“Yeah? Has she contacted that number you gave her?”
That wiped the grin off his face. “I liked her, you know,” he said, his narrow gaze assessing. “She’s fit, she’s funny, she can carry a conversation. I get why you’re so twisted up about her.”
Prior to Saturday, I didn’t have a problem with Clive. Like I told Scarlett, he was a fuckboy and a bit of a tool, but those things were par for the course when it came to professional athletes.
After Saturday, I’d die happily if I could smash his face in before I croaked.
His acute observation about my feelings toward Scarlett raised several alarms—he’d only seen us interact once, so the fact he’d hit the nail on the head didn’t bode well for me—but I ignored the warning bells for now.
It wasn’t like the three of us would ever inhabit the same space again.
“So, is she a good shag?” he asked. “If she is, I might take her for a ride once you’re done with—”
I moved before he had a chance to blink.
His sentence cut off with a surprised grunt and the slam of muscle against metal. The rest of the group, who’d been following our exchange like avid spectators watching a tennis rally, broke out into a chorus of oohs.
Anger muffled their jeers and narrowed my focus on Clive. The air sparked against my skin like a live wire; my blood pumped with the ferocity of a charging bull.
I imagined slamming him against the car again.
Imagined my fist in his face.
My knee in his groin.
I wasn’t a violent person, but when it came to Scarlett being hurt, my values unraveled.
I get why you’re so twisted up about her.
If he only knew.
“Don’t talk about her like that again,” I said, soft enough for Clive’s ears only, steely enough for him to hear the implicit threat.
He raised his hands in surrender. “I guess I have my answer.” His tone contained equal hints of triumph and unease.
With one reckless move, I’d shredded my neutrality. He knew exactly how I felt about Scarlett—but wiping that smug look off his face had been worth it.
Yet it still wasn’t enough.
A physical fight would provide short-term satisfaction, but I wanted to hit Clive where it would really hurt.
“How about a friendly wager?” My smile didn’t match my words. “Fifty grand says my Bugatti beats your McLaren.”
Clive’s eyes narrowed. I loved my cars, but he had an unhealthy obsession with his McLaren. It was his pride and joy, and if he could marry it, he probably would.
He also had an ego the size of Jupiter and a reputation for being a sore loser. Rugby, racing, it didn’t matter. He needed to be number one.
“Double it and make it a hundred,” he said.
So predictable. “Done.”
With my brand sponsorships and transfer money, I made significantly more than Clive did in a year, but he had family money to back up his professional salary. However, the word on the street was that most of his inheritance was locked in a trust, so his doubling of my initial challenge was driven by pure ego.
Our spontaneous race lacked the bells and whistles of a planned competition. There were no cheering crowds, no drinks and music.
There was only us, our cars, and the road—just the way I liked it.
Simon volunteered to count us down. We drove to the main road, and he took his position in front of us, using his shirt as the starter flag.
Three.
The powerful growl of the engine vibrated through me, sharpening the edges of my anticipation.
Two.
I tightened my grip on the wheel. Almost there.
One.
The flag came down, my foot hit the pedal, and the screech of tires filled the air as we rocketed forward with reckless abandon.
Darkened buildings and empty lots whizzed by in a blur. My heart rate kept pace with the car as we flew through the streets.
This. This was what I’d needed. I’d been in a foul mood since training, and nothing helped me vent like a good race.
The first corner approached. I braced myself, my body tense as I calculated the perfect angle for a clean turn. Beside me, Clive appeared to do the same.
We zoomed toward the bend in near parallel streaks.
