11. Wilder
My results in the first few weeks of the PRI season are completely unheard of, especially for a rookie.
I dominate the track among more experienced racers, break more of my family’s records, and gain more followers and attention than I ever thought possible, but there is just one little problem.
Prescott Reed Lamont IV is a thorn in my fucking side.
We went from London to Lisbon, to Madrid, and have now just landed in Milan, and no matter where we go or what I do, I can’t fucking shake the insufferable, posh asshole.
I’ve tried everything. Been too nice, been too rude, hot, cold, you name it, and he puts up with it all.
And worse than that? Everyone else fucking loves him.
My dad can’t stop fawning over his work, Laura and Jess now both follow him on social media, and don’t even get me started on the guys.
Knox and Beck are now posting daily ‘get ready with me’ videos, and Matt is treating him like his new best friend.
They go running together daily whenever we settle at a new hotel, hunt down museums and art galleries, and drag the other two to whatever upscale fancy restaurant they can find.
His presence is mind-numbingly irritating, and only I seem to be afflicted by it.
Right now he is sitting across from me, with his ocean blue stare fixed out of the window, taking in the scenery as our plane comes to a stop on the tarmac.
Knox and Beckett are both restless beside us, talking about how excited they are to have the weekend off next week, but my focus remains on Prescott.
His blond hair has grown slightly in the last few weeks, and he’s not styling it as sleekly as he was, making it look similar to the way it was that night on the balcony.
It’s still missing that baby blue shade that brought out his eyes so perfectly, but still, the resemblance has me remembering things I shouldn’t.
Like how perfectly he took my cock.
When his stare finally flicks to mine, he smiles.
It’s the same smile he always gives me, practiced, polite, completely and utterly fake.
I hate that smile almost as much as the prim and proper outfits he forces himself to wear.
Today it’s a white linen shirt and cream pants, with some sort of fancy shoes that probably cost a ridiculous amount of money.
I’m sure Matt will love them, and tell him how perfectly put together he looks.
I, however, can only think about how much better he would look if he were all messed up.
I think about the cropped shirt he wore that first night, that showcased his perfectly lean stomach.
The silver chain that danced around his waist and teased along the ridge of his abs.
How his painted nails looked wrapped around my length, as he sucked my cock into his polite little mouth.
Fuck, that was almost as good as the red marks I left on his creamy skin, and the way he moaned my name.
My dick hardens at the memory like a fucking traitor, and I crack my neck, trying to ease some of the tension now burning through me.
I’m not pining after him, no matter what my dick thinks, that would be ridiculous.
I don’t do that, not ever. I fuck whoever I want, whenever I want, and Prescott Reed Lamont the fucking IV is not fucking special.
“Have you been to Milan before?” Prescott asks, cutting into my inner thoughts, his tone perfectly friendly, and I resist the urge to tell him to fuck off.
“No.”
When I don’t elaborate, his practiced smile turns into more of a realistic smirk, like he has become used to my prickish ways, which only annoys me more.
Does he think that just because we have spent every day of the last three weeks together, that it means he knows me?
Because he doesn’t, but I know him, which means I know he will just continue on with the conversation like the practiced posh boy he is.
“It’s beautiful, especially in the summer,” he replies with ease, and I can only imagine how many times he has been here.
“Maybe you could go sightseeing with me and Matt. I've got a list of places I want to go that I haven’t managed to do in the past.” I’m not sure what irritates me more, the invite, or the fact he is referring to him and my friend Matt as Matt and me.
Pretentious dick.
The plane has come to a standstill now and Knox and Beckett have already stood up, shuffling toward the door that the crew is opening.
My father is on the phone and no one else is paying us any attention, so I lean forward and keep my sarcastic smirk in place.
“Or maybe I could do what I came here to do, win a race and then get drunk and lose myself in an irrelevant body,” I tell him firmly, before pulling back and moving to get up, not expecting him to respond.
