Page 11 of Retrograde
‘I think it’s for the best. We’ve got to do it all over again tomorrow, and I don’t want him to embarrass himself or do something he’ll regret on night one. Besides, I think Marco could do with getting himself to bed, too.’
‘Hey! Guys!’ Julien shouted ahead. ‘Gather round.’
‘Brett! Get back here!’ Bea put on an angry tone and beckoned him over.
‘I think we should call it a night,’ Julien said. ‘It’s already nearly three in the morning, and we wanted to go for pancakes for breakfast, remember?’
‘We’re in Vegas, Moretz. We can go for afternoon breakfast pancakes.’
‘Yeah, but Brett, you might not be tired but everyone else is.’
‘Yeah, we are.’ Faith faked a yawn.
‘Guys, come on! It’s my birthday.’ He used that as an excuse to get his way for about the eighth time tonight, except this time it was technically true.
‘Why don’t you and I go get some fried chicken,thengo back to the hotel,’ Lucie suggested.
‘Fine. Let’s go, Sunny, let these boring fuckers go to bed.’ He tugged her along hand in hand, leaving Lucie to give them a grateful wave. ‘Night, losers!’
She knew he would make her sit and eat half the menu, including fries dipped in milkshake, and they would be out for another two hours, but at least the drinking would stop. She would eat all the fried chicken in the world in one sitting if it kept Brett safe from his own stupidity.
5
Lucie had the taste of champagne on her tongue, and she still despised it. Pretending to like it was a full-time job at this point. She still couldn’t fathom how the drivers didn’t physically gag on camera during podium celebrations, because she still failed to hide her distaste most of the time.Surelythey didn’t like it. She was a wine, fruity cocktail or beer girl; preferably local to wherever she was visiting at the time. Anything else was for rich people.
So really, it made sense that racing drivers didn’t complain; they fell into the rich people category. Not that it was a bad thing. That circle of rich people consisted of her friends and co-workers, and she loved them all dearly, but she still had every right to judge their questionable taste in alcohol.
She swatted Brett’s hand away in disgust as he lifted the three-litre bottle to her lips again. The birthday boy wasn’t getting away with it this time, she’d had enough. In a sweaty, overpriced club on their second night in Las Vegas, she was desperate for a decent glass of red. Was a wine glass the most practical thing to take onto a dance floor? Perhaps not. Was she past the point of caring? Yes.
‘Live a little!’ Brett yelled in her ear.
‘I am living alot, sweetheart. Who was dancing on the bar an hour ago? Me or you?’
‘Don’tsweetheartme, Luce.’
‘I alwayssweetheartyou. It’s our thing,’ Lucie scowled up at him. She’d known this man since they were eighteen years old and not a single day had gone by where they didn’t call each other by a nickname. Admittedly, she’d used his a lot less in the last couple of years.
‘Yeah, and our thing cannot be a thing when I have alcohol in my system and there’s a hundred thousand dollars a night hotel room with my name on it.’ He looked at her with a fire in his eyes that she had seen a million times.
‘Oh, calm down, you think I’d let anything happen?’
‘You gave in two years ago.’ Brett nudged her arm gently, reminding her that as much as she had tried to extinguish the fire, it was always there. Burning slowly, waiting to be stoked. But Lucie would never be the one to stoke it, not again.
‘That was two years ago, Brett. We should move on!’ she shouted, as if to emphasise that she was done with the topic, and almost collapsed with relief when she saw their friends making a beeline for them through the crowd. Friends who were oblivious to their secret little rendezvous and found their flirting adorable.
Marco, puppy-like as he was, clung to Bea’s arm like he feared he would get swallowed up by the socialites and cougars of Las Vegas. To be fair to him, it was highly likely. The entire club knew who the boys were. Brett Anderson, Julien Moretz and Marco De Luca, three ofthe most famous racing drivers in the world, the men who made up Revolution Racing.
They had placed on the podium for every race since the team was formed eight years ago. For context, that was fifty-six races. Even their rivals couldn’t help but admire the talent coming from their garage, and women threw themselves at them. Like the leggy blonde gazing longingly at Brett from across the room, who Lucie knew more than likely had a shot if she timed her approach right.
Despite Lucie being aware of the woman, Brett was not. He was crossing into Lucie’s personal space, pulling her in close like he was protecting her from something. The only thing she needed protecting from was hormones: his and hers. She knew when Brett was after something, and as his lip hovered closer to her ear, she somehow knew what was coming.
‘You’re getting dangerously close, Anderson, and we promised we wouldn’t go there.’
‘I’m just fantasising.’ He was so nonchalant, so calm and collected. How could he act like there wouldn’t be consequences? He may not have been affected last time, but Lucie had been battling confusion from the very moment she had woken up next to his naked, albeit perfectly sculpted body.
‘Dare I ask?’
‘I’m just thinking about how I want to take you up to the penthouse suite and give you the kind of experience that requires you to sign an NDA in the morning. Relive our night in the Alps.’ Brett spoke in a murmuredtone, but she heard him loud and clear, even amongst the noise. Of course, it helped that he had pulled her into a quieter corner of the club, where there was a little less attention on them.
