Page 8 of Hot Lap
"Good plan." I really do appreciate his show of responsibility. "The guy can drop you back at your hotel afterward."
Twenty minutes later, we're parking outside my apartment complex in Henderson. It’s nothing fancy, for sure, just a collection of rectangular buildings with a scummy pool in the center that won’t get cleaned until next spring. I leave my car in my assigned spot.
Reece has already ordered our ride on his phone, so I run my costume up to my apartment then dash back down and slide into the back of the pristine white SUV that’s pulled to the curb.
He gives our driver a generous tip upfront. "We're doing a little Vegas tour tonight. Mind sticking with us for a few hours?"
Our driver — Hector, according to his profile — grins. "For that kind of money? I'm all yours, man."
I take us first to The Wash Up, a speakeasy hidden behind a false wall in a laundromat. The bouncer recognizes me from the occasional shows I’ve done here and lets us skip the line.Inside, it's all dim lighting, leather booths, and bartenders in suspenders crafting elaborate pre-Prohibition cocktails.
"First stop on the Maiken Lange Tour of Hidden Vegas." We slide into a booth. "What's your poison, Reece? I’m buying this round."
He tips his chin. "Whiskey."
We order — whiskey and water for him, a French 75 for me, becausechampagne, of course— and clink glasses when they arrive.
"To new acquaintances," he says, all proper and formal.
I lean in. "To escaping Junior Betterton and his coked-up entitlement."
Reece gives a big nod. "I'll drink to that." He swirls the whiskey, inhales its aroma, then takes a sip. "How many stops are on this tour?"
"As many as you can handle, champ. I figure we've got until sunrise before you turn back into a famous race car driver."
He arches a brow. "Not famous enough for you to recognize, apparently."
I shrug. "I don't follow sports. Too busy working to pay my bills."
"Fair enough." He leans back, relaxing into the booth. "So what else do you do when you're not dazzling audiences at The Golden Oyster?"
"I sew. A lot. I read. Not as much as I’d like. I teach little children how to point their toes and housewives how to shake their booties." I shimmy in the booth, then take another sip of my drink as he laughs. "What about you? When you're not risking your life on racetracks, what do you do for fun?"
"I'm usually training and doing team PR. The driving is just the visible part. It's a full program: fitness regime, simulator work, endless meetings. Quite knackering, actually." He tracesthe rim of his glass with one finger. "But when I get free time, I surf. No phone, no sponsors, just water."
"Really? That's cool."
"Natural fit, growing up with summers in L.A." He shrugs one shoulder. "My mother's place is just over the hill from Malibu. Good breaks there."
"A man who surfs." I drop my chin and look at him. "Sexy."
He laughs. "Been called worse things in the paddock." He holds my gaze, and there's that spark again, that invisible current running between us.
Two drinks in and there’s a pleasant warmth spreading through my body. Reece looks more relaxed too, his smile coming easier, his posture less controlled.
"So your mom lives in L.A.?"
“She does. Graham divorced her when we were boys. He proper fucked her over. It took me a while to realize that.” He looks down and there’s that vulnerability I spied back at the diner.
“Well, you were a kid, right?”
"Yeah. Hard not to feel rubbish about it, though. Graham fed us this narrative that she was mentally unstable, a shitty mother, the whole bit. Total bollocks. Few years back, I started working with a sports psychologist, addressed some of my own stuff. I reached out to Mum after that." His fingers tap the table like he's counting those years. "Best decision I ever made. No question."
“Sports psychologist?”
“Yeah. I had performance anxiety.”
“Wow.”
