Chapter Eight – Lola
CHAPTER EIGHT
LOLA
Apparently, talking about potentially winning with Cole’s team calls for a celebration. Going to this dingy, beer-stained dive bar wasn’t my first choice—okay, it was the absolute bottom of the list—but I wasn’t protesting either. After the morning I had, tequila shots sounded like the perfect pick-me-up. Anything to drown out the memory of my disastrous meeting with the team.
The bass line thumps against my chest, a physical presence in the packed bar, vibrating my teeth as the tequila works its magic. The room starts to spin in a way that has nothing to do with the shots, transforming the crowd into a hazy, sweaty blob of writhing bodies and flailing limbs—none of which belong to Cole. He chose to park himself at the opposite end of the bar with Gene, talking about who knows what. Honestly, at this point, I couldn’t care less. My feet are killing me in these stupid heels, my head is pounding out a tribal rhythm, and if I have to hear Cole talk about racing stats one more time... well, let's just say Gene deserves to endure the suffering for being his friend.
“So, you and Chad, huh?” A body sidles up next to mine. “I always wondered what you saw in him.”
I turn and flash Cam a wicked smile. “I saw a paycheck, Cam. A. Big. Fat. Check.”
Apparently, lying has become my new thing. It's practically a second language at this point, rolling off my tongue smoother than a shot of tequila. And let me tell you, I've had a lot of tequila shots tonight. Because let’s be real… Getting a paycheck wasn’t the reason I dated Chad, no more than it’s the reason I’m fake-dating Cole. I love racing, always have, always will, but unfortunately, I've always loved the drivers, too. Which, as you can imagine, makes holding down a steady paycheck in this business pretty damn hard.
Cam grabs his stomach and doubles over, his laughter a booming sound in the hazy bar. It almost drowns out the thumping bass, which is saying something. The room tilts, and I grab the sticky surface of the bar to steady myself. “Oh, we are going to be good friends,” he manages to sputter out between chuckles. “I can already feel it.”
Yeah, well, I think the only thing he's feeling is the four beers he chugged earlier. The man has the alcohol tolerance of a tank—and about as much finesse. My head spins, and it's definitely not just the tequila this time. “I wouldn't get too excited,” I slur, attempting a charming smile that feels more like a grimace. “The men in my life usually run and never look back when I'm done with them.”
Details, Lola. Too many details. It's a little too early in this friendship—if you can even call it that—to give him the play-by-play on the “running” part. “You, my friend,” I say, poking him in the chest with a finger that seems to have a mind of its own, “may want to utilize that free trial period with me before you buy. I'm a little... glitchy.” Like a broken slot machine in Vegas. All flash, no payout.
The room swims, and I blink rapidly, trying to refocus on Cam. He's still grinning, the lucky bastard. “I get what you're putting down,” he says, leaning closer. His breath smells of beer and something vaguely minty. “But you should know, most people in the racing business like to live on the edge. ‘Glitchy’ just gets us…hard.”
Oh, for the love of?—
“Fucking great,” I mutter, letting my head fall onto the bar with a thud. The cool, sticky surface is strangely comforting. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”
He tips his chin, eyes twinkling with amusement. Leave it to a guy to find my train wreck of a love life endearing. “So, you and Chad really weren't a thing? It was all fake?”
Why, Lord? Why is this man so damn nosy? Doesn't he know the cardinal rule of drinking with a stranger? Don't ask, and I definitely won't tell—coherently, at least.
“Yup,” I manage, my voice muffled by the bar top.
“And you and Cole were what? High school sweethearts?”
I snort, the sound coming out harsher than intended. High school sweethearts? Cole kept me strictly in the friend zone during high school. Not that I would have minded, of course. The memory of him in those fitted racing pants, all sweat and sunshine... Nope, not thinking about that now.
“Yeah,” I lie, my voice thick with tequila and something uncomfortably close to longing. “High school sweethearts.”
Cam nods, completely buying it. Of course, he does. “What went wrong there?”
“Okay, Dr. Phil,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. The room sways again when I lift my head, and I swear the disco ball hanging precariously from the ceiling is mocking me. “You’re getting a little too personal.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He laughs, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just curious. Cole has never mentioned you.”
Ouch. His words are like a tiny pinprick to my already fragile ego. Of course, he hasn’t mentioned me. Why would he? I’m just the girl who…
“And I’ve never even seen him go on a date,” Cam continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. He shrugs, his words blurring together. “It would make sense if he never got over you.”
Is it just me, or does Cam sound like the nosiest girlfriend in the bar? I swear, some people should come with warning labels. Caution: Overconsumption of alcohol leads to excessive curiosity and a complete lack of boundaries.
“Well,” I say, forcing a casual shrug, “I can’t say why he never dated. Only that when we ran into each other recently, it was like no time had passed at all.”
Lies. All filthy, delicious lies. And they just keep tumbling out of my mouth, fueled by cheap tequila and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, if I say it enough, it’ll become true.
“Interesting,” Cam murmurs, leaning back in his chair.
I nod, my head pounding in time with the music. Please, please, let him drop it. I can’t handle another probing question, another well-meaning but ultimately painful observation.
The room spins, and I close my eyes for a moment, willing the nausea away. When I open them again, Cam is still watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face. Great. Just what I need. More scrutiny.
“Did he cheat on you?”
My mouth falls open, and a surprised laugh escapes before I can stop it. Of all the things he could have guessed—alien abduction, sudden-onset amnesia, a secret identity as a ninja assassin—he landed on the one thing furthest from truth.
