Page 17 of Hot Lap
How the—? Who the—? What the actual fuck is happening?
I creep to the window and carefully part the blinds. My stomach plummets to my feet. The lone reporter has multiplied into a swarm — three, no, four men with cameras, circling like vultures. A chick with TV anchorwoman hair is setting up a microphone, her movements precise. Behind her, a news van with a satellite dish parks at the curb, its logo screaming a local station’s letters.
"Holy shit."
I’m trapped.
My phone rings again. The caller ID says it’s another local news station. I decline the call and check my social media notifications. My accounts are still blowing up with messages and tags.
"Formula 1 champion Reece Pritchard weds Vegas stripper in surprise ceremony"
"BREAKING: PNW Nitro’s Pritchard married in Vegas drive-thru chapel"
"Who is Mai-Lan Rouge? Meet Reece Pritchard's secret burlesque bride"
That last one accompanies a photo of us at the chapel. I’m laughing with that giant diamond on my finger while Reece stands opposite me, holding my hands, and a really shitty Elvis impersonator belts out a song behind us. We look deliriously happy and completely wasted.
I sigh. If Hector took this pic and sold it, I should be pissed, but fair play. He probably made enough to pay off his car. That's on our sorry drunk butts.
The knocking turns aggressive. Voices multiply outside.
"Maiken, are you pregnant? Is that why the rushed ceremony?"
"How did you and Reece meet?"
"Does your family know about the marriage?"
Shit. Fuck. Piss.
Hands shaking, I try texting my mom, though I know it's useless. Frankie's working her shift at the prison, and she won't see my messages for hours. She might as well be in another country right now for all she can help me.
I look around my one-bedroom apartment. No way out.
Pounding at the door sends my heart racing. My phone buzzes simultaneously.Christ.Why is the universe ganging upon me? This is such evil bullshit considering how hungover I am. When I glance at the newest text, I pause.
RP11:
Mai, RU OK?
The architect of my misery is checking in? I glare at the message, fury building inside me like air in a balloon and, fuckity-fuck-me, I’m close to poppin’ off.
I'm gonna kill Reece Pritchard. I'm gonna drive back to the Wynn and choke him with his own testicles.
Except underneath the rage is something else — a tiny, traitorous flicker of relief that he gives a flying fuck about what’s happening to me. I squash that feeling immediately. This ishisfault.
I text back:
FUCK OFF
I get that you're cross. I can explain everything. People found out faster than I expected.
Which means he’s seeing all this shit unfold on social media too. Ugh. I want to hate him so much, but deep down I don’t. Which pisses me off even more.
Expected? You KNEW this would happen??
Not like this.
Was this all just to piss off daddy? Use the drunk stripper for your little rebellion?
