10. Reed
After his first two race weekends Wilder’s name is everywhere, and as his PR assistant that should sound like a positive thing, but unfortunately everything the press is saying about him isn’t good.
Sure, there are some kind articles about his family background and upbringing, and a whole overview of his time at The Academy.
There are even articles about how he’s the rookie to watch with them citing some of his younger stats, but that’s not the only thing they are digging up.
In fact, the headlines only get worse every time I refresh my computer screen.
RECKLESS ROOKIE FINALLY SWAPS PARTIES FOR PIT STOPS
WILDER MILES: TALENTED LEGACY OR OUT OF CONTROL?
NEPO BABY OR PROBLEM CHILD?
I stare at the flood of articles long after everyone has gone to bed, wondering what the hell I have gotten myself into.
We arrived in Madrid yesterday, and even though Wilder did well during his first two weekends on the circuit, it’s his behavior that is pulling focus.
He drives fast, terrifyingly fast, in a way that almost gives me a heart attack, but he also drives like the rules don’t apply to him.
After his skills race in London, he shoved a microphone away from him when he was once again asked about his brother.
Then in Lisbon, he almost got into a fistfight outside the garage, after some dick called him a nepo baby with no skill.
Hard to spin and still make him look good? Absolutely.
So when grainy photos of him getting head in the back of a car surface from a few months ago, I curse him all the way to hell.
Yet somehow, despite all of that, the fans can’t stop talking about him.
His comments and DMs are flooded with fire emojis and filthy requests, and the amount of thirst traps that are circulating should be illegal honestly.
Like how many times am I going to have to see him strip out of the top of his racing suit when he climbs out of his car?
My phone vibrates on the hotel desk once more, and I drop my head back against the chair and groan.
It’s been non-stop emails since we left Lisbon, all of them requesting interviews, statements, or inquiring what our team plans are to address his “escalating behavior”.
Mr. Miles was quick to respond to the photos, slamming them for an invasion of privacy of his son's sexuality, and also reported the racer who was goading him in the garage.
Three weeks ago, the only thing I had to worry about when it came to Wilder Miles, was how big his cock felt in my ass.
Now I have to spend my days following him around and trying to make him look less like a moody asshole, while also praying he remembers he has in fact had media training.
Mix that with the fact he acts like my mere presence is a personal vendetta against him, and well, it’s safe to say I’m exhausted.
Still, it’s been nice reconnecting with Knox and Beck, and getting to know Matteo a little more.
The four of us have eaten out a few times, done a couple of touristy things, and even worked out together.
It makes me wish I was hired by one of their managers instead, at least then I wouldn’t be existing in a hostile work environment.
When my phone vibrates again, I push back from the desk instantly, no longer in the mood to contain the flames of the inferno that is Wilder Miles.
Instead, I get changed and head down to the pool, hoping a midnight swim will relax me enough to sleep.
Unfortunately for me, the bane of my existence is already sitting in the hot tub.
I practically throw daggers at him with my stare, as I make my way to the opposite end of the room and get into the pool.
I feel his eyes on me as I swim lengths back and forth, not once giving him the satisfaction of my attention.
He gets that enough, so I keep my focus on myself and the pool.
The water laps over me like a second skin, and I can feel my muscles loosen with every lap.
I used to swim every morning before school, and then most mornings during college too.
It was a good workout alongside lacrosse, and always helped me relax.
It wasn't great when I had bruises to hide, but during those times I would just switch to late night swims like this instead. Back then it wasn’t just my body that it helped, but my mind too, and right now I let myself slip back into that subconscious.
By the time I’m done, I climb out to find Wilder sitting back on one of the loungers, still watching me and looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I can’t hide the scoff that leaves me, completely aimed in his direction, and his stupid, dumb smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“And what’s up with the pretty posh boy this evening?” His voice is both smooth and amused, and as usual, his expression is completely unbothered.
“I’m still dealing with shit thanks to you threatening that reporter,” I snap, reaching for my towel so I can dry myself off, ignoring how I can feel his stare on me.
“Please,” Wilder scoffs in refute, bringing both his arms up behind his head. “I barely moved his microphone.”
At that I glare. “You told him you hoped his camera died, then told him to go die too.”
A wider grin tugs at his mouth now, but still he shrugs. “He said I was driving unsafe and that I wasn’t ready for the league.”
“You told another report he should suck a dick and go watch golf instead.”
“That one asked about Jason,” he says defensively. “And besides, that was funny and you know it.”
I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath, telling myself that drowning him in the pool behind me wouldn’t be good for anyone.
Because the thing is, despite him and all his bullshit, I know it’s only an act.
Behind his careless attitude and arrogance, there is raw talent, and I know he truly cares about racing.
And for some insane reason, the PRI fans and sponsors are starting to care about him too.
Everything about him is magnetic, and whether the press hate him, or the fans love him, it doesn’t matter, because they’re all still talking about him.
He’s still watching me, no doubt cataloging every minuscule second of my internal breakdown, and when I open my eyes he is smiling. “Are you ready to quit yet?”
I almost snap yes, the urge to tell him to go fuck himself, far too strong, but then I remember why I’m here, what my career is worth to me, so I fit him with another glare. “You’re definitely making me work for it.”
