“You wanted me to send you pictures?”
I’d never sent nudes in my life. My relationship with Jordan had been a decaffeinated latte with a double shot of vanilla.
“I want you to send me words. Texts.”
I knew those words. They flowed. Semantically, they made sense.
But did I believe them from his mouth?
“And I want you to tell me why you were sick.”
He rolled his neck again and started to walk, but I grabbed his arm and tugged him back.
“What’s going on with you?”
“I ate something bad. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to need to shit too.”
My hand slipped from his leathers.
What a fucking asshole.
I watched him walk away, trying to keep my breath even, giving him enough time to walk ahead so hopefully I wouldn’t see that fucker again.
Not until I’d have to translate for him the next day.
Even if he didn’t win, he was fresh meat, so the producers already had a small segment ready for him. I was meant to talk to him about it today with Livie, but there was no way now.
* * *
I went to my Nana’s house, not far from the Southern France Alvaro Mendes Track, where my dad grew up. My real one. The one that raised me.
There were no‘half-sister’or‘step-sister’labels in our household. There was my family, the Bacques, and then there was Imre. He was a semen donor.
A quitter.
A cheater.
And nothing to me.
Whereas I just needed a hug from my dad.
And five cheese boards to myself.
I didn’t tell him about Imre being there because I knew he’d give that look — the narrowed eyes, the wrinkles growing over his forehead, the tight lip. And he’d leave theroom to make some calls to get Imre out of StormSprint.
People were begging to please Cris Bacque, the previous director of the strongest performing team in StormSprint history.
And all I wanted was a cuddle.
If Everly hadn’t arrived a few hours after for our family dinner, I would have asked to stay the night, but I knew that would ring alarm bells because I was havingthe best time everin my new job, finishing my degree, and living with my friends.
Back in our villa, I got comfy on the sofa, armed with a tub of ice cream, and searched through the social media of the MotoBike team Zoltán and Imre used to work for.
I swiped through their recent posts announcing his replacement and then the last year, when Zoltán had been in rehab awaiting his medical clearance.
There.
Zoltán had lost a significant amount of muscle since the crash. His previous leathers must have been at least two sizes up from what he was in. I wasn’t sure which version I preferred, the one that looked like a caveman willing to fuck me in that primitive way, or the lean, cocky, muscular abs I wanted to lick and weren’t quite as intimidating.
