Chapter 24
Las Vegas Grand Prix
Cam found out Scott was in Vegas through a fucking gossip account.
A gossip account.
Cam stared at the post on his phone. The paddock around him buzzed with noise and movement. Mechanics wheeled equipment through the garage. Engineers discussed setup changes. Someone was laughing loudly nearby.
Cam heard none of it. All he could see was Scott’s face. Seven photographs. The first showed Scott stepping out of a black SUV, sunglasses pushed into his hair and a paddock pass hanging around his neck. The second showed him laughing at something. The third showed him waving at someone off-camera.
The fourth—
The fourth showed Scott standing beside a tall, dark-haired man. Nico Laurent. Apparently.
Cam stared at the picture.
The resemblance wasn’t exact. Laurent’s face was narrower. His features were softer. His posture lacked the instinctive confidence that years of elite sport had drilled into Cam.
But from a distance… Cam could see it.
And it irritated him to no end. This had to be fake. The guy wasn’t Scott’s type at all.
Maybe his type has changed, a nasty voice said at the back of his mind. Or do you think he liked only your dick and can’t like anyone else’s?
Something hot and ugly twisted in Cam’s chest.
He clicked on another picture.
Scott and Laurent walking side by side. Scotty smiling at him. Laurent touching Scott’s lower back while they talked.
Cam exited the app so abruptly he nearly dropped his phone.
For a moment he simply stood there, trying and failing to identify what exactly was making him so furious.
It wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be. That would be insane.
And Laurent wasn’t actually Scott’s boyfriend.
Probably. Almost certainly. Scott was likely just helping clean up the mess Cam had dragged him into.
The thought should have made him grateful, but it only made him want to punch something.
His phone buzzed, and Cam looked down.
A message from his PR manager.
Alice: Good. This is exactly what we needed. Social sentiment is already shifting. The resemblance is convincing enough that people are questioning the article.
Cam stared at the text. Then he locked his phone without replying.
Good. Right. This was good.
His gaze drifted toward the paddock entrance.
Scott was here, in the paddock. For the first time in weeks. Close enough that Cam could find him and see him and touch him in less than ten minutes.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. It had been more than a month. More than a month without hearing Scotty’s warm laugh in person. More than a month of dry texts and unanswered messages and wondering whether Scott still gave a fuck.
And now he was here. Actually here. Close enough to touch.
Cam’s pulse kicked up.
His first instinct was immediate and overwhelming. Find him. Talk to him. Ask him why he hadn’t told him he was coming. Ask him who the fuck Nico Laurent was and why he was putting his dirty paws all over Scotty’s body.
Cam scrubbed a hand over his face.
Jesus Christ.
He sounded like an unhinged caveman.
***
Cam texted Scott after Free Practice 1.
He knew he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t afford distractions right now.
Not this weekend, of all weekends. There were only three races left in the season, three races standing between him and a third world championship.
Hunter was breathing down his neck in the Ferrari, the championship gap shrinking race by race.
One bad weekend, one mistake, one moment of lost concentration, and everything Cam had spent an entire year building could disappear.
But instead of focusing on tire degradation data and sector times, Cam was sitting alone in the back of the garage staring at Scott’s contact information.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him all day.
Scott was here. The knowledge had followed him everywhere: out on track, in debrief meetings while reviewing telemetry.
Scott was here. Somewhere in the paddock.
A few hundred meters away at most. Close enough that Cam could walk over and see him whenever he wanted.
Except he couldn’t. Or maybe he could. That was the problem. His team had made their recommendations. They’d warned him about optics and appearances and media scrutiny. But they couldn’t physically stop him.
Cam rubbed a hand over his face.
The sensible thing would be to leave it alone. Scott was here with someone else. Scott hadn’t even bothered to text him and tell him he was coming.
His gaze drifted to his phone again.
The last message in their chat was from him. Four days ago. No response. Before that, another one. And another.
You watching Singapore?
Nice suit in those photos.
How’s New York?
Each one had eventually received a short reply hours later. Or a thumbs-up reaction. Or nothing at all.
It made something twist unpleasantly in Cam’s stomach. A few months ago Scott would have replied immediately. A few months ago Scott would have called him. A few months ago—
Cam stopped himself.
This was ridiculous. He was thirty years old. A two-time world champion. One of the most successful drivers on the grid. He shouldn’t be sitting here staring at a text conversation like a teenager nursing his first crush.
The thought irritated him enough that he opened the chat. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting words.
Hey.
No, too pathetic.
Saw you’re in Vegas.
No, that was worse.
Who’s Nico?
Absolutely not.
Cam dropped his head back against the chair and exhaled sharply.
For fuck’s sake.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he typed:
Didn’t know you were coming to Vegas.
