Page 8 of Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

“Don’t. We do not bring her up here,” I snap.

Fuck Connor’s mum for gossiping about mine. You’d think with London being a huge city, the rich would stay in their own mansions far away from one another. But nope, Connor’s mum happens to attend a weekly smutty novel club with mine.

“Fine. How about you evaluate your public image? Kids look up to you for fuck’s sake. What you’re doing isn’t doing wonders for your career, with sponsors and fans questioning your stability.”

“I guess you’re lucky that I only have one more year on my contract before it gets renewed.”

Connor tugs on his blonde hair. “No. You’re lucky I like you, despite how much of a dick you are. At least I like you enough to defend your position to the board of sponsors who dislike me as it is. I refuse to give those lazy twats what they want, so pull your shit together. With Liam gone, you’re the company’s only hope of landing on podiums.”

“I’ll try my best to be better.” I swallow back the regret. Connor didn’t need to stand up to the board, but he did so as a favor to me. And for that, I’m grateful.

“I want to make sure I’ve made my point clear.” Connor’s teddy bear stare doesn’t pack the same punch as his predecessor, Peter. But at least he’s a positive guy who sneers less, plus he puts up with my shit.

“Trust me, I got your point. Last week was a lapse in judgment.” Guilt sits heavy inside of my goddamn chest, tightening around my lungs like a boa constrictor.

“More like last week was a tough week for your family that you happened to experience firsthand. But with your mum’s condition and your unpredictability, I can’t take the risk of this happening again during the season. The press is saying you’re in a downward spiral, and we can’t have that.”

“I’ll be better and won’t make mistakes again. Call me a whiskey bottle half full kind of guy.”

Last week was rough, to put it lightly. I used alcohol to dull the torture of sitting by while Mum battles her own hell. Tremors. Mood swings. The whole fucking spectrum of symptoms put a damper on our week together.

Connor glares at me. “I’m being serious. You know there are better options out there to maintain anxiety symptoms, right?”

“Tell me, how does one say they don’t give a fuck because there’s no point?”

“Well, I see a point, so I’ve taken your problem into my own hands. Think of me as your fairy godfather.”

“I prefer Al Pacino’s version over a Disney fairy tale.”

“Well, be prepared for my offer you—quite literally—can’t refuse.”

I slowly clap my hands together a few times in the most sarcastic way possible. “Well done. Can’t wait to hear what your grand plan is.”

“Since I’m busy with all the crap Peter left behind, I hired someone special. I thought it would do you some good to have a little one-on-one PR help.”

I curse to myself as I lean my head against the back of the chair. PR teams are the worst, contributing nothing but headaches and judgments.

Connor’s perceptive eyes find mine. “I won’t share what’s going on with your mum to the PR rep because my mum would kill me. But your alcohol issues and party ways are up for grabs. Whenever you feel like being an arsehole, think of the team and your chance at a World Championship this year. Do you really want to blow it?”

“No, I don’t.” I take a deep breath as someone opens the door.

Whiskey-colored eyes stare at me, framed by thick lashes. Her thin nose tips at the end before my eyes land on her plump lips. Bee-stung doesn’t cover it. More like she ran straight into a wasp nest and her lips lost the battle, both upper and bottom about the same size. Wavy, dark hair falls around her, sitting above her breasts, swaying against her silk blouse. Her outfit emphasizes her figure, the curves of her on display, begging me to kneel in front of her like a fucking shrine.

Elena checks all my boxe

s. Hips I want to grip, an arse I want to watch while I fuck her from behind, and tits I wouldn’t mind kissing my way around. But with her, I don’t have the ability to think with my dick.

I somehow withhold a groan as my head lifts from the back of the chair. “Elena, fancy seeing you here.”

“Jax, can’t say I’m sorry to be back.” She takes a seat across from me and puts her small hand out. I grab onto it with one tattooed hand, black and white fake bones engulfing hers as I give her fingers a squeeze. A hum of recognition buzzes through me. Hot, burning desire makes my hand squeeze hers harder as my dick registers her presence. I frown, hating the way one touch from her throws me off.

Last time I saw Elena, Liam announced he was leaving McCoy after placing runner-up in the Championship. With his departure, I thought I was free of her. But like the moron I’ve been lately, I was oh-so wrong.

I don’t like being around Elena more than I have to. Elena has this way of looking at me like she knows there’s something off about me. Like she wants to see me. Not the guy who lands on podiums each week. Not the man with hundreds of tattoos, looking like a badass yet falling short because of poor decisions. And definitely not the guy who sleeps around to cover up the emptiness he feels each day of his life.

And if there is anything I’ve learned over the past few years while watching my mum struggle, it’s that I can’t allow myself the luxury of someone learning my secrets. To be honest, Elena couldn’t afford a piece of my mind even if she won the lottery three years in a row.

Connor claps his hands together. “I called Elena after I heard she worked with Liam and you last year. I thought it would be better to hire someone you know.”