Page 77 of Hot Lap
"Good."
He gathers the readouts and his clothes, shoving everything into his bag.
The rhythmic sounds of the paddock continue outside. Teams breaking down equipment, media wrapping final segments, the distant hum of generators powering down.
Ona passes him his helmet bag. "The mechanics are running a betting pool in the garage."
Reece slings it over his shoulder, then zips his smaller bag. "On what?"
"On whether Maiken shows up tomorrow." She leans back against the door, which means she’s not ready to let him leave. "Misho put fifty on yes."
"They're betting on my personal life now?"
“Hmm. Nothing's sacred."
"Did you join?"
Ona looks right at him, straight-faced as ever. "If she doesn't show, you owe me a hundred quid."
Reece snorts.
"Stop wrestling with yourself." Her voice is low and forceful. "You're not broken, Reece Pritchard. You're just feeling something real for once. This isn't the performative bullshit you had with Peony."
He blinks.
Ona's right. That's why this is hitting him so differently. HechoseMaiken and now remembers that Peony was Graham's selection. There'd never been any spark between him and his exbecause she'd been brought to him like a pair of shoes or a new suit. She looked good on his arm. She had the right labels and price tag.
Peony had been "acceptable."
Maiken is not. According to Graham and a lot of other assholes.
But for Reece? She'sperfect.
The overhead lights flicker as the circuit powers down for the night.
He nods. "I'm bringing her to the track tomorrow."
Ona smiles and opens the door. "Finally, he pulls his head out of his ass."
Reece laughs, but he's not feeling the humor. He's too busy worrying that Maiken will be too angry to say yes when he asks.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The womanin the mirror is not Maiken Lange.
She’s Mai-Lan Rouge — lacquered, lethal, and absolutely done playing by anyone else’s rules.
The Cherry Bomb corset fits like a threat, blood-red satin structured to sin above the skimpiest red thong known to mankind. Jet-black garters and silk stockings follow. The stilettos are five-inch inky bitches and make no apology for it.
Hair: curled, pinned, sprayed into submission.
Eyes: Midnight winged liner, lashes for days. Where there’s smoke, there’sfire.
Lips: red so sharp it reads like a warning label.
This kind of stage makeup takes time. Two full hours. I didn’t rush because somewhere along the way, this message stopped being just for Reece.
This Cherry Bomb is for the motherfuckingrecord.
