Page 18 of Hot Lap
You know that's not what happened.
The thing is, I don't know. I barely remember parts of last night, but I do remember his father barging in, the look of disgust on his face when he saw me, and how satisfied Reece sounded when he called me hiswife.
I rub my wrist absently and wince at the deep bruises from that Junior dude. I also recall how Reece stepped in, and how he looked when he warned that asshole to back off. There was genuine protectiveness there, and rage.
My phone buzzes with another text from Reece, this one with an attachment. I open it to see a photo of a marriage license.
It's real. It has both our signatures. We're actually married.
“Fuck me.”
Let me send someone to get you out of there. You need space to breathe and think.
Stay the fuck away from me.
As I send that, I’m peering through the blinds again. The crowd has grown to at least a dozen people. Someone is interviewing my downstairs neighbor, Anushka, who's standing there in a pink silk bathrobe, velvet slippers, and full-drama makeup. The retired showgirl looks thrilled by the attention, gesturing dramatically as if she's back on stage.
Normally, I find it endearing how she never leaves the house without false eyelashes and perfect contouring, even when she's just heading to the casino to chain smoke and play Keno all day, but right now I'm mortified that she's probably telling them all about helping me sew rhinestones on my pasties.
This is insane. I can't stay here, but I also can't trust Reece. Especially not after that encounter with his father. But... shit. Shit! I'm trapped and I fucking hate this feeling.
I'm used to having all eyes on me — hell, I get paid for it — but that's different. When I'm on stage,Icontrol everything: thelights, the music, what I reveal and what I keep hidden.Idecide when to make eye contact and when to look away.Idictate every interaction between the audience and me. I’m the one telling the joke.
This? It makesmethe joke. I've gone from commanding attention to being cornered by it. These people aren't admirers anticipating my next move; they're predators devouring whatever scraps of my life they can get. They don't care about my art or my performance. They just want to know if I'm pregnant with an F1 champion's baby or if I'm some gold-digging slut who trapped him during a drunken binge.
The thought makes my stomach churn worse than the hangover. That churning builds as another knock comes at my door and more texts chime my phone. I make a break for the bathroom. Bile rushing up my throat, I barely reach the tub in time to puke up last night’s dinner and a shit-ton of booze.
"Ungh." I spit the last of it out. "So gross." My voice echoes hollowly against the porcelain. I fuckinghatebarfing.
The knocking at my front door continues, distant but relentless, like my own personal horror movie soundtrack. Mother-fucking media zombies trying to eat my braaaain.
When I’m done heaving, I rinse my mouth and the tub, then stumble into the kitchen on spaghetti legs. I down a glass of water and chug some Pepto. Chalky, minty, eww, but better than puke and stomach acid.
My phone buzzes on the counter with another text from Reece. God, he’s persistent.
Maiken? C’mon. I got you into this. Let me help you out of it. Zero strings attached.
I chew my lip, but the knocking and messages continue, and I can’t fucking think straight.
Fine, but this doesn't mean I forgive you.
I don't expect you to. Not yet.
How are you gonna get me out of this bullshit?
Just trust me for five more minutes. Pack whatever you need for a few days. Help is on the way.
I'm about to ask what the hell that means when there's a commotion outside. I peep through the blinds again and see the crowd of reporters suddenly opening a path. A petite woman with waves of dark hair and a perfectly tailored cream-colored pantsuit is marching up the stairs. She carries herself like someone twice her size, and the look on her face could freeze hell.
"Ms. Lange?" Her voice cuts through my closed front door with crisp authority and a thick Spanish accent. "Branca Flores. I work for Reece."
I crack open the door, security chain still in place. She doesn't look like a reporter, but I'm not taking chances.
"Let me see some ID."
Without missing a beat, she holds up a business card and an ID badge with some Formula 1 team logo. "I'm his manager. I'm here to get you out of this situation."
I hesitate, then unchain the door. She slips inside quickly, immediately assessing my apartment with sharp brown eyes. She's in her mid-forties with an elegant wavy bob, impeccable makeup, and the kind of “mom” energy that means she can shut down a room of rowdy kids with just one raised eyebrow and, apparently, stun the paparazzi into silence.
