“You’re having sex with Thomas.”
Sam wasn’t asking for a definition. “I…” Was this thing with Thomas secret? “Um…” They probably should’ve talked about that. “Uh…” Especially since every moment Sam stalls, he’s practically confirming it. “No?”
“Things are not good?”
After today, Sam’s not sure about the answer to that question either, so he shoves another piece of steak in his mouth instead of replying.
“I see.” There’s pity in Lucas’s voice. “These things are hard to navigate, especially when there are feelings involved.”
“It’s just sex.”
Whelp, there’s the confirmation.
“Sure.” Lucas shrugs and turns his attention back to his mush. “If it’s just sex, make sure that’s clearly communicated. To both of you. You don’t want to fall on the wrong side of that.”
“Yeah.”
It really is just physical between Sam and Thomas.
Only, the line gets a little blurred when it’s Sam and Fake-Lucas—or when it’s Fake-Rafael and Thomas.
Then the line practically disappears after Thomas comes and he’s just soThomasthat there’s absolutely no doubt as to who Sam is fucking. How are they supposed to navigate that kind of relationship?
The first step might be to stop talking about it with one of the men in question.
Lucas pays and takes the rest of the bottle of red. Once they’re outside, he asks, “Want to head back to the hotel?”
This time, it sounds more like “Would you like to share a ride?” instead of “Come up to my room and finish this bottle with me.”
How could Sam be such an idiot? “Nah, I have a club invite with my name on it.”
It also has stupid Rafael’s name on it. He opens up the group chat and copies the address for his driver, shooting Ezra a text and a basic plan for the night.
“Be safe,” Lucas says.
After years of wishing Lucas cared about him, about his safety, Sam can only shrug the comment off. “You too.”
“I am not the one planning to get blackout drunk.”
“I never plan on it, it just happens.”
Lucas laughs as Wayne pulls up to the curb. “Enjoy your youth!”
“Only seven years,” is Sam’s pitiful reply.
What Sam needs, more than anything, is to drink. Not room temperature red wine, he needs something cold. Something to wake him up out of whatever funk he’s in even though hewonthe French GP.
The amount of people screaming his name from the GA line helps usher Sam through the door without dipping into his wallet.
He’s led behind ropes and up the stairs until he spots Owain and says, “I’ve got it from here.”
“Sam!” It’s still relatively early, but the Welshman is already swaying. “Mannn…You gotta let the rest of us win some time!”
It’s only his second win of the year, but Sam’s not going to rub it in the face of someone who’s never won a race before. “You gotta get a better car.”
“Fuck man, Iknowww.” Owain hooks an arm around Sam’s neck and drags him over to the couch area. “But McLean is like, myblood. I bleed peach.”
“You should get that checked.”
