Page 11 of Off the Grid

She pursued.

I reacted.

We had fun. The fun ended. I moved on.

Apparently, he hasn’t, because it’s the same shit, different presser.

I chuckle and the smirk on my face is pure fuck you back at him. “Did you have a real question, Flanders?”

“You pushed the car too hard,” he says. “You take too many risks.”

And your girlfriend gives great blow jobs. Especially how she does that little twist of her hand and flick of her tongue.

I raise my eyebrows in response as several people in the room shift uncomfortably, clearly sensing there’s more going on here than just a simple question and answer exchange.

And how can they not think differently when the fucker’s been on my arse for the past few pressers with bullshit like this?

“I’d think that not having a clear head and being focused on things other than racing might do that to you,” he continues.

My smile returns and it’s fucking arctic. “I take my job and those who have invested time and money in me very seriously. The only opinions that matter to me are the owners, my team, and the fans. Yours is irrelevant. If you’re trying to make a name for yourself, do it on someone else’s back.”

I stand from my seat next to my fellow drivers, stare into the darkness at wherever the fucker is sitting, and grin. Then I walk out of the room, only catching a glimpse of Fontina giving me the look. The one every racer knows that means their PR minder will have to do some clean-up for them.

“What?” I ask as we walk down the hall, her short legs struggling to keep up with mine.

“If you have to ask me, what, then you already know,” she says.

“The guy’s a prat. He has it out for me. You know it. I know it. And I’m pretty sure the whole goddamn fan base knows by how he keeps coming after me.”

“It appears that way, but the press is still our friend,” she says and pats me on the shoulder.

Fuck, do I know it. They can make or break you. And while I’ve fucked up plenty during my tenure, I know who butters my bread.

The team. The press. The fans. Social media.

“He was pushing for a reaction. I didn’t give one. You should be impressed by my restraint.”

“That depends if you’re going to say anything other than no comment to the reporters milling around outside of the turnstiles when you head to the parking lot.”

“Depends on who’s still around,” I tease.

“This is the only time I’m going to say I’m hoping it’s lingerie and heels so you’re preoccupied.”

“No complaints there.”

Fontina rolls her eyes and overreacts to my playful shove. She may be my media handler here with StarOne Racing over the past few years, but she’s also like a little sister. Snarky. No bullshit. And will snap back at me if needed.

“I have an idea,” I murmur.

“I don’t like when you have ideas,” she jokes. “Mostly because they’re crazy or daredevilish or are bound to get me in trouble.”

Or make me more well-known when it goes viral as some of my others have done.

No press is bad press.

“Nothing crazy. Maybe just time for another video.”

“You mean another look inside Spencer Riggs’s addiction to chasing the adrenaline high?”