the police. The look in his eyes is hurt, but it’s also, I realise painfully, resignation. Somehow I know this isn’t the first time he’s been rejected like this, and I want to comfort him, to reassure him, to say it’s not you, it’s me, but I don’t.

‘We can’t do this. Fuck! This was so stupid.’

I’m pulling on my sweats so fast the fabric burns my heated skin. I stumble as I try to get my feet into my slides, the momentum of my exit overbalancing me in my desire to get out of the room.

It’s only when I’m in the corridor that I remember this is my room and Harper doesn’t have the key card for his, and this situation is only going to be more awkward to sort now.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

So, bare-chested and embarrassed, I humiliate myself at the reception desk by pretending to be Harper and saying I’ve lost my key, then take the lift back up to our floor where I slip into his room and lie down on the bed, desperate to pretend that none of this is happening.

Because apparently, the only thing I’m good at tonight is avoidance.