23. Wilder
When I was gearing up for my first season back at The Academy, I never imagined how quickly I would become accustomed to all the different tracks.
I mean in hindsight, they’re all the same right?
Black asphalt and concrete, built to withstand the rubber and speed, but who knew they would all start to blur together in my mind?
I’m currently fourth on the grid. Not bad, but not good either.
Or not good enough at least. After Milan I knew I would feel more pressure, but to now add to that with the bid into the world champs, well it's safe to say that the stress is at an all time high. Being fourth means I’m too far away from the win, and too close to becoming prey to everyone still behind me.
And after the last few weeks, I know every single one of them has their sights set on me.
I should be focused on winning, on using the strategies I am trained in to get myself to the front, but the only thing on my mind are the marks on Reed’s skin.
He’s kept a low profile the last few days, despite covering the bruises with makeup.
He wore a cap tucked low on his face and avoided everyone as much as possible.
I could see questioning looks in all the guys eyes, as he remained reserved in himself, but I couldn’t give a fuck about what they thought.
No, my focus was only on him.
I’ve spent the last three nights sleeping in his room, showing up only after everyone else had called it a night, and surprising him each time.
I made up excuses, told him I was bored, that I couldn’t sleep, that I wanted some company, but he knew I was only there to check on him.
A fact that had him completely perplexed, if the look on his face was anything to go by.
It only adds to my theory that he doesn’t let anyone get truly close enough to see the real him.
And I don’t mean just Reed, but his true persona, the one that is trying to escape from being the perfect Prescott Lamont IV.
Nothing else has happened between us, that’s not why I was there, it’s not even why I sucked his dick that first night.
No, that was only to get him out of his head, to make him forget how fucked up his father is.
Something I have catalogued away for a later date.
Instead, I listened to him speak to Eloise without any mention of my presence, and then watched him update both our social media accounts while I never said a word.
By the time he went to sleep, I was in what I am now deeming as my spot, with my shirt off and my phone out.
Each morning I wake from a deep sleep with Reed curled in beside me, not being up early enough for the sunrise or my morning workout.
I’m sure Matteo suspects something is going on, because he has been watching the two of us, but Reed is a master at keeping himself detached.
And now that I know how he was raised, I can’t say I blame him.
My gloves tighten around the wheel at the thought, and I inhale a deep breath, holding things steady as I take another harsh turn.
The crowd here is much louder than any we have experienced so far, and I am finding it harder to block them out.
Especially when my focus is already split between the race and Reed.
I know he’s fine, a little bruised and stiff sure, but he has taken what happened in his stride.
Except that’s the problem, because how many times has he had to do that?
How many times has his father beat him?
How many times has he covered his bruises with makeup and pretended everything is okay?
And more importantly, why?
I don’t need to understand his father’s why, the reasoning is as clear as day, but why does Reed put up with it?
Sure, I know he probably has a healthy inheritance in his name, but he must make a substantial amount in his line of work.
I know my father is paying him handsomely, so why hasn’t he just cut ties with his dad and called it a day?
“Sixty seconds,” Sid calls in my ear, his voice a calming presence, and I release the breath I was holding and lock in.
The smell of oil and burned rubber mix together like a cocktail, both familiar and comforting, and now it’s just me and my car.
Every vibration tells me something, every move matters, and for the first time in two days, my mind quiets completely.
There is no EWC bid, no shitty abusive fathers to imagine killing, and no PR assistants controlling my every waking thought.
There is just me and the rapidly approaching finish line.
I’m still hunting Zara Michaels for third place, barely half a second separating us, but she’s almost too good.
First, she isn’t a rookie like me, she has not just skill but experience too, and every time I close in on her, she pulls away with ease.
She’s probably still pissed that I beat her in Milan, considering she took first place last year, but today I don’t have enough in me to do it.
I cross the finish line right on her tail, and curse her silently with a shake of my head, as she scoops up a spot on the podium.
By the time we do our cool down lap and come to a stop, Zara is still right in front of me, and I feel her attention and smirk before she even pulls off her helmet.
