Going Deep (Winning Love #1)

Chapter 1

CAMDEN

Everything they say about Florida is true.

The heat, the bugs, the guy with the beer belly in a cutoff shirt smoking a cigar while wrangling an alligator in the middle of the road…

It’s all true.

“Do we really have to do this?” Malcolm, my babysitter for all intents and purposes, groans in disgust.

“We are not doing anything, and I have no idea why you’re still here.”

“Because you’re about to make yet another bad decision.”

I gesture to the guy trapping the gator as I tell Malcolm, “If you’re not going to leave me the fuck alone, why don’t you make yourself helpful?”

“That’s not in my contract.”

“Neither is fucking up my life.”

“I’m keeping you from fucking up your life.” He clicks his tongue and adjusts the collar of his shirt, looking like a real-life Carlton Banks. Minus the dance moves. I might like him more if he did dance. At least then he’d be entertaining, while simultaneously ruining all my fun.

After…everything, Malcolm showed up on my doorstep one day and has yet to leave. Apparently, my PR team thinks I’m incapable of keeping myself out of trouble. He calls himself my assistant.

I call him a pain in my ass.

“So, let’s just pack it in,” he suggests. “I’ll buy you breakfast tomorrow. Or today, since the sun will be coming up in a few hours.”

“Oh boy!” I clap a few times. “Can I get an ice cream too, Daddy?”

He wrenches back, hand on his chest. “Please don’t call me daddy. Only Jenson can do that.”

I roll my eyes. “So why don’t you go home to him. Leave me be.”

“Not happening.”

I blow out a breath toward the night sky. It’s nearly two in the morning on a barren stretch of road outside of Fort Lauderdale. I shouldn’t be here, I know that, but lately, none of the shoulds have stopped me from doing anything.

Not the partying in Miami when I shouldn’t be drinking so much in the off-season.

Not the two blondes in Key West when I’ve got a girlfriend.

And not that pesky arrest for illegal drag racing.

Malcolm’s been at my side for the last two months, hissing in my ear about what I shouldn’t be doing and reporting back to Debra Rosenstein, half of Rosenstein I’m just dumb enough to do so.

He also can’t retaliate like he might want to because I’m in the public eye and he needs to stay out of it.

I met Slim a few years ago, and while I’m positive none of his business ventures earn him money legally, I’ve never had the balls to ask him that outright.

I’m just here to win some cash, and he’s here to skim money off one of his rackets.

“I’m tired of waiting around,” I tell Slim, earning only a slightly threatening slap to my back.

“Are we all tired of waiting around? You ready to race?” Slim asks, his voice raised so the two dozen or so of us gathered can hear as he holds out his hands, his open button-down fluttering with the movement, a suspicious bulge at his back, something tucked into his pants.

Malcolm notices too and tugs on my elbow. “Seriously, Camden, let’s get out of here.”

I ignore my paid conscience to whoop it up with the other drivers, joining in on the smack talk that immediately starts.

Side bets being placed. I hop on my toes, my adrenaline spiking.

I love competing, whether it’s on the field or on a street.

I want to win, and the familiar buzz in my gut and hands ratchets up.

“Camden.” Malcolm’s voice is a harsh whisper as he attempts to block my path from slapping the twenty grand of cash into Slim’s hand.

“Fuck off,” I mumble, tossing the envelope to Slim, over Malcolm’s head.

A couple of the guys talk shit about how that’s the best play they’ve ever seen out of me, as if these dumb fucks don’t know the difference between a quarterback and a receiver. They all merely want the opportunity to be added to the list of people who beat Camden Long.

But that list is ripped up tonight.

Fuck them. And fuck all the haters. Fuck anyone who thinks they can bring me down.

They can’t and won’t.

I am unstoppable.

I’m about to open the door on the driver’s side when Malcolm slams his hand against it. For being a little guy, he does have some strength behind him, but I brush him away like a gnat. “Go home.”

“Camden, don’t do this.”

I ignore him and slide behind the wheel, starting up my girl, revving her engine. One of Slim’s henchmen motions us all to the starting point, and I don’t check the rearview mirror to see where Malcolm is. I also don’t take out my cell phone to see who has been repeatedly calling me.

I am focused on nothing besides winning this race.

Some chick with huge tits and a tiny bikini sashays out and winks in my direction before waving her hand for all the drivers’ attention, one car on my left, three on my right.

She says something I can’t hear over the gunning of the engines, but then she unties her top, letting it fall off into her hands.

But even those perfectly round beauties don’t steal my focus as she raises her top into the air, only to wave it back down.

The flag.

I’m off, gunning it down the dark stretch that curves to the right.

I shift gears, pulling ahead slightly, only to be overtaken by the red Lambo.

I grit my teeth and push it, pedal to the metal.

The speedometer ticks up with every second, my heart rate skyrocketing as I clench my left fist around the steering wheel, my right white-knuckled around the shifter.

I mentally count down the yards like I’m looking out on the field, and I find my opening to make the turn, pulling ahead on the way back, then hit it with the juice on the straightaway.

I smile as I finish, resting my head back for a moment to enjoy the high before unfolding myself from the car. The flag girl greets me by jumping into my arms, mouth on my jaw, tits against my chest, though she’s managed to put her top on. Barely.

Slim congratulates me with a pound, doling out my winnings then proceeding to the second- and third-place finishers, but I don’t even have time to enjoy the celebration because Malcolm barrels toward me, pushing the girl out of the way. “Camden.”

I roll my eyes. “Just fucking leave already. You—”

He thrusts his cell phone at me. “It’s about your parents.”

“What?”

He forcibly hands me his cell phone. “They’ve been trying to get a hold of you. There was an accident with your parents.”

Turns out, I’m not unstoppable.

In fact, I’m quite vulnerable.