She coughs before recovering. “Uh, we better get going. It’s late.”
I groan as I roll off of her, standing before helping her up. We both pretend nothing happened and return back to normal as we gather our belongings. Well, we act as normal as friends who kiss like lovers and share the same desperation for one another. Sophie and I put on the best damn show with us pretending to fight our attraction for no good reason except for her thinking she’ll catch feelings instead of orgasms.
Fuck feelings. They leave a bad taste in my mouth. Sophie needs to be convinced how feelings are meant for good boys who will cherish her for everything she’s worth. I can only promise what I can offer with my career and my past. A future isn’t guaranteed, but I swear the only one she’ll think of is me doing every naughty item on that list to her.
It’s enough for me. But the real question is if it’s enough for her.
16
Liam
Even after winning the Canadian Grand Prix, the press conference sucks. I get hit with a couple questions I don’t want to answer. Cameras focus on me, their bright lights causing my skin to flush. For once, I don’t appreciate the limelight, the surrounding reporters stifling me as I aim to keep my composure.
A sleazy reporter eagerly moves up to the front of the group. His slicked-back hair and beady eyes send some creepy vibes as he licks his lips. “Liam, several sources claim your McCoy contract is on the fritz. Your performance is competitive, yet you’re struggling to beat Noah this year.”
“Is there a question somewhere in there?” I rub the back of my neck with my hand, despising how uncomfortable I feel under the intense scrutiny from everyone in the room. Jax and Santiago shift in their chairs.
“Uh, right.” He licks his lips again. “So, is it worth putting your contract on the line for Claudia McCoy?”
This shit again. New race, new reporter, same crappy questions.
“The status of my contract is not contingent on my relationship, or lack thereof, with Claudia McCoy. I’d appreciate if it’s no longer brought up during these press conferences. I’m here to race, not discuss my private life.”
McCoy’s PR agent will have a field day with this one. I see another meeting with Peter in my future because he hates when we sass reporters. But fuck all this shit. I’ve been staying out of the headlines and playing nice with others. Plus I’m a role model for abstinence. Sophie’s probably to thank for keeping me in line, to be honest. I haven’t slept with anyone for almost three months already. My free time is spent constructively as of late, no longer plagued with bad mistakes and easy women.
Another reporter speaks. “Liam, there’s talk that you may switch over to Kulikov’s racing team at the end of the season. Would you like to share more about that?”
“No comment.” My response garners some hushed whispers.
The reporters process my response. I have no idea where they get their information from, but their sleuthing skills suck.
“Can you tell us more about your relationship with Miss Mitchell? Are you looking to join Bandini next year?” The same slimy reporter from earlier speaks up.
Where the fuck did that come from?
“My friendship with Sophie Mitchell is of no one’s concern. Not everything in life revolves around contracts and signing deals.” I smirk at the reporter, hoping he shuts up.
He slyly grins. “As of an hour ago, a source reported you’re sleeping with Miss Mitchell to climb the career ladder.”
My fingers clench in front of me. “Seeing as you mentioned Claudia a moment ago, I’d double-check with your sources about their reliability. Whoever I decide to sleep with, whether it’s Miss Mitchell or not, is no one’s business. I’d rather commit career suicide than sleep with someone to get ahead in this sport. I’d advise you to find better stories that don’t involve the latest scoop inside my bedroom.”
The reporter settles back into his seat, his shoulders held high.
The press conference wraps up in record time. My mood darkens despite a Prix win, tainted by tactless questions and untrue stories.
My day goes from bad to worse when I get a call from my agent about Peter wanting to meet with us. I grace them with my lovely presence, my foul attitude from earlier following me around like a dark cloud.
McCoy’s motorhome palace greets me, the cold gray aesthetic no longer filling me with a sense of pride. I step into a conference room to find an agitated Peter and my agent seated.
“When I said to stay away from women, I didn’t expect you to befriend James Mitchell’s daughter. How stupid can you be?” Peter’s meaty fists bang on the table.