“That is your favorite pastime, right?” Prescott snaps back, surprising me completely. “I can always reach out to some friends and find you a local weed dealer,” he adds dismissively, as if he is trying to insult me, and my lips curl into a smile involuntarily.
Fuck, I detest him and his self-righteous attitude.
“Only if he can also find me a blue-haired slut who likes to be fucked roughly.” I toss back with a wink, and I relish in the way his jaw hardens.
Snatching up his bag, he pushes out of the chair, forgetting his polished ways as he shakes his head at me. “You know you’re the most infuriating person I have ever met,” he snaps, again like he thinks it will bother me, before shoving to his feet with a glare.
“Thank you.”
Another scoff leaves him, and I can’t help but enjoy the sight of him getting ruffled, especially when I know I’m the reason.
It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, plus I already know how fun his other side is.
It has me smiling as we deplane and make our way through the private terminal, but the second we get out of it, we are swarmed by paparazzi all shouting our names.
“Miles, do you think the Milan track will get the better of you?”
“Walker, how’s that left turn?”
“Ford, are you sick of your friends making it to the top twelve without you?”
Question after bullshit question, as a hoard of fans join them in trying to get to us, some of them screaming my name, and I’m not sure where to look.
My father is by my side in an instant, shouting into his phone to only God knows who, as he starts shoving us in the direction of three black SUVs.
Much to my dismay, I get pushed toward the front one, with Prescott being shoved in hot on my heels, and I groan inwardly as he slumps into the back seat right beside me.
My father doesn’t even put himself in the car before he slams the door shut and smacks the back, signaling for the driver to speed away from the crowd.
The two of us crane our necks to look back, watching as my dad does the same to Knox and Beck, before they disappear out of sight.
I shake my head slightly at the crazy scene we just experienced, still trying to make sense of it all.
I mean, I know things have been gearing up the last couple of weeks as the PRI season really gets going, but I still feel out of my league.
I have taken on the races no problem, my skill isn’t an issue.
Well, maybe it is for the other racers, but not for me.
No, it’s everything else that has come along with it.
When I was back at The Academy I still had a shield around me, not anonymity, but still a level of being unknown.
Now everything is different. People all over the world who watch the PRI league now know my name, videos of my races are going viral on all platforms, and more sponsors reach out every week with new deals.
It was already insane to accept all of that, but having fans and press waiting for us at the airport like that was on another level entirely.
“And to think I thought it was bad showing up to a party in the city with my family,” Prescott huffs, brushing invisible dirt off his outfit. “That was insane, they were so pushy.”
I don’t bother reminding him that he falls into the same category as them, considering he has been the first to report on all my races, and instead move my focus out to the window. I can feel his burning glower at my ignorance, but I’m too tired to care right now.
What a shame he doesn’t get the hint.
“So, what’s the deal with Milan?” he asks, not picking up on the fact that I don’t want to talk to him, and I turn my head to glare at him.
“I’ve heard it’s especially nice in the summer,” I reply sarcastically.
“No, I meant the track, you dick,” he snaps back before he can stop himself, surprising us both.
“Hmm, I’d say I didn’t know your posh mouth could be so dirty, but we both know that’s a lie.” His face begins to flush, and my eyes track the red tint as it travels up from his neck.
“Sorry, no, I mean,” he stammers, struggling to find his words, and I wonder if he’s ever been rude to anyone other than me before, without his precious manners taking over.
Taking pity on him, I sigh. “Milan is the track to beat. It’s notorious for being difficult.
Thin lanes, sharp turns, it’s the hardest track on the entire circuit.
A lot of crashes happen there, and someone even died once,” I tell him, making his already shocked stare widen even further.
I guess it is pretty shocking to learn about, if you don’t already know.
“Not that it will matter,” I continue. “I could drive it with my cock out of my damn window and the press would still probably ask about my stupid brother.”
Prescott is quiet for a moment, and I prepare myself for the reporter in him to ask where my brother is, but instead he says, “Why do they care so much about him? I mean, no offense, but clearly you're the sibling with talent, I have never even heard of him.”