Sam waves his shirt at them, hoping nobody asks for a picture, but their phones are out and up, pointing to him within seconds.
He laughs because of course. Ofcoursethere are people here to record one of the worst moments of his life. He wouldn’t be Sam Campbell if he was ever given a single moment of peace.
He pulls his shirt back over his still-sticky torso and shoves his feet back into his shoes before taking selfies with the fans. Once they are satiated, he ducks into the stairwell.
With each heavy footfall that echoes in the still chamber, he replays the conversation with Thomas. With each replay, he grows angrier and angrier about what just happened.
Why do people always try to tell him how he feels? Why do they think he’s some musclebound, small-cockedidiotwho can’t think for himself?
Sam doesn’t need Thomas, he doesn’t even need Lucas. He can drag Red Boar to the front of the pack all by himself. Not only that, but he can have sex any time he wants.
Actually, clubbing sounds great. Clubbing sounds like the perfect way to celebrate his race win.
Because he’s the one who won the fucking race. He was the best driver on the track today. He’s not a nobody, he’s SammyfuckingSmiles.
Owain hasn’t sent an address to their chat, so Sam shoots him a text before jumping in the shower. A nice, warm shower helps. The water drags all of those stupid emotions down the drain alongside the sticky champagne residue.
Yes,champagne. Who gives flying fuck what the French think? They’re always fuckin’ wrong.
He can drink whatever wine he wants with his cock steak.
Sam calls Ezra for a ride to the club, and Owain meets himoutside, dragging him up and over to where the group is sitting, near the DJ.
Throughout all of his disgruntled mumblings and confidence-building pep talks to himself, Sam forgot to factor in that fuckingRafaelmight be there.
He splays out in the middle of the couch, covered in scantily dressed women. He has no idea the love of Sam’s life chose him. No idea Thomas is alone in that stupidly large hotel room, asking men to fuck him and calling out the wrong name, hoping one day Rafael will choose him back.
Fuck, Sam’s such an idiot.
“Sammy!” A few of the girls squeal with excitement and make room for him on the couch. They’re attractive enough, but right now Sam needs alcohol more than he needs another hole who will only let him down.
He’s several shots and a cup of brown liquor closer to his goal of forgetting about Thomas when Rafael leans around some girl and into Sam’s space. “Come with me.”
“No, thank you.” They have nothing in common anymore, so they have nothing to talk about. If Sam walks away with Rafael, things won’t end well.
“Let’s talk.”
“¡No, gracias!”
Obviously Rafael isn’t used to hearing no in any language. He sits back, but continues to glare at Sam over the top of a blonde woman who can’t move her eyebrows.
That’s okay, there are more girls on Sam’s other side. “You said you have a dog?” he asks a brunette, just for something to talk about.
“I actually have two.”
“Fascinating.”
Rafael’s voice is closer when he says, “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere right now?”
Sam turns, but the buffer of the Botox Blonde has left. Rafael’s too close for his comfort. “It’s none of your business where I am.”
“It’s Ferraro’s business.” Rafael’s face turns up into an ugly sneer. Thomaslikesthis fuckhead? “And if it’s Ferraro’s business, then it’s my business.”
“Righto.” Sam can’t listen to this right now. He pushes himself up, off the couch, and walks away, hopefully in the direction of a bar. They have their own waitresses, but sometimes it’s better just to leave the table.
Sam can tell Rafael’s following him. He should’ve guessed that would happen, but it still pisses him off.
“Hey.” When Rafael catches up, he grabs Sam’s shoulder. “I was talking to you.”
