9. Wilder
Adrenaline pulses through me, as I ignore the shouts of my name and step down from the podium.
The cameras are still flashing, multiple questions being called out to my back, but I ignore it all.
I can see my dad moving to try and get my attention, but I just shake my head and keep on walking.
I should be happy, I should be on fucking cloud nine in fact, considering the results I just pulled against some of the greatest racers in the world, but all I feel is rage.
At them, my brother, myself, all of it burning inside of me without a fucking outlet to release it.
I don’t stop to even look at anyone, let alone say anything, not halting until I am practically kicking open the door of my dressing room and slamming it behind me.
My fist hits the wall so fast that I don’t even see him, the pain ricocheting up my arm, in a welcome relief that is stolen far too soon.
Prescott startles from looking down at his camera, snapping his eyes up just in time to catch my meltdown, and it only makes me feel worse.
For fuck’s sake, why can’t I escape him?
Ever since we arrived in London he has been everywhere, all the time.
From crashing my early morning workouts, to lunch with the guys, meetings with my dad, and every damn second in between.
If he isn’t following me around with his phone or one of his cameras, then he is strategizing with Laura and my team about content, or laughing with my friends.
Friends who apparently think the sun shines out of his goddamn pretty boy ass, and can’t get enough of him, even though he is a stuck up prick.
I know Knox and Beck went to school with him, but they made it seem like they barely knew him, and I know they never hung out.
So I’m not sure why they are all of sudden acting like they are long lost besties, and don’t even get me started on Matteo.
I saw the gleam in his eye when they were first introduced, like a lion hunting down his next piece of prey, and for some reason the idea of them together pissed me off.
Not that I care who either of them fuck, they are free to do whatever or whoever they want, as long as I’m not in the middle of it.
All in all the guy just irritates me, and I’m not in the mood to spend the next four months with him following me around.
“The fuck do you want, Lamont?” I ask, rolling my shoulders, my hands itching to grab a cigarette, but I know Jess might actually kill me if she sees me, so it will have to wait until later when I’m alone.
“Sorry, I was just hoping to get an exclusive quote.” I can tell he is cringing internally, and I can’t help but sigh, shaking my head.
My dad has been singing his praises since he started, and my socials have been popping off so much since his first post that I’ve had to turn off my notifications. I get he has a job to do, but can’t he do it somewhere else, preferably away from me?
“And I’m guessing me telling you to get fucked doesn’t count?” I snap, examining my hand where one of my knuckles is now slightly bleeding, and he huffs a laugh, as if he is somehow used to my moods already.
“I’m not sure even I could spin that to make you look good,” he muses, shuffling around behind me, and I roll my eyes in response.
“You know you shouldn’t let them get to you.
” His voice is suddenly closer to me, and before I can stop him, he is reaching for my hand and lifting it toward him to examine the damage.
It’s the closest we have been to one another since the night we have avoided talking about, and I fight the urge to grab him and bend him over again.
That would probably dull the irritation and panic now burning inside of me, yet for some reason his proximity calms my racing heart.
His fingers prod along my knuckles, the sting nowhere near as prominent as the desire now curling in my stomach, and it pisses me the fuck off.
So much so that it puts me on edge, and I snap my hand from his grip.
“Oh yeah? And what do you know about it? Have you ever had to watch someone you love disappear?” I don’t intend for my tone to hold so much malice, but it can’t be helped because I know he’s right.
I shouldn’t let them get to me, they aren’t important, but they also shouldn’t be asking about my fucking brother on the biggest weekend of my career.
Is it too much to ask for it to just be about me for once?
That the press can just shut the fuck up and take notice of my skill alone, and not my last name?
If I didn’t know better, I’d be cursing Jason to hell right now, but I guess Caden already did that for me.
I prepare myself for an onslaught of questions about him again, but instead, Prescott’s tone is soft, as he replies, “I watch myself disappear every time I look in the mirror.” His eyes widen when he realizes what he’s just said, but it’s too late to take it back now.
It doesn’t take a genius to understand what he means, not when I have had a glimpse of the side of him he keeps hidden.
I wish I could say I understood why he is so guarded, that I get why he puts on this bullshit persona, but truly I don’t.
Being gay, or bi, or whatever the fuck label he wants to identify as, isn’t something he can just change with his clothes, it’s who he is, and denying it won’t change that.
“But isn’t that your choice?” I turn and perch myself on the edge of the table, giving him my full attention and watching his eyes crinkle in confusion.
“You’re the one who insists on whatever kind of shield you think this is.
” I gesture in his general direction, and for the first time in days I see his personality shut down completely.
Gone is his seemingly carefree and determined stare, his easy smile, and in its place is something much smaller, and I instantly hate it.
“Interesting assessment, considering you can barely handle a few questions from some irrelevant reporters, without resorting to violence,” he snaps back, his armor now firmly in place, and I mildly wonder how often he has to use it.
It isn’t just as simple as his whole ‘my friends call me Reed’, I have come to understand very quickly that there are two sides to him.
There is Prescott Lamont IV, who lives for his family or more so his family name and the expectations that come with it, and Reed, who lives for himself.
The two of them couldn’t be more different if he tried, and yet I find both of them intriguing.
I know from experience what it’s like to put on a persona.
To the world I am only seen as Cooper Miles’s son.
Something he knows gets to me, since he just saw me lose it, but still I can’t help but resort to my usual tactics.
“Sometimes violence is necessary,” I purr, pushing off the table and moving until I can crowd him into it. “I didn’t see you complaining at least,” I taunt, remembering how pretty his moans were as I was pounding into him roughly from behind.
