Wrecked (Dirty Air Series Book 3)

Music blasts through the hotel suite, waking me up. I growl as I throw off my covers and check the time on my phone. Five fucking a.m. A solid half hour before I need to wake up for the race.

I exit my room, forgoing a shirt in favor of finding out what the fuck is going on. My feet stop as my eyes land on the object of my frustrations.

And I mean all my frustrations.

The mental kind. The physical kind. The kind making my dick twitch to life in my shorts.

Elena wears a tiny scrap of clothing better suited for a Victoria’s Secret runway. Her silky nightgown hugs her curves with the hem hitting her mid-thigh. The globes of her ass call to me, begging me to check out what’s underneath her tiny dress.

“Good morning.” She speaks in a singsong voice that doesn’t suit her. The way she speaks and the look she sends me over her shoulder scream mischievous.

Either I’m experiencing the best fucking dream or a living nightmare. The smell of eggs and bacon tells me this is all very real. My dick throbs in my shorts as I assess Elena’s legs and arse. That fucking arse.

Shit. This is actual torture.

“Do you want breakfast?”

Well, fuck. Who am I to say no? With Elena looking like a wet dream, I’ll take anything she has to offer.

I sit at the dining table, hoping to hide my growing erection. My eyes track her every move. From the way she grabs the coffee mug on the top shelf to her bending over to check on the bacon in the oven.

Every fucking move she makes teases me. I honestly can’t wrap my head around her nice behavior, especially after me being a dick to her yesterday.

Her shining eyes fail to match the fake frown plastered on her face. “Are you okay? Your face looks a bit pained.”

That’s not the only thing in pain.Content is © by NôvelDrama.Org.

She walks over, holding a full plate of food in front of her. I could absolutely get used to this kind of treatment. Maybe having a babysitter isn’t the worst thing after all.

She leans in close, hitting me with the scent of strawberry shampoo. “This situation can go two ways. Either we can treat each other with respect, or you can act like a dick to me. But if you choose the second option, be aware that I don’t take shit lying down. There’s more than one way to torture someone.” Her eyes move from my face to my crotch, eyeing my erection.

Shit. This is both hot yet so fucking wrong. “And I’m being tortured how? Seems like I’m getting the better end of the deal with breakfast and a show.”

“Oh? You thought this was for your benefit? More like I scheduled you two back-to-back interviews after your race because everyone knows you love the spotlight. Although the added blue balls to your morning is a plus.” She smiles wide.

The way she plotted for me to have the worst day impresses me more than it annoys me.

“You played me.”

Elena shakes her head. “Think of this as an enlightenment.” She walks toward her room with the plate of what should have been my breakfast. “P.S. If you want breakfast, call room service for yourself. I’m not your maid.” Her smirk is the last thing I see before she shuts the door to her room.

Elena motherfucking Gonzalez proved herself a worthy opponent.

Game on.

The crew runs around the garage, running last-minute checks before the Australian Grand Prix. The Xanax I took after breakfast has worked its way into my system, turning my anxiety into a temporary issue of the past. I take the right amount to dull the worries while staying alert because the last thing I need while driving a car at three hundred kilometers is a panic attack.

Elena smiles at me from a corner of the garage, gloating about her move earlier.

I take advantage of a busy Elías to talk to her. “So, that’s how it’s going to be between us? I push, you pull?”

“That depends. Are you going to be an ass to me for the entire season?”

“I don’t know.” I genuinely don’t. It’s not like I can predict when shit will hit the fan for me.

“How reassuring.”

I let out a low laugh. “Some call me unpredictable.”

“Are those the same people who left you passed out next to a urinal? Because they’re not wrong.”

Damn. She does not hold back. Somehow, I find it…refreshing.

Woe is me. A rich boy who has everyone and their mother kiss my arse for fifteen minutes in the limelight. Hanging around someone like Elena reminds me of how very human I am. It’s humbling while also scaring the hell out of me.

“Speaking of unpredictable, I could say the same about you. This morning’s show was something else… Did you pack all those nighties for me?”

Her cheeks turn the best shade of pink. “It’s what you deserved.”

“Do people know about this side of you?”