“Cole?” Cam looks genuinely shocked, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “Cole actually cheated on you back in high school? That’s the only reason I can think of that isn’t insane. Who would cheat on you?” His gaze sweeps down my body, lingering a beat too long on my cleavage before traveling back up, like it’s some kind of visual explanation.
“Oh, no,” I say quickly, clutching my fresh margarita like a lifeline. The tequila concoction sloshes precariously close to the edge, mirroring the state of my composure. “Cole didn’t cheat on me.”
The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Because, of course, someone did cheat on me. That honor goes to my charming, very-much-not-missed ex, Chad. But I’m not supposed to care about that, am I? Fake dating, fake heartbreak, fake everything.
“Then what happened between you?” Cam presses, his eyes alight with curiosity.
What happened? Well, let’s see. Perhaps it was that Cole was a teenage heartbreaker, all charm and empty promises. What happened was a stolen kiss during a high school party, a whispered confession that meant everything and nothing at all. What happened was my heart getting trampled on, left to bleed out from his rejection.
I sigh, the sound heavy with memories I’d rather forget. “Racing has always been Cole’s only love,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not entirely a lie. Cole does love racing, with every fiber of his being. But there was a time when I thought maybe, just maybe, I held a close second place in his heart. I was young, na?ve, and blinded by the way he looked at me—like I was the only girl in the world who mattered.
Cole really should thank me for not dragging his good name through the mud. Or maybe he should be thanking the tequila. Either way, he should thank me.
Cam nods, a solemn smile on his face. “I get that. When racing is in your blood, it’s hard to make room for anything else—even love.”
I force a smile, nodding along like I understand, but honestly? Bull. Shit. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, and we’re basically wired to multitask, but I don’t understand this whole “one-track mind” excuse. If someone, or something, is important to you, you make time. You nurture it. You fight for it. You rearrange your entire damn schedule for it.
My gaze snaps back to Cole, drawn, as always, to the electric current of his presence. Our eyes lock across the dimly lit dive bar, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s no longer speaking to Gene, who’s currently trying to demonstrate a racing maneuver with a half-empty beer bottle. Nope, Cole’s jaw is ticking like it has its own heartbeat, a muscle jumping in his cheek. The man practically vibrates with barely contained fury, and it’s freakin’ me out.
What the hell did I do now?
I wrack my brain, replaying the last hour in a desperate attempt to figure out what set him off this time. Was it something I said? Something I didn’t say? I’d been on my best behavior—relatively speaking—resisted the urge to spike his beer with hot sauce, hadn’t tripped any overly friendly fans who got handsy… Hell, I even laughed at one of his stupid jokes. It involved a priest, a rabbi, and a starting line—don’t ask. I gave him space to calm down about my less-than-graceful entrance earlier, even though it wasn’t my fault his team decided to have a meeting in a place where the only scent stronger than stale beer is broken promises. If I had known, I might have put on something a little less… revealing.
Frustration bubbles up inside me, hot and prickly. Fine. Two can play this game.
Carefully, I slip my hand down my sticky glass, shielding my next move from everyone but him. And with a flick of my wrist, I flip him off. Not the most mature response, but satisfying, nonetheless.
Jerk.
I don’t know who spit in his drink to get him all worked up, but it wasn’t me. He doesn’t need to glare at me like I’m public enemy number one.
Like I flipped a switch, Cole slams his beer down on the bar top, pretty sure he’s been nursing that same beer all night. My breath catches in my throat as he turns, his gaze zeroing in on me with the intensity of a laser beam as he heads my way. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, a flicker of something that looks a whole lot like possessiveness, and damn if it doesn’t send a flood of arousal through my veins. Wait, what? That’s not right!
“We’re leaving,” he barks, his voice low and laced with an authority that would make a drill sergeant proud. “The celebration is over.”
I bristle, my good mood vanishing faster than a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. Just who the hell does he think he is?
“No,” I say, my voice deceptively calm despite the riot of emotions swirling inside me. I turn my back on him, fixing a bright smile on Cam’s bewildered face. “The celebration has just begun. Isn’t that right, Cam?”
Cam hesitates, clearly torn between his best friend’s simmering rage and my… let’s call it persuasive charm. After what feels like an eternity, he clears his throat, mutters something about needing another drink, and hightails it out of the bar.
Traitor.
Cole smirks, but it’s gone as quickly as it emerged, replaced by that infuriatingly neutral mask he wears so well. “When you’re posing as my girlfriend,” he all but growls, his voice a low rumble in my ear, “you will remain at my side until I dismiss you.”
I see red. I swear, it’s like he just waved a red flag in front of a bull. This man has officially lost all his marbles if he thinks he can get away with talking to me—talking down to me—like that, especially in front of half the racing circuit.
Before I can stop myself, I grab my drink—a particularly potent margarita, heavy on the tequila—and toss the entire contents right in his smug, ridiculously handsome face.
“There,” I say, my voice tight with barely suppressed fury. “Consider yourself dismissed.”
The liquid drips down his face, tequila mixing with the sweat on his brow, tracing a path along his jawline that is far too tempting for my own good. For a split second, I see surprise flicker across his features, followed by something that looks suspiciously like... amusement?
And then, it’s gone.
Before I can even blink, I’m in the air, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—a screaming, furious, strangely turned-on sack of potatoes.
“Put me down, Lawson!” I shriek, pounding my fists against his back for good measure. “Or I swear to God...”
My threats are cut short as he carries me out of the bar, my protests swallowed by the roar of laughter and drunken cheers from the crowd we leave in our wake.