Page 8

I’m not sure what time it is, what day it is, or even where I am.

There’s a growling in my stomach and a pounding in my head. The room is pitch black, but I feel like it was just as dark the last time I woke up, so I can’t decipher how much time has passed.

Damn, I don’t remember ever feeling this rough. I crack open one eye, and the room spins a little. It’s only then that I realise the curtain has been wedged against the window, creating a complete blackout effect. Are those … my shoes?

When did I do that? How? Am I experiencing memory loss? Is this normal after food poisoning?

I try to roll over, but end up smacking straight into another warm body.

Bloody hell!

What’s going on? Am I dreaming? I’d never let a hook-up stay over. I hate this. I hate that I can’t gather my thoughts, and when I move again my back aches like hell.

There are soft snores coming from my bed partner and when I try to get up out of bed my foot hits a cold, wet cloth. What happened in here?

Pausing for a moment, while the room stops spinning, I try to think.

I went for dinner. Johannes and I and a couple of the guys from the pit. Cole and Ash maybe? One of the younger assistants. We’d left after dinner, keeping my promise to Kian that we wouldn’t go out drinking so I’d be up in time for the 9am workout. We had Mexican, I think. The vivid colours of a place that looks like a dive bar come to mind.

Whilst I hadn’t drank, Johannes had. He’d carried on to a bar alone, having already had several margaritas at the Mexican place and downing a couple shots at the bar when I was trying to get us out of there. I remember being worried. He seemed out of sorts; I’m not sure if I asked him about it, though, so I file that mental note away until I can make sense of my current peculiar situation.

My stomach gurgles and the rawness of my throat plus the bad taste in my mouth begin to make sense. I was sick.

Here.

I remember the coolness of the marble bathroom tiles beneath me as I vomited. Still, that doesn’t explain my snoring bed friend.

The half-naked guy chooses this moment to roll over, still fast asleep and … well, well, well. I definitely don’t feel great, but it’s hard to feel like shit when you’ve got Kian Walker in your bed.

It all starts to become clear. I came back here and felt so unwell that I couldn’t move off the bathroom floor. My body felt heavy and every time I tried to get up my stomach began to cramp, and I was sick again.

Oh, God … and then I’d called Kian. Of all people! Why him? I grab my phone and shockingly it looks like I texted Johannes, too. Apparently I called him a couple of times but got no answer. That’s strange, especially as we’re staying in the same hotel, but he was well on the way to being drunk when we left the restaurant. He probably just passed out and missed the calls.

So, Kian had come to take care of me, huh? Closing my eyes, I can almost feel his big hand on my back as he guided from the bathroom to the bed. I definitely remember the cool washcloth on my forehead and the feeling of being looked after.

I should be embarrassed that he saw me in such an awful state and later I probably will be, but right now I feel … grateful. There haven’t been many moments in life that I’ve felt that way. Johannes got me through the hangovers and the odd case of flu when I was starting out and travelling internationally for the first time, but he has an easy, casual nonchalance about him whereas this…? This felt nice. But also weird that it was Kian. I try and fail to reconcile the uptight prick I’ve come to know with the kind, caring man who put me to bed with unexpected gentleness. Needless to say, I’m finding this scenario very confusing right now.

I imagine telling fourteen-year-old Harper that one day he’ll be half-naked and sharing a bed with his crush. I watched Kian’s first season, glued to the TV, as this guy started to take the world by storm, brushing off every comment about his father in all the interviews I watched. I couldn’t ever understand why because Tyler Heath was a legend, but it gave me goosebumps.

I was just this angry teen in his millionth foster placement, trying to convince his new parents to spend some of the money they got paid each week to look after him on karting lessons. Then there was this new driver, refusing to be defined by who his parents were. He didn’t want to be a global sensation just because his mum was once a massive pop star and his dad a champion driver. He wanted to succeed on his own merit, or not at all – and it was so exciting to watch him race.

I could appreciate that, even as a teen.

I turn to look at him and the room starts to spin again. It’s hard to make out much in the blackout conditions he’s created in the room, but I’m not going to miss this opportunity to really look at him. The headache doesn’t improve, so I slide back under the cool sheets and allow myself to have this.

The Melbourne sun may have bronzed his face and shoulders, but his chest and stomach are pale, coated in thick wafts of brown hair. I manscape because I know I get papped shirtless – okay, let’s face it, I like to show off – but Kian clearly doesn’t bother. I want to reach out and stroke it. I want to thread my fingers through and see if it’s as soft as it looks.