“I thought they said you had a magic dick, Miles, what happened? Did you get performance anxiety?” she calls out as I take off my own helmet, the cameras already flashing widely around us, and I bite back a smirk.
“Just keep your attention on the road, Michaels,” I toss back, rounding my car to come closer to her.
“I did, that's why I smoked your ass.” I can feel most of the other men staring at her, she’s one of very few women in the league, and they hate that fact. They also hate that she’s better than them, but for me, talent recognizes talent, and Zara Michaels is fucking fantastic.
“Barely,” I grunt, fixing her with a glare. “I was riding your ass the whole way and you know it.”
At that she cocks her head, as she starts walking backwards toward the podium. “Really? I just thought you had a hard on for me.”
Hot, cocky, and confident. Just like me.
“Trust me, Michaels, you’re not my type.”
She’s almost out of hearing range when she scoffs, “What? Gorgeous, talented, successful nepo babies aren’t your type?”
I can’t help but laugh, because that is in fact very much my type, it’s just not her.
The rest of the weekend passes in a blur, and once all the races are complete, I find myself in a dark hole.
I let what happened to Reed distract me, needing it to, but he’s doing better now, or at least he’s pretending he is.
Sure, the bruises are fading, the swelling disappearing, and I wish it made me feel better, but it doesn’t.
If anything it just reminds me how fucked up life is, and yes, he might have skeletons in his closet, but I’ve got dead bodies in mine.
It’s why I haven’t let myself go to his room tonight, telling myself he wouldn’t be expecting me, knowing I shouldn’t let myself get into a routine with him. It doesn’t matter that I sleep better beside him, something I don’t want to look at too closely, I need to be focused on work.
There is just one thing I need to do first.
I’ve waited four days to make this phone call, wanting to get the races out of the way first, and I’m not surprised that Caden answers on the third ring. “Yeah?” he grunts down the line, in that same ‘no time for bullshit’ tone he uses on everyone, and it settles something inside of me.
A fucked up part of me actually misses the little psycho, and despite his lack of basic human emotion, I know he will always have my back.
“I need a favor.” I don’t bother beating around the bush, I don’t have time for it, and it would only serve in pissing him off.
“Go on.” I can hear the telltale sounds of people cheering and cars screeching, and I know instantly he’s at The Underground.
I can picture the scene perfectly. Cas challenging anyone who will take him on, Bobby keeping track of all the bets, and Cade silently watching everything and everyone.
If we were all there, I’d be taking bets with Cas, while Knox and Beck would no doubt be causing some kind of trouble, and just the thought creates an ache in my chest. It makes me miss home, and I have to clear my throat to get out my next words.
“I need you to get me everything you can on Prescott Lamont III.”
When Reed first dropped comments about his father, I just registered him as a piece of shit, but from the second he showed up the other day, I knew I wouldn’t be able to let it go.
Not when I saw how Reed reacted to him, and certainly not after I cataloged all the injuries he left on his son.
A man like him isn’t just powerful, he’s dangerous, and if I’m going to make him pay for what he did to his son, I’m going to need to get to know him better.
“Isn’t that your dad’s new pet?” Caden asks, the background noise fading slightly, and I just know he is heading to his office.
“No, it’s his father.” At that he pauses, and I can imagine him cocking his head to the side and assessing what I just said.
“Any particular reason?” That’s not a question I can let myself answer right now, not without losing my mind, so I remain quiet and he laughs.
“Well okay then,” he drawls, and I can just picture the maniacal look on his face.
“I’ll put some feelers out with both Duchess and Blackwell, see what they turn up. ”
I’m already shaking my head in disagreement. “Feelers aren’t enough, Cade, I need fucking concrete evidence of his bullshit,” I snarl, and his silence returns as my heart starts to race.
My chest starts to physically hurt, and I press my free hand against it, trying to ease the ache building there. I pull in a breath, but it doesn’t go deep enough, my entire body feeling tight, like someone is squeezing my rib cage.