“The one that doesn’t go down without kicking and screaming? Oh, yeah.”

“I’d rather have you screaming than kicking, but I’m game if that’s your kink.”

Her cheeks go from pink to blood red. “You can’t—”

“Talk to you that way? I can’t tell you how, after your little show, I jacked off to the image of you bent over my bed while I fucked you? It sure was one way to get me high before a race.”

Elena’s eyes roam around the garage, landing everywhere but where I want them.

I snap my fingers in front of her face. “You can play your little games, but I can play mine. And I assure you I’ll get the better deal out of this.”

A crew member calls me over to prepare for the race.

“I better get going. Enjoy the Prix.” I love getting under her skin. Elena’s smooth, tan, wouldn’t mind kissing every inch skin.

Yup. I’m so fucked.

“Good luck,” Elena mumbles under her breath.

I throw her a smile over my shoulder before hopping into my car.

The crew pulls me up to my third-place qualifying spot. My P3 location lands me behind Noah and Santiago, the Bandini boys who battle with McCoy during every Prix.

Flame retardant gear protects me from head to toe, ensuring my safety if anything were to go awry. My arse shakes from the rumbling of the engine.

Lights above me illuminate before going black. My trainer presses against the pedal, and my car accelerates. I race down the first straight of the Prix. The wheels grind against the rough pavement as I recreate yesterday’s practice drive I completed in McCoy’s simulator machine.

“Welcome back to the grid. Liam, Elías, and a fuck ton of others are behind you, so keep up the good work.” Chris, the team principal, speaks into the team radio. He’s a man of choice words and a no-nonsense attitude.

“Tires feel good. Engine is hot as hell.”

“Sounds like it’s working then. I’ll check in soon.”

My car rips up pavement, lap after lap. I pit, giving the crew two seconds to change my four tires. Rubber meets the road, propelling me down the pit lane before I reenter the race. After pitting, I need to work my way back up the rankings.

“Liam’s in front of you. On the next turn, go on the outside instead of the inside. Cut him off before you hit the straight road.” Chris’s voice reverberates through the tiny earpiece.

My car creeps up behind Liam’s navy one. Everything in this sport is down to a millisecond, which means every turn—every goddamn tire rotation—matters. I pull up to the side of Liam’s car before I brake. He takes the inside like Chris thought, and I keep on the outside.

My car surges past Liam’s, his engine no match against mine. I rush down the straight at over three hundred kilometers.

“Now beat Elías back into his rightful place,” Chris snorts into the mic.

“So, to the back of the grid?” I muster between pants, my breathing growing heavier as the engine warms behind me.

Chris and my main engineer laugh as I cut in front of Elías at the next turn.

“You only have Santiago and Noah ahead of you. Show them who’s their daddy.”

I bark out a laugh. Bandini’s red cars shine, looking glossy as fuck under the hot sun. My car pulls up next to Santi’s at one of the turns, but he pushes me down again into third place. His car takes up the center of the road, but I inch up behind him, my front wing creeping up. At the next turn, I drive up to the side of his car before I push in front. His tires squeal at his sudden braking.

“Nice work. Your move will be an interesting topic at my press conference. James Mitchell will have a fucking field day if you beat his boys.”

Last but not least, Noah Slade. F1’s four-time World Champion and newly elected President of the Pussy-whipped Squad. He brake-checks me before the next turn.

I fucking want this win. For myself, for the team, for my damn sanity. Winning means pushing past my self-doubts. Placing first means I’m worthy of the fans who care enough about me to wear my race-car number. A podium finish sets a bar and makes my time away from my mum worth it.

Noah doesn’t make it easy for me. He meets my moves with resistance, giving me limited opportunities to push him out of first place.

“Bloody hell,” I mumble under my breath.

Chris unmutes himself. “Please show this man what McCoy cars can do.”

Noah has won enough Championships to last a lifetime. It’s time for someone else to beat him down a peg…or ten. I don’t know how Maya deals with his ego.

Tires rotate, car gears change, and my heart races to the thrum of the engine. I make it around Noah’s car at one of the last turns, pulling in front of him when it matters most. The crowd goes wild when I pass the checkered line. A shit-eating smile tugs at my lips because I fucking did it.