Page 120 of Hot Lap
The sweet scent of fuel is stronger here, mixed with the ozone smell of electrical systems running hot. Somewhere nearby, the explosivepssshht-chunksound of a wheel jack echoes off concrete.
Graham smiles, and it's the same expression he wore when he used to pit them against each other as kids — who could lap the karting track faster, who could memorize more technical data, who could earn Daddy's approval. “Getting involved with someone who’ll burn everything down just to be seen.”
Someone?
That’s it.
Something snaps in Reece, probably his self-control. Anger becomes protective fury, white-hot and immediate. Every moment Maiken has spent doubting herself because of this man's games crystallizes into pure rage. "If you want to discuss my wife, have the fucking bollocks to say her name. Otherwise, we're done here,old man."
His father lifts a hand like he’s trying to appear unbothered. “I’m simply saying your choices come with consequences. Public ones.”
"Right. You're a minor stakeholder in one team and a guest everywhere else. Maybe act like it."
Graham's eyes narrow, and for a moment the only sounds are the distant whine of engines and the rhythmic thump of someone hammering metal. “You’ll regret pushing me, Reece.”
For most of Reece’s life, Graham made that kind of threat sound like paternal concern. This time he’s not bothering with the pretense.
Good. Reece prefers his enemies honest
“No. I regret not doing it sooner.”
“And I regret being within earshot of this conversation.” Wyn steps between them as a mechanic walks past pushing a cart of tires. "Let it go before someone shoves a mic in your face."
Reece steps back because Wyn’s right, the cameras are always close. And Graham’s poison thrives in public.
“See you on the grid, little brother.” Reece walks away.
Graham stays silent, but he’ll be back. He always comes back, like a cockroach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I’m curledup on one of the hospitality couches, one leg tucked under me, carefully stitching a tiny blue feather to the velvet cuff of my gown. It’s peaceful in here, cool and quiet, removed from the chaos humming through the paddock outside.
When Reece walks in, I look up. “There’s my favorite husband.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day, sinks into the seat beside me, and lets his head fall back.
I run my fingers through his dark hair. “Rough meeting?”
“The day was fine until Graham showed up.”
“Ugh. Did you throw him into traffic?”
That gets me a hard smile. “Thought about it.”
There are more team personnel and visitors in the hospitality unit now, so I squeeze his arm instead of kissing him. “That’s restraint. I’m proud of you.”
His smile softens, then disappears. “He went after Wyn too. Made some crack about his setup for the weekend.”
I frown. “What the hell? He’s like, what? A teeny-tiny owner of WolfBett? He’s not supposed to play armchair strategist, right?”
“Exactly.” Reece makes a face like he’s just tasted shit. “It’s like he can’t stand watching us make decisions he doesn’t control.”
One of the Nitro hospitality staff appears with a plate for each of us. Roasted lemon chicken, grilled vegetables, and something that looks like couscous. Reece nudges the grain to the side like it’s offended him personally.
I raise an eyebrow. “Eat it or I’ll rat you out to Ona.”
“Do that and I’ll hide your pasties tape.”
