11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
T he light of day brings with it a headache and sour stomach, but the lack of a full-blown hangover makes me thankful I left when I did. That and waking up alone without the shameful knowledge that I slept with a teammate gives me an extra surge of motivation. That would have wrecked everything I’ve worked for with this team. I don’t want to be their slutty promo model eye candy. I want to advance my career, contribute to the team in a meaningful way, and not have them snickering about how easy I am behind my back. I know they talk. Especially about me.
My cell text tone pings as I’m brushing my teeth. I read the text and give myself a mental pat on the back as I spit toothpaste into the sink and rinse. Henry is coming through for me.
Henry: Operation “make Shelby a badass drifter in the eyes of S&M” is a go. Package is secured and already in transport to SoCal.
Me: Thank you, brother! You’re the best.
Henry: That’s what all my sisters say. ETA 4 hours. Still want me to go to Irvine Motorsport park?
Me: Yup. I’ll round the gang up and have them there just after I meet you.
I grab my stuff and quickly head out of the hotel room when Ryan calls to tell me our ride is here. I slide classic black Wayfarers over my sensitive eyes and wait in the parking lot for the guys to regroup. Apparently, they were still sleeping.
“Did you have fun last night?” Ryan asks, leaning against the Yukon Denali he drove out here to pick us up.
I brush hair out of my eyes and smirk. “I guess so. I left before the rest of the guys, so I can’t speak for them.”
“Why’d you leave? Was Griffin being a total asshat again?”
I tip my sunglasses back up to fully cover my eyes and not give myself away. I don’t have the best poker face, and just thinking about him licking my neck is enough for heat to pool low in my body.
“Nah, he was pretty cool, actually. I just had enough of being at the club.” Right. Like I didn’t roll into bed at the hotel and make myself violently come just thinking about him and the way we moved together.
“Well, it’s good to hear he’s turned a corner and decided to treat you better. Oh, finally, here they come.”
I turn slightly and see four worse-for-wear faces trooping out of the hotel. Wyatt holds his hand over his eyes, grimacing in the bright sun while Ezra chugs a bottle of water like his life depends on it. Cole rubs his stomach and burps loudly before he ducks back to throw up in the trash can outside the lobby doors. Gross, dude .
“You owe me ten bucks, Cole. I knew you were going to puke,” Wyatt says in a scratchy voice. Cole shoots daggers at Wyatt, but pulls out his wallet. Huh, I guess the guys take their stupid bets seriously.
Like me, Griffin has dark sunglasses covering his eyes, but seems fine.
“You guys look like shit. How much did you drink last night?” Ryan asks, opening the back of the Yukon to load our bags.
“Too much, bro. But we had a good time,” Wyatt says, smiling in my direction. I look away quickly, worried he’s about to loudly declare my comings and goings to the group. Um, no thanks. “I’m not even sure how I got back here, I was so fucked up. When I finally got to sleep, I had some pretty wicked dreams that I do remember.” I chance peeking in his direction and get a dimpled smile that tells me he wants to keep our little dance between the three of us.
Thank God.
“You were moaning so loud I couldn’t sleep. I thought about suffocating you with a pillow just to make you shut up.” Griffin punches Wyatt in the arm before he moves past us to climb into the backseat of the SUV. He’s cranky as hell, but at least he hasn’t said anything mean to me. Yet.
“Cole, if you throw up in Marny’s truck, she’ll kill you. Try to keep your stomach gurgles and vomit to yourself, got it, man?” Ryan says while closing the back hatch.
Cole nods, clutching the bottle of water I fished out of the cooler in the back for him.
“Why don’t you take the front seat, so you don’t get car sick?” I offer, pushing him toward the front.
Honestly, I just want to be as far away from his vomit as possible, should he get sick again. I climb into the middle row of seats, sliding in next to Wyatt, with Griffin and Ezra behind us. Ryan drives us away from the hotel, heading back to Newport Beach.
“You okay this morning, sweet thing?” Wyatt asks, bumping my knee with his as I buckle up. I smile at his new nickname for me. It’s cute.
“Yeah, I’m good. I think you guys all drank way more than I did. I stopped early before I got really drunk and made bad decisions.” I crack a smile at him, which is rewarded with his adorable dimples.
“I was looking for you. I wanted to dance some more, but when I found the guys, they said you’d left. Maybe we can do a little more dancing sometime.”
The hungry look in his eyes is enough to make me turn away from the intensity and promise of things to come. I can’t get involved with Wyatt, as much as his interest thrills me and makes me think about the possibilities.
A kick to our seat sends me forward into the seat belt, an unladylike umph slipping past my lips. “Hey! That hurt.” I straighten and glare behind us at Ezra and Griffin. Ezra immediately points to Griffin, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is staring out the window as if he didn’t just Sparta kick us.
“Don’t be mad, bro. I’ll let you dance with her, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Why don’t you ask Shelby what she wants, Wyatt? She seems to prefer it that way.” His stormy blue eyes find mine, reminding me that I crawled across his lap after uttering those words. Is he mad? Should he be ?
“You guys are ridiculous.” I face forward and pull out my phone, hoping to ignore them and be ignored in return. It seems to work.
I cruise through the shop’s social media channels, responding to comments and answering questions while chatter and jokes from the guys fly through the cabin of the SUV. We have received close to six hundred new followers across different platforms this week alone. I’m really hoping that translates into business for Paul and Ryan, but I know it’s good just to be getting the team name out there.
I laugh quietly when I get to a thread of comments on Facebook asking for more driving videos with me in them. Stuff like, “She’s so fucking hot!” and “More of her, please” escalate into much more sexual comments. “I’d like to drive her with my cock,” and “She’s got a mad case of DSL. I bet she would feel so good” are some of the tamer comments as the thread devolves into talking about my physical appearance. Yuck. It’s not the first time I’ve been told I have DSL—dick sucking lips—but it’s weird to see it blasted out into a public forum for anyone to see or comment on.
“What are you laughing at over there, sweetness?” Wyatt asks, peering over to look at my phone. I scroll up quickly to hide the offensive thread.
“Just the social media for the shop. I think we need more videos of you guys driving. Do you know if we will get copies or links to any of the coverage from the competition?”
“We will probably get tags and mentions over the next few days that we can share, but we don’t usually get anything sent to us directly to use,” Cole answers from the front seat. He’s looking a little green still, so I hope he turns back around and holds it together for the rest of the drive.
“Then let’s make some. Can we take the Nissan to Irvine Motorsport Park later today? I already have track time lined up, and it would be the perfect opportunity to get something filmed as well as practice and work out any tweaks to the tuning or suspension.”
“But poor Griff won’t get a chance to drive. That’s too bad man. It would have been cool to get a tandem going,” Wyatt jokes, but seems less than friendly in his banter.
I turn back to see how Griffin took it. Not well. He’s broody and sulking. Again.
“You can always take turns,” I offer, hoping that getting a chance to drive, even if it’s Wyatt’s car, will make him feel a little better.
Griffin turns his gaze to me, intense and dark blue. “I don’t like sharing. Or sloppy seconds.”
Well, hell. If that isn’t a comment with two meanings, I don’t know what is. Got it. Don’t hook up with Wyatt and expect Griffin to want me after. And don’t expect to be made into a drift racer sandwich anywhere but the dance floor. That one kind of sucks, because I had some awesome dreams last night that may or may not have stemmed from our dance sesh.
A girl can dream.
“Well, I guess you are going to miss out on some track fun then,” I tell him, turning back around in my seat. “You can watch from the sidelines like the rest of us.”