11. Wilder #2
At that I can’t help but bite back another smirk at his offhanded compliment, that he probably didn’t even realize he just gave.
“He was on track to be an early draft pick for the NFL before his injury. After that he sort of started a pity party online, and was making a name for himself as an influencer.”
“Like me?” Prescott asks in surprise, and I scoff.
“No, definitely not like you. My brother is an unimaginative dick,” I reply too quickly, and this time it’s his turn to smile, still blushing under my stare, and I roll my eyes before focusing back out of the window.
He’s right, Milan is beautiful, but it’s weird being here with him.
I mean he’s essentially a one night stand, someone I fucked and thought I would never see again.
I never exactly envisioned him being stuck with me for four months when I had him bent over that balcony, smacking his perfect ass.
Now I’m forced to remember that night every time his blue eyes collide with mine.
I try to think about the race, not wanting to admit out loud how intimidating I find the Milan track, but it’s like he has direct access to my thoughts.
“Well, just try not to put too much pressure on yourself this weekend,” he tells me softly, and it’s the kind of thing I wish I could hear from my dad, instead of the mounting pressure and expectation.
It stirs a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I force it away before it can take form. “Why? You don’t think I can do it?” I don’t know why, but for some reason, the thought of him not thinking I can do it gets to me more than it should.
Prescott shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he starts, but I just shrug.
“Now I’m going to win it just to prove you wrong,” I tell him firmly, and his answering smile is far too attractive.
“Well you do owe me one.”
“Since when?”
“Since I got your dad off your back,” he tells me matter of factly, reminding me of the conversation we had back on that first weekend in London.
“Oh, is that right?” I ask, enjoying flirting with him more than I should, especially when he isn’t backing down.
“Don’t tell me the infamous Wilder Miles skips out on his debts,” he drawls, his posh accent going straight to my dick.
“Big talk when you of all people know how fast I can go,” I purr, letting the innuendo hang in the air between us, and the ocean of his eyes darkens into a storm I want to chase.
“I do have plenty of footage to back that up,” he breathes, and if he doesn’t stop looking at me like that, I’ll fuck him right here in the back of this SUV, driver be damned.
“Not the speed I was talking about,” I grunt, turning toward him slightly, and delighting when he does the same.
“I know,” he whispers, licking his lips, and my eyes drop down to follow the movement.
We didn’t kiss that night, I was too busy getting my cock into his mouth, but now his polite little mouth looks far too tempting.
I open my own to give him one last warning, when my phone blares between us, startling him completely and shredding the moment between us. Sighing, I lean back in my seat so I can dig my phone out of my pocket, not surprised in the slightest to find my dad’s name flashing across it.
“Yeah?” I answer, eyes still locked on Prescott, who now has the most delicious shade of pink staining his cheeks.
My dad mumbles something about checking in and asking if we’re okay, telling me he got all the team secured and that he’s called ahead to the hotel to make sure it’s clear.
He also tells me to warn Matteo as his flight should be landing soon, and I offer responses where he needs them, never dropping Prescott’s stare.
By the time I end the call, the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, and I have no shame in leaning back into him, only this time it’s his phone that interrupts us.
It’s already in his lap, since it barely ever leaves his hand, and when my eyes drop down, I spy a new text message on the screen.
Eloise - Did you land yet babe?
That’s all it takes to make the moment between us dissipate, as I remember how fucking complicated his life is. I have enough of my own shit, I certainly don’t need to be getting caught up in his.
“You should answer that, you wouldn't want to leave your fake girlfriend waiting,” I smile, before slumping away from him and pushing my focus back out of the window.
We don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
By the time Sunday rolls around my nerves are shot to shit.
I’m no stranger to complicated tracks, not after my time at The Academy, but Milan is different.
It’s deadly, and the second I climbed behind the wheel yesterday I could feel it in the air.
My engine hums loud and impatient beneath me, gearing up and ready to be unleashed once more, not concerned with the obstacles that await us.
I came 6th in the first qualifier and 5th in the second, putting me in an excellent position, and it should make me feel better.
I should take comfort in it, but the familiarity, and coming in the top twelve, didn’t help me.
Not when I know this track gives no mercy and holds no room for mistakes.
A mistake couldn’t just lose me the race, it could lose me my life.
So I go over every sharp corner, every steep cliff, and every braking point that I instilled in myself the last two days, praying that it’s enough.
My dad and Sid are in my ear talking me through my final checks, but I barely hear a word, already knowing what they will have to say. No, the outside world is just noise now, and I focus on the only thing that matters. Me and my car.
My heartbeat is heavy inside of my chest, so I take a slow, deep breath in, holding it there, before releasing it slowly.
I let my stare trail over the checkered flag that stirs in the wind, before lifting to focus on the lights overhead, waiting for them to go from red, to orange, to green.
Here I’m not the son of Cooper Miles, I’m not the brother of Jason Miles, I’m not even Wilder Miles, the race car driver.
Instead, I am one with the machine beneath me, and we have only one goal in mind.
To win.
The lights flicker, getting ready to change, and I feel a perfect moment of serenity, as every bit of chaos I possess turns into nothing but complete control.
Three. Red Light.
Two. Orange Light.
One. Green Light.
My foot slams down so hard that my tires scream, the screech a welcome noise, as my car rushes forward so fast that it feels like gravity has released its hold on me.
There is no thinking, only instinct, as I propel myself past the starting line as quickly as I possibly can.
Cars surge on either side of me instantly, taking up space the track doesn’t have to spare.
We all want the same thing and I know it will be a fight to our almost death.
The first turn approaches fast, I took it too sharply every time yesterday, but now I don’t let myself hesitate.
My foot lifts, my car screaming in protest, as I swing round the bend with a precision that surprises even me.
I don’t let myself savor it, I keep going, not losing focus for even a second, anticipating every inch of my first lap with absolute certainty.
And that’s all it takes to build the momentum I need.
I stay calm and in control, focused only on the track before me and nothing more, until time is flying as fast as I am.
I barely remember each lap, my pit stops, or any of the words being yelled in my ear, because they aren’t the ones driving, I am.
Adrenaline pulses through me in waves, the rumbling of my engine soothing something inside the darkness of my soul until nothing else matters.
Everything after that is a blur.
By the time the finish line rushes toward me, I don’t even register where I am.
The vision of a checkered pattern hurtling toward me quicker than I can even fathom.
My hands tighten around the wheel, ignoring the screams in my ear at the impossible reality of what could happen in the next ten seconds.
Even when my car shoots past it and the crowd erupts louder than ever before, I still can’t help but laugh in disbelief, because there is no fucking way.
There is no way I made it, no way I survived, no way I fucking did what I said I would.
Yet the screams in my ear tell an entirely different story.
I did it.
I fucking won.