Men like this have never been my type. I usually go for the prototypical twink – lanky and scrawny, someone who wants to be dominated; guys with soft features and a praise kink. Kian doesn’t fit into any of those categories. He has sharp features and he only has to go a couple of days without shaving to pull off some impressive facial hair. And I can’t for one second imagine him enjoying me telling him what to do. If anything, it would probably be the other way around.

That stirs something in my stomach that feels thrilling.

I’m surprised to find I’m enjoying seeing Kian like this. I’ve got so used to him being an insufferable asshole that the change is freaking me out. Except, it’s not. Instead, I feel settled. Comfortable.

Peaceful. It’s the only word I can think of to describe Kian’s state right now. There’s a thick fan of brown lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks and a smattering of sun-induced freckles across his fair skin. He’s not wearing the forced, tight smile he often puts on around me, when it’s like he’s constantly biting his tongue and trying not to let on to the rest of the world how much he despises me.

I smile to myself as I admire him now. And then those same lashes start to flutter, and I am plunged into the most awkward moment of my life as we lock eyes.

Busted!

We’re sharing a bed and I’m lying here, awake and staring at him while he’s shirtless and drooling into my pillow. A line of sweat rolls down my spine and I don’t think I can pretend the cause is anything other than the man in my bed.

It takes one too many seconds for me to look away from him, and when I look back, he’s jumped out of bed.

There’s a panicky look on his face as he paces for a second, like he’s trying to recall why he’s here. I’m still watching him – I can’t seem to stop – and when he notices, he disappears into the bathroom.

He’s probably trying to think of a way to leave without this being awkward – although that ship might have sailed. He’s been here for hours and hours, looking after me, and he fell asleep beside me. It’s more than someone who acts like he hates me should ever do.

I hear the water start to run in the basin and I prepare myself for the inevitable uptight excuse he’s about to deliver and the sharp exit he will make back to his own room. I hate that I’m almost disappointed that he’s leaving, because why should I care what Kian Walker does with his day off?

Yet when he returns from the bathroom, he just hands me another wet washcloth and I can’t deny that the cold material against my forehead makes me feel a hundred times better. I also can’t deny, even though it causes something to twist up in knots inside of me, that I like the way he takes care of me.

‘You know,’ I say, ‘if we can do this, surely we can find a way to get along. Truce?’ I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I feel completely wrung-out that’s making me consider trying or if it’s the fact he’s looking at me with something other than pure disgust in his eyes, but I’m running with it.

‘A truce? A compromise?’ he asks wearily from where he’s now perched on the edge of the desk. Sadly he’s put his shirt back on.

‘Trying each other’s worlds. You want me to give your yoga, media training, early-bedtime life a go, but you should try my way, too. Isn’t that the definition of compromise?’

I think for a second that he’s not going to go for it. He’s made it crystal clear that he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle. I don’t even know if he’d have a good time if he did come out for a drink after a win or whatever, but it’s worth a try.

‘Define your way?’

I roll my eyes. He makes it sound like a boring business deal.

‘Relax a bit, come out for drinks to celebrate, maybe even go to a club.’

There’s a look of utter terror in his eyes and I almost laugh, but it gets trapped in my completely wrecked throat and turns into a cough.

Kian quickly hands me a bottle of cold water and a small voice in the back of my head reminds me to sip, not gulp, it.

‘Look, you do you, okay? But it’s not my scene. Can you imagine me getting drunk in a club? Because I can’t. And dancing? Dancing is a big no.’

Sure, I can imagine he might be a little awkward at first, but I’d get him to loosen up. I’d have him grinding up a storm in no time if he’d just let me get my hands on him. A little guidance never hurt anyone.

‘You don’t need to drink or dance to have a good time. Just … loosen the strings a little. Try and relax a bit. I don’t get it – you’re nice to all of the guys in the garage and to the broader team, but it’s like you don’t want friends.’

A look of contemplation passes over his face, brows tugged tight like he’s thinking about how to respond. I know he’s wondering whether to open up to me or not. He’s trying to decide if he can trust me.

‘It’s not… It’s just…’

Well, I guess I got the answer to that one. No opening up, no trust.

‘If you come out with me after our next win, I’ll join your workouts and I’ll do the stupid media training?—’

It’s his turn to interrupt me this time. ‘You’ll find it helpful. They’ll help you tone down the sarcastic comebacks and think before you speak.’

I don’t care what he did for me – I’m not taking that!

‘Says you, who can’t keep his temper in check anytime Daddy’s mentioned. I don’t get that, either – you’ve already had a better career than him, like, twice over and you could probably make that three times over if you don’t retire this year.’

He visibly riles. Well, that clearly touched a nerve.

‘I fucking hate that word! Retire, retire, retire! Why is that all the press wanna talk about? How about the amazing start to the season? Or the work I do as an ambassador for the youth charity?—?’