He stared at the message. It was simple. Neutral enough. His thumb hovered over the send button before finally pressing it decisively. Enough.
Cam locked the phone and shoved it face-down onto the table. Immediately he wanted to check it again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.
One of the engineers glanced over. “Everything okay?”
Cam forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Fine.”
The engineer returned to his laptop.
Cam stared at the telemetry screen in front of him. Rows of numbers blurred together.
His phone remained silent.
And despite everything—the championship fight, the pressure, the millions of people watching, the career he was supposed to be protecting—all he could think about was whether Scott had seen the message yet.
Or whether he was busy with someone else.
***
To Cam’s growing irritation, his phone was all he could think about during Free Practice 2.
The session itself was a blur. He hit his marks, he gave feedback, he adjusted brake bias and chased balance issues and discussed tire temperatures over the radio. But his concentration felt fractured, split between the car and the device sitting inside the garage.
Every time he drove past the pit wall, he caught himself wondering whether Scott had replied.
By the final run, he was actively counting down the laps. The moment the checkered flag fell, Cam was heading to the pit lane.
The car rolled into the garage. Before it had even stopped completely, Cam was undoing his belts. He barely had the patience to pull himself out of the cockpit. His helmet came off, then the balaclava, then his gloves—he practically ripped them off and headed straight toward his assistant. “Phone.”
She blinked before handing it over. “Cam, you’re due in the media pen in ten minutes.”
Irritation flared, but of course he was due in the media pen. Everyone wanted a piece of him—sponsors, journalists, engineers, fans—everyone except the one person he actually wanted to see.
Cam gave a curt nod and unlocked his phone. A message waited at the top of the screen.
Scott: I figured it was a good idea to let everyone see there’s nothing between us and that I’m seeing someone else.
Cam went completely still.
For a second, all the noise around him seemed to disappear.
Nothing between us. Seeing someone else.
His eyes locked on those words, his pulse thudding heavily in his ears.
Nothing in the message suggested Scott’s relationship with Nico Laurent wasn’t real. Nothing suggested this was merely a cover story. No. This had to be part of the plan. A publicity stunt. Damage control. The alternative made something ugly and insane twist inside his chest.
Before he could think better of it, his thumbs were already moving.
Cam: I need to see you.
Scott was online. He’d seen the message, but he didn’t reply.
One minute passed, then another.
The tight, ugly knot in his stomach grew with every second.
Finally the screen lit up.
Scott: I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should focus on the championship.
Cam’s jaw clenched.
Cam: Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll come.
This time the answer arrived quickly.
Scott: Don’t.
A pause.
Then another message.
Scott: I’m sharing a room with Nico.
Until now Cam had always assumed the expression seeing red was metaphorical. Apparently it wasn’t. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, tinting red.
Sharing a room.
With Nico.
Logically, there were dozens of explanations. Vegas hotels were expensive. Friends shared rooms all the time. The arrangement was probably intentional, part of the cover story. None of those thoughts helped.
Cam typed before common sense could intervene.
Cam: Come to my room instead.
Cam: Resorts World. Room 411.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Cam found himself staring at the dots with embarrassing intensity.
Come on.
Finally, the reply arrived.
Scott: We shouldn’t be seen together.
Another message followed immediately.
Scott: It’s not good for your career.
Cam glared at the screen.
His career. Always his bloody career.
His fingers moved sharply across the keyboard.
Cam: I don’t give a fuck.
Cam: Come to my room.
A long pause followed.
Long enough that Cam checked to make sure the message had actually been sent.
Then:
Scott: When?
The knot in Cam’s chest loosened slightly, his heart starting to beat faster.
Cam: Two hours. I have media obligations and team debrief first.
A few seconds later:
Scott: OK.
Cam stared at the message.
Just that.
OK.
There was no smiley face or teasing comment.
No champ or babe. No ridiculous kissing emoji that used to make Cam roll his eyes every single time.
For months Scott had flirted shamelessly just to annoy him, sending stupid heart emojis, calling him pretty and handsome, and making outrageous comments whenever Cam posted a photo.
Cam had always pretended he found it annoying and childish.
Now the absence of it felt like a physical thing. A silence where noise should have been.
He found himself scrolling upward through old messages. From months ago. A sea of hearts and jokes and relentless affection. Back when Scott had apparently thought Cam was worth them.
“Cam?”
He looked up.
One of the press officers was standing nearby. “The journalists are waiting for you.”
For a second Cam just stared at her blankly. The journalists. The championship. The race weekend. The things that were supposed to matter.
He locked his phone. “Right.”
But as he followed the press officer out of the garage, all he could think about was a single message sitting in his inbox.
OK.
Christ.
He was losing his fucking mind.