“My father runs on that same logic,” he retorts, tipping his head back so he can keep holding my stare, the blue shade of his eyes so bright it’s like a pool of clean ocean water.
“Maybe that’s why I seek out things that are bad for me.
” He’s so stoic and serious when he talks, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and messing him up.
We’re so close now I can feel his warm breath fanning against my lips, and suddenly my heartbeat is erratic again. “Is that what I am? Bad for you?” I dare to ask, openly enticing him now, but his smile doesn’t return.
“You aren’t anything to me,” he replies coolly, and I can’t help but laugh, my hand reaching to grip his chin in a firm hold.
“I thought I already told you that I don’t like pretty boy bullshitters, Prescott." I ensure to fully enunciate his name with the sole goal of pissing him off, but a knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Then why are you flirting with me?”
I open my mouth to respond, when there is a firm knock at my door that I would recognize anywhere, and I watch his eyes widen in panic, before he shoves me away firmly.
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head at the idea of him being caught so close to me, before I hide my hand behind my back, just in time for my dad to slip his head past the threshold of the door.
“Jess said to come get you, so you can fuel up before your training session and team practice,” he starts, before taking in the presence of his most recent hire. “Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were working.”
I ensure my smirk is firmly in place before I say, “It’s okay, Lamont doesn’t need anything else from me, isn’t that right?”
Prescott only nods, irritation pouring from him in waves, but my dad is too focused on work to notice. “Well come on then, let's move.” He’s gone quicker than he came, and I follow after him, if only to get away from the suffocating heat of this dressing room.
“What about my quote?” Prescott calls out after me, and I smirk, as I turn around and walk backwards to meet his stare.
“I’m sure you can come up with something, Lamont, you’re very resourceful from what I recall.” Then I leave without looking back.
By the time I make it to grab some food, Jess already has me a plate ready, and I throw myself down beside Matteo to quickly wolf it down.
“Here he is, mi pequeno salvaje,” Matteo beams. My little Wild.
“There is nothing little about me,” I snap back in Spanish, only making his smile wider, before I switch back to English and add, “As you well know.”
“You’ve been practicing.” He nods his head, looking impressed that I have been working on my Spanish, but I ignore him and quickly start to eat, knowing we haven’t got long.
Then, like Prescott, he reaches out and presses his fingers against my knuckles.
“Fighting those losing battles again, mi amigo?” he questions, frowning slightly, and I quickly hide my hand beneath the table.
“I don’t need another lecture, I have enough on my plate,” I confirm in Spanish, and he cocks his head to the side, just as Prescott enters to grab himself some food too.
I can’t stop myself from tracking his movements, as he floats around the room conversing with everyone easily, despite being out of his comfort zone.
He stands out amongst everyone else in his stupid slacks and crisp white shirt, and part of me wants to mess it up with some engine oil to stop him from looking so serious.
When I bring my eyes back to the table, Matteo is watching me with a smirk. “Your plate is very full I see,” he muses in Spanish, and before I can kick him under the table, he is shouting across the room to the new thorn in my side. “Mi pequeno artista, come join us.”
I almost break my jaw from grinding my teeth so hard, because why is he inviting him to eat with us? And more importantly, why is he calling him his little artist? I crane my neck, trying to loosen some of the tension in my shoulders, as Prescott approaches us with an easy smile back in place.
“Matt,” he nods his head at him first, ignoring me completely. “Good race today.”
At that I can’t help but snort considering I know Matt is pissed I beat him, earning an exaggerated glare from my friend, before he focuses back on our table mate. “No one likes a liar, mi querido amigo,” he says in response, making Prescott frown.
“Querido?” he questions, testing out the unfamiliar word on his tongue, and I hate how good he makes it sound.
“Darling,” Matteo confirms. “You don’t speak Spanish?”
Prescott shakes his head. “No, I speak three languages, but Spanish isn’t one of them.” I refrain from rolling my eyes again, because of course the elite Prescott Lamont IV speaks three fucking languages.
“Maybe I could teach you,” Matteo purrs, his flirting coming out in full force, as he leans on one of his hands and stares at him.
“I have been teaching Wild for almost two years now, and I’m a great teacher, aren’t I, mi amor?
” he flicks his stare to me, the innuendo clear to anyone, and my jaw grinds once more.
“You’re something alright,” I mutter, snapping my focus back to my food, ignoring his chuckle.
Then I am forced to listen to them talk back and forth, bonding over people they know and shared interests, until I feel like taking my fork and jamming it into my neck. Thankfully, it isn’t long until my dad and Laura are coming to usher me away.
I don’t see Prescott for the rest of the day, but I can’t stop myself from checking what he has posted the second I get into bed in my hotel room.
I barely recognize my feed at first, it looks so neat and organized, a mixture of perfectly polished photos and neatly edited videos, that make me look even better than normal.
For someone with no prior experience in the PRI world, he has already captured it perfectly.
There’s videos of me working out with the guys, speaking with my pit crew, zooming round the track during formation, and then both of my finishes.
I hate that I’m impressed, and I hate even more that the photos he took are even better.
I not only look professional, but he’s showing fans a side I never would, with a long and clearly thought out caption that runs through the process of the day.
However, it’s the last post on my feed that captures my attention. It features a photo of me smirking on the press court podium, with a ranking of mine and my family's PRI timings collaged along the bottom.
The caption is only three words…
To broken records.
Damn that clever asshole.