Page 16 of Hot Lap
The irony of this whole fucked-up situation isn't lost on him. He’s spent years playing it safe, keeping his personal life locked down tight, and giving Wyn as little as possible to report back to Graham. Rightly so, because twice now he’s let his guard down and twice that’s ended in an epic shunt.
First Peony and now Maiken.
Graham seizes any opportunity to undermine him and give Wyn an advantage. Every single time, without fail. "That's how you win," he's said so many times, Reece has come to hate those words.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Fuck,Maiken, what the hell have you done?”
Surprise number one was waking with a very handsome man leaning over me. Surprise number two was the impact of my forehead with his. “Ouch.” I gently touch the lump forming there.
Christ. Another bruise to cover.
I sigh. I’m in a rideshare on my way home to Henderson.
Surprise number two — wait, no, three (shit, hangovers make math hard) — was that absolute dick of a man storming in and taking a verbal dump on me.
Surprise number… four? — yes, four — is the massive fucking diamond ring on my finger.
I lower my hand to look at the huge sparkly stone. It flashes its knickers at me, and I realize this is why Reece asked what I remembered from last night.
Holy hell and a half. What kind of craptastic situation did I get shit-faced and stumble into?
Also? I can’t believe what an asswipe his father is.
“A dancer, a wedding ring, and an F1 champion walk into a bar…” I snort. “That’s so stupid.”
The driver stops in front of my apartment building, so I tip him and haul my ass outa the car. The gin hangover is still raging through my system like an angry bull, kicking the inside of my skull and making the world too bright and too loud.
"Never. Drinking. Again."
My apartment complex isn't much to look at — a collection of two-story stucco buildings from the '70s with exterior staircases and railings that have seen better decades. Its pink paint has faded to a sickly flesh hue under the relentless desert sun, and the landscaping consists mostly of rocks and a few cacti that look as baked as I feel. But it's affordable, and I know all my neighbors, which counts for a lot in a city where people come and go like casino chips. Plus my mom lives across the courtyard from me.
The concrete stairs radiate cold through my boots as I trudge up the outdoor staircase, each step sending jolts of pain through my skull. I slide my hand along the metal railing. It’s frigid in the desert morning chill, and somehow that small sensation triggers a flood of memories — Reece's warm fingers covering mine on that stupid Mario Kart wheel, cool condensation sliding down a glass, the weight of that thousand-dollar tip notification lighting up my phone.
God, he seemed so genuinely sweet. Nothing like the kind of guy who'd?—
"Maiken Lange?"
I freeze halfway up the stairs, jerking around to see a man I don't recognize standing at the bottom. The sudden movement makes me woozy, and that raging bull in my head kicks itself. Which I know makes no sense, but I’m really hungover, so a lot doesn’t quite make sense right now.
This guy’s in his thirties, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, and he’s holding up a small voice recorder. "Sorry to bother you, butare you Reece Pritchard's wife? Can you tell us how long you've been secretly dating?"
What. The. Fuck.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The words come out sharper than intended, adrenaline suddenly burning through my hangover fog.
"We have photos from the chapel last night." He pulls out his phone, his expression shifting from polite to predatory. "Just a few questions about your relationship with?—"
Nope. Nope-nope-nooope.
I sprint up the remaining stairs, heart hammering against my ribs. My keys jangle wildly in my trembling hands while footsteps pound on the stairs behind me. Finally, the lock turns. I throw myself inside and slam the door, deadbolt clicking and security chain rattling into place.
"Ms. Lange! Just a few minutes of your time!" His knocking turns to pounding. He jabs at the doorbell which, God bless my landlady, has been broken for years.
"Leave me alone or I'm calling the cops!" I sound braver than I feel as I back away from the door.
My phone buzzes in my purse. When I fish it out, the screen is a chaos of notifications — missed calls from unknown numbers, frantic texts from Delilah, Yasmine, and Eddie, and social media alerts popping up faster than zits on a fourteen-year-old boy.