‘Come on, old man—’ I joke, but stop when I see his face.

Not the time, Harper. Not the time.

I start over. ‘I thought this was one of those things the team had fed to the press. Like, you’d already spoken about it, and they were giving the papers lines and hints about it, making a buzz about your last year to hype up the media. I’m guessing not?’

‘No! For fuck’s sake. No. I’ve spoken to Anna about trying to put a stop to it, but everyone loves to speculate and it’s all I ever get asked anymore. I don’t know if … I haven’t thought… I’m not even thirty-four yet.’

The contortion of his face is torturous. I can see every single struggle he’s having with this decision.

Even though I’m only twenty-five, I understand that making this decision comes around so quickly, regardless of what sport you’re in, and deciding whether to go out on a high or slowly fade away is a tough one.

‘So, there’s still a chance it might be?’

‘Isn’t there a chance it might be anyone’s last season? I could crash this weekend and never be able to drive again, or Hendersohm could choose not to renew my contract with them and no other team picks me up. And the same is true for any of us. It is what it is, and I’ll cross that bridge at the end of the season. But if I go it’ll be my choice.’ His words and tone are firm – not that that would matter with any journalist. They’ll still print the reasons they think he might retire, anyway.

Uncomfortable with the intimacy of the conversation, I decide it’s time to get up. I go to climb out of bed and notice something’s different about the room. The carpets are clear, my kit bags are tucked into the provided storage, and the fan mail I was given when we arrived is stacked neatly on the desk. There’s no way I did this last night.

‘Did you, um, tidy?’ I ask as I scan the room for all of the clothes that once resided on my floordrobe. I had one in every country.

Maybe this was all a carefully orchestrated prank and he’s hidden all my clothes or burnt them as revenge. That would actually make more sense than him tidying my room.

‘Yeah. It was an absolute pigsty in here. When did you last do laundry?’

Wracking my brains, I couldn’t think. I definitely hadn’t since I’d got here. Maybe I had in Saudi? I can’t remember. ‘I bring a lot of clothes with me, so it’s fine. Where’s … the stuff I was wearing last night?’

‘In the laundry bag, where it belongs. While you were sleeping I took a bunch of your dirty clothes and put them in for an express service.’

He makes it sound like nothing, but I am shocked into silence.

It was almost too much – the cold washcloths, the tidying, the looking after.

It makes my skin feel tight. I can’t imagine why he’d do this for me.

‘Uh … thank you? You really didn’t need to do that.’

‘No, I definitely did. The clothes would probably have started putting themselves in the bag otherwise. Did your parents never teach you to clean up after yourself?’

I never, never, speak about my upbringing in public or to the press. There’s no way he could know I don’t have parents, or any kind of people who’ve earned that title. There’s no way he could know how that comment is like a dagger through my heart, yet it breaks the spell I’ve apparently been under completely.

‘I think I’ll probably be okay now. You can go.’ I don’t mean for it to sound so dismissive when he’s clearly, by any objective standards, been really good to me in the last few hours, but I’m done. I don’t want to continue this conversation.

‘My sister said you need to eat little and often to settle your stomach. I was going to order some toast or something for you on the room service menu.’ His tone is defensive, as if he doesn’t understand why the mood has suddenly soured. I can’t blame him, but I’m over this domestic little fairy tale and need my own space again.

‘I’m sure I can manage that by myself.’ I actually cross my arms over my chest for good measure and he finally gets the message. He backs towards the door.

‘Suit yourself, but I expect you in the gym with me tomorrow morning. Then, maybe, if we win, I’ll come out with you, okay?’

I’d almost forgotten with the way all the air has left the room, that we agreed to that. I nod quickly.

‘Yeah, yeah, tomorrow,’ I say. My jaw is so tightly clenched at this point that I’ll probably need his stupid yoga routine anyway to loosen my neck and traps.

He cracks the door and comically peers left and right to make sure no one sees him leave, even though we’ve done nothing wrong, and without another word slips into the corridor. The door closes behind him with a finality that feels like a relief and also like a bereavement.

The air whooshes back into the room and I can finally breathe again. It’s not really breathing, more like panting, as though my lungs are desperately trying and failing to make use of all the air I’m taking in – but I’ll take it over not being able to breathe at all.

Combined with the sore throat from throwing up and my incredibly empty stomach, the panting isn’t doing me any favours. I desperately need to collect myself and wipe all memory of this morning from my brain. Spend what’s left of this day off resting and rehydrating. Kian said his sister basically advised that, and she’s a nurse so I should probably listen. I’m definitely not ordering a couple of rounds of toast from the room service menu because Kian told me to.

I don’t care what Kian thinks at all.