His smile widens, his gaze now appraising me from head to toe, before he drawls, “Well you know how I like to make you work for it.”
I shake my head, more than used to his heavy charm, not bothering to respond, because I know he thrives on it all.
Not the bad press, but the way the entire league is already focused on him, and not for his last name, but his talent.
The last thing he needs is someone else hanging off his every word, so instead I focus on drying myself off.
Wilder still watches me keenly, and when I am almost done, he leans up into a seated position. “You know what your problem is, Lamont?”
His question almost makes me laugh, I’m sure this will be enlightening. “Go on, Miles, why don’t you tell me.”
He pushes to his feet and moves toward me. “You care too much about what people think and say,” he tells me casually, and I scoff once more.
“You do realize that it is quite literally my job to care about that stuff,” I tell him sternly, grabbing the stuff I dumped earlier and making my way to the exit.
Of course he follows me, like the pain in the ass he is. “Yeah, but why? Most of the people saying all that bullshit would kill to be either one of us.”
I hate the way he reminds me of my father right now, he always says that the people below us are always looking up to us, and that we should give them something to strive for, but never reach.
It’s been ingrained in me for as long as I can remember, to care exactly what people think of me, how they perceive me, what they are saying.
Hell, it’s probably why I subconsciously chose to work in PR in the first place.
Yes, I enjoy it and it gives me some sense of freedom, but it’s also second nature.
Except that second nature wasn’t born from passion, no it was spawned from the need to survive in the house I once called home.
It came from nightly arguments so loud I thought it was the end of my parents' marriage, only to wake up the next morning and have them eat breakfast together like nothing happened. It came from crying so hard it gave me a headache after my father used a slur to intentionally hurt my feelings, and from covering bruises when the words weren’t enough to cause me pain.
If anyone ever got close enough to me, if I ever let them, there isn’t one part of them that would truly want to trade places with me. If anything I’d kill to trade places with them. Maybe then I could be free and not care what anyone thinks of me.
“That doesn’t make it a good thing,” I tell him quietly, walking toward the elevator, and he shrugs.
“No, but it makes for good TV.” He winks, jabbing his finger into the button, as we both come to a stop side by side.
I guess from his perspective he sees things differently.
Bad press is still press, and as a racer with a legacy name and talent like his, it doesn’t matter either way.
I’m sure everything he does is intentional, every rude comment, every arrogant interview answer, all of them orchestrated to keep his name in people’s mouths.
Not a bad tactic considering all the questions about his brother, and it’s only now I understand him a little more.
“At least stop antagonizing the media,” I plead, as the elevator doors finally open. “And your dad, and the other drivers, and me, and literally anyone else with a camera for that matter.”
Wilder tilts his head as he follows me inside. “But it’s very entertaining for me,” he states matter of factly, and I have to resist another groan.
“Then find something else to entertain you,” I snap, pressing the button for our floor.
“Is that an offer?” he muses, and I shake my head, ignoring his obvious innuendo.
“Just stop making my daily life a nightmare.”
He’s still watching me carefully, but his tone is softer when he responds, “Why? We both know you’re good at handling them.”
I’m caught off guard by the sudden shift that is almost close enough to being a compliment, like he actually does respect me and what I’m doing.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth before lifting again, and heat crawls uncomfortably up the back of my neck.
Suddenly we’re back on that balcony, and the tension from that night is swirling all around us.
I’m almost sure he’s as good at that as he is at racing, because he has a way of making every interaction feel deeper somehow.
It’s like everything is a challenge to him, and he is just desperate to see how far he can go before someone pushes back.
In my experience so far, most people back down from him instantly, but I’m a Lamont, and Lamonts never lose when it comes to a duel.
“I’ve added a sponsor dinner to your schedule for tomorrow night,” I start, changing the subject, pulling the details up on my phone so I can forward him the email.
“I’ve arranged for another brand to send over some suits tomorrow, pick one and wear it,” I demand.
“Matt will be going with you, so play nice and act like a functioning member of society, so for once my job isn’t a hellscape.
” We reach our floor and both step off, and Wilder doesn’t say anything as he turns to walk to his room.
“And try not to threaten anyone else,” I call out, making him pause and turn around.
“What if they deserve it?”
I roll my eyes, turning to walk away myself. “We both know they probably will, but let’s keep it civilized anyway.”
My response earns me a laugh, it’s low and rough and far too attractive, but I ignore the pulse it sends through me and head to my room.
“What happens if I behave?” he calls out to my back, and I pause, not brave enough to turn around. “Do I get a reward?” At his second question, I turn to find him smirking at me.
“You get sponsors, and I get to keep my job,” I tell him flatly, and he laughs again.
“Tough crowd.”
“I thought you liked it like that?” I clap back, and his eyes hold mine for a long second, the teasing smile fading into something more focused and dangerous, so I quickly turn away. “Now go to bed, Miles, I doubt even you could get in trouble there.”
I’m at my door letting myself in when he shouts one more thing.
“Now we both know that isn’t true, Lamont.”
Yes, we do.
Because Wilder Miles is trouble, with a capital T.