Page 140 of Off the Grid

Fucking ridiculous.

No doubt Wills, Junior, and Micah are sick of hearing me bitch about it. The fact they stopped answering my texts today—when they always answer them—says as much.

But fuck, man. It still irks me forty-eight hours later. Still eats at me. Still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“The quickest way to see your way out of a ride is to not listen to your race engineer’s direction. That’s your second warning, Riggs. And as you know from your contract, there are only three warnings before the contract is terminated and you’re out of this team. Are we clear?”

Are we fucking clear? Yes. I know the contract. I know the rules. I acted on impulse.

Something you know all too well about, right, Camilla? Isn’t that how the two of us got ourselves into this mess? On your impulse to kiss me?

Christ.

She hurt me.

Fucking hurt me when that’s something I don’t allow to happen. It’s something that can’t happen because I never let anybody in.

But I let her in. Obviously. And now I feel more fucked than anything, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.

I turn the corner to head to my front door and Camilla is sitting there. She hastily stands the minute she sees me. My feet falter momentarily but fuck it, right? It’s my door. My flat.

I stride up to it and the thought crosses my mind to pick her up and physically move her out of the way, but I don’t. My glare says enough for me.

She doesn’t back down.

And damn it to hell. I may be angry but she’s fresh-faced with no makeup, hair pulled up in a pile on top of her head, and a tank top on when she doesn’t wear tank tops in public . . . and I hesitate.

“Do you want to do this out here in the hall?” she asks, shoving her hands on her hips and taking a battle stance. “Fine by me. Let’s go.”

I growl. It’s the best I can do. People in our building know who I am now, and no doubt would enjoy selling something juicy to pay for their next years’ worth of rent.

She moves just enough that I can unlock my door before storming in behind me and slamming it at her back.

I pace to the far end of my place. My bags from the last race are still in a pile on the floor because yes, I’m acting like a spoiled, rotten brat.

And I don’t fucking care that I am.

She hurt me.

And now I wish I hadn’t let her in.

“Riggs.” My name is a plea. A question. And pretty much every fucking thing in between that I don’t want to acknowledge.

“What?” I turn to face her. Arms out. Anger front and center.

“I had to. I was doing my job.”

“A marketing manager giving a driver a warning? Berating him in front of the entire fucking crew? Last I checked, that wasn’t in your job description.”

She has nothing to say for that and that means she’s not telling me the whole truth about something. Should I care? Should it bug me? Fuck if I know.

“Cat got your tongue, Moretti?”

“I did what I had to do.” Her voice is quiet. Resolute.

“Really?” I scoff. “You called me out in front of every fucking person in that garage like I was an errand boy who fucked up instead of a driver who just kept you in the game.”

“You’re goddamn right I did,” she shouts.