Page 35 of Endurance

The only problem had been coming up with ways to avoid any sort of physical contact. He was everywhere I turned, and if I so much as brushed up against him, it was complete agony. My insides would begin twisting with desire, reminding me of what his hands had felt like on my body. He knew no boundaries. I couldn’t believe how a man I knew so little about had the power to possess me the way he did.

Recognizing my weaknesses, I was careful only to see him in public settings, not allowing him the opportunity to whisk me off into some kind of hidden broom closet where he could have his way with me again. It wasn’t that he didn’t try. I just made sure to be one step ahead of him since I clearly couldn’t keep my head around the man. I needed to regain my balance after being kissed senseless twice—and then some—within just thirty-six hours of meeting him. The easiest way for me to maintain focus was to bury myself in work. Sloan and my father’s firm were counting on me to concentrate on the job. Nobody would win if I lost sight of my priorities so early in the game.

Clicking out of my inbox, I pulled up the information for Drift, a professional racing school that I was hoping to get Sloan involved with. While I’d managed to keep him busy, his schedule was on the lighter side for the upcoming weeks. I didn’t want him to have too much free time on his hands, and I could only do so much with local charities to fill his calendar. Perhaps working as an instructor at the school would help fill the void racing left and help his reputation in the public eye.

Picking up my cellphone, I dialed the phone number for the operations manager listed on the website.

“Drift Racing School. This is Sheila. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Sheila. My name is Kalliope Benton Riley. I represent Sloan Atwood. I was wondering if I could speak with Joel Freidman, the operations manager.”

“Just one moment, please.”

After being placed on hold, I tapped a pink-painted nail on the edge of my laptop while I waited. A few minutes later, a gruff voice came on the other end of the line.

“This is Friedman.”

“Hello, Mr. Friedman. My name is Kalliope Benton Riley. I represent—”

“You can save your breath, darlin’. My secretary told me. Atwood, right?” he asked in a thick Southern accent.

“That’s right. I saw on your website that you’re looking for instructors. Is there a time when Mr. Atwood could come in to speak with you about that? Possibly an interview?”

Joel Friedman burst out laughing as if I’d just said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. After a moment, he coughed, then calmed himself enough to speak.

“Look, I don’t mean to laugh, but Atwood is the last person I want around these parts. You’re wasting your time.”

“But Mr. Friedman, if you’ll just—”

“Atwood is a drunk, and I won’t have my students put at risk. Not to mention, you’ve called the wrong school. Atwood isn’t a drift racer. He’s an open-wheel racer. I suggest you figure out the difference before you call around looking for jobs for him.”

While I knew there were different types of racing, my knowledge was limited and didn’t extend beyond what I’d seen inThe Fast and the Furious. I mentally kicked myself for not doing more research. I’d just assumed racing was racing. However, I should have known better than to assume anything in the PR business. Even still, I couldn’t stop the feelings of indignation—and not because I was upset over him pointing out my lack of knowledge. I was mad over what he’d said about Sloan.

“I can assure you, Mr. Friedman—Sloan is not a drunk. I’ve spent the past month with him, and he hasn’t had one ounce of alcohol. You can’t judge or assume things based on one mistake he made.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. I’ve seen those pictures of Atwood with the kids at the track in the newspaper. If you think a few photo ops with orphans are going to change what happened, you’re sadly mistaken. Blood is thicker than water, darlin’. There’s no changing that. His old man was deep into the bottle for years until it finally caught up to him. He was an arrogant SOB, too—thought the sun came up just to hear him crow. I imagine his son isn’t much different.”

I bristled, feeling thoroughly annoyed on Sloan’s behalf. While he still hadn’t opened up to me about his father or his feelings surrounding his own accident, I knew enough to know that Friedman’s harsh judgment wasn’t warranted.

“What Atwood senior did should have no bearing on Sloan’s character. While I can understand how he might not be a good fit as an instructor because his racing experience isn’t right for your school, it’s wrong to make a son suffer for the sins of his father.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s a chance I can’t afford to take. I appreciate the call, but I’m a busy man. Good luck to you. Bye now.”

“Mr. Friedman, wait—” The line went dead. “Ugh!”

Frustrated, I sat back in my chair and pinched the bridge of my nose. As Sloan’s PR agent, I knew I needed to push him to tell me about his father so I could have a prepared response in situations like this. However, the more I got to know Sloan personally, the more I hesitated to confront him about it. It just seemed too personal—like an invasion of privacy—and I felt it would be better for him to tell me when he was ready.

My stomach rumbled, and I glanced at the time. It was nearing two o’clock, and I’d skipped lunch. Pushing the laptop to the side, I decided it was time to take a break and get something to eat. I walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and scanned the contents. Deciding on a spinach salad, I pulled out all of the fixings. After I finished layering the greens with walnuts, mandarin oranges, and feta cheese, I went back to the table with the bowl, intent on making it a working lunch.

As I ate, I returned to focusing on the job at hand. Next to me on the table was a copy of a newspaper from a small local press. On the front page, Sloan’s face was all smiles in a picture captured outside The House with Eli and Marcus. He really was handsome, with his dark hair and blues eyes—eyes that made me feel like he could see right through me. He was sporting day-old stubble on his face when the picture was taken, adding to his sexy, rugged appearance.

We had been there for a barbeque—a last-minute invitation from Rylee at Eli’s request. The press hadn’t been notified, but there was always someone around with a cell phone camera waiting to catch an image of a famous race car driver. In this case, it was a neighbor. I was just as shocked as Sloan was at seeing his picture in the paper the following morning. Alongside the picture was a glowing article titled, “When Kindness is Winning.”

Positive PR was always good—and when it was organic, it was even better.

Sloan was a natural with the boys, and I found myself thinking about the conversation I’d had with Joel Friedman. Friedman had been too punitive with his judgment. Sloan may have screwed up when he relied on alcohol and pills to cope, but it didn’t have to define him. Perhaps if he used his experience for good, people might view him differently. That thought brought an entirely new idea to mind—one that had me pushing away my salad and tackling the keyboard once more.

* * *

---