Chapter 2
Cam climbed out of the car and stalked over to get weighed, his jaw still clenched in annoyance.
He finished his post-qualifying interview on autopilot, giving terse but polite enough answers, and strode away from the media pen before the other journalists could grab him.
He couldn’t do it anymore—the cameras, the phones and microphones shoved into his face, the endless parade of influencers in borrowed team gear wanting a piece of him when he was in no mood for it.
Every weekend it was the same circus. Smile.
Perform. Sell the sport. Pretend he didn’t want to tell them all to fuck off.
“Running away?” a familiar voice called out.
Cam’s head snapped toward the voice.
Scott Palmer was leaning casually against the wall, a playful smirk on his lips. He was clad in yet another ridiculously posh outfit—white trousers and a black silk button-down—but somehow managed not to look silly. Then again, that ponce would look good in a fucking sack, and he clearly knew it.
“You’d run away too if you got swarmed by a dozen reporters,” Cam said dryly, walking toward him.
Scott hummed. “I’d never get swarmed by reporters.”
“No. Just photographers.”
Scott pressed a hand to his chest. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
Scott sighed dramatically. “You’re really committed to this grumpy thing, aren’t you?”
Cam shrugged. “Works for me.”
“I hate to break it to you, but the only reason it works is your looks. You’d just be an asshole if you were ugly. Hot privilege is so unfair.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Scott batted his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Obviously. My face would let me get away with murder.”
Cam snorted, hating a little that the guy genuinely amused him, no matter how annoying he was. “What are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you.”
Cam stopped. “Why?”
Scott gave him an innocent smile. “Why, to congratulate you, of course.”
“For losing pole?” Cam said tersely.
“For qualifying second.”
“Same thing.”
Scott laughed. “God, stop sulking! You’d think you qualified last! You’re on the front row, dude!”
Cam grimaced at the dude. “Why are you watching this sport if you don’t get why I’m not happy with P2?”
“Maybe I like watching emotionally constipated men drive in circles.”
Cam gave him a flat look.
Scott smiled wider. “See? Emotionally constipated.”
Cam rolled his eyes.
Scott tilted his head. “Seriously, though. P2 isn’t bad.”
“It’s not good enough,” Cam bit out. “I had no grip in the last sector, and Hunter beat me by a tenth.”
“Tragic,” Scott said solemnly. “An entire tenth of a second. Your career is clearly over. You should probably retire.”
“At twenty-nine?”
“Better to leave before your knees start creaking.”
Cam barked out a reluctant laugh. “You’re a dick.”
“I’ve been told. Usually by people I end up befriending.”
Another laugh escaped Cam before he could stop it. “Yeah, not happening,” he said, but some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“Never say never,” Scott said, patting him lightly on the arm. “I’ve been told I’m irresistible.”
Cam tensed, suppressing the urge to flinch away from the touch.
Technically, there was nothing wrong with it.
“Whoever told you that lied,” he said, his eyes following Scott’s hand as it left his bicep.
He wasn’t even sure when Scott had gotten close enough for them to touch.
“And you’re staying with Ferrari. You probably cheered for Hunter when he got pole. ”
Scott chuckled. “I’m hanging out at Ferrari’s hospitality because they have the best food and atmosphere. Their drivers do nothing for me. No offense to Hunter—I’m not into that rugged bully vibe at all. As I said, I like twinks.”
Cam gave him a pinched look. “Then you must be a fan of Oliver Dapper.”
Scott laughed. “Are you kidding? He’s such a mediocre driver, no matter how great his ass looks in a racing suit. I’m shallow, but I’m not that shallow.”
“That’s good to know,” Cam said dryly.
“I wouldn’t say no to fucking him, though,” Scott said, tapping a finger against his lips thoughtfully. “His ass is fantastic.”
Grimacing, Cam looked away.
“What? Too much for your hetero sensibilities?” Although Scott’s voice was still playful, there was a sharper edge to it.
“A little,” Cam admitted, looking back at him. “I don’t really...”
Scott’s expression turned searching. Piercing. “What?” he asked, his tone unexpectedly serious. “You don’t talk to gay men?”
Cam shrugged. He couldn’t exactly admit that Scott was the first openly gay man he’d exchanged more than two words with. That would make him sound very close-minded. Was he close-minded? He’d never really thought about it much. He’d never had a reason to.
“The opportunity doesn’t come up a lot in this line of work. I’ve been racing since I was six.”
“Oh,” Scott said softly, cocking his head. There was a new understanding in his eyes. “And you didn’t go to school either, right?”
Cam shrugged again. “Most of us didn’t. Racing professionally requires a lot of traveling from early childhood. Not exactly conducive to attending school. Even those of us who have degrees barely attended classes.”
“All things considered, I’m surprised you guys don’t communicate in grunts,” Scott said with a small smile.
“Sometimes we do,” Cam said, his gaze flicking down to those smiling lips. The guy was gay. That meant those lips had been wrapped around dicks. Probably plenty of them.
Cam’s stomach clenched in revulsion.
Though... maybe not that many if the guy really preferred being the dominant one. Unlikely, though. Cam couldn’t imagine a healthy gay man who wouldn’t want to stuff his cock into that mouth and make him choke on it.
“Right,” Cam said, clearing his throat. “I have to go. Team briefing.”
“Okay,” Scott said, giving him a mildly curious look. “Don’t let me keep you. See you around, Cameron Richter.”
“It’s Cam,” he said tersely.
A smile lit up Scott’s eyes before spreading to his lips. “Cam,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.
Cam frowned, unsettled by the strange swooping sensation low in his stomach.
With a clipped nod, he stalked away. He had the oddest urge to look back, but he quashed it and forced himself to stop thinking about irrelevant things.
Because that was what Scott Palmer was.
Irrelevant.
He had a race to think about.