5. Brayden

Who the hell even knows I'm here? And if they know I'm here, why are they knocking on my hotel room door?

I swear, I was in a good mood. I took second in the race today. I did my interviews. I came back to the hotel and took a shower. I was going to order some dinner and relax, but no... someone is knocking on my goddamn door.

I tear it open, and I swear my vision goes red.

"Why are you here?"

Carson looks at me, his eyes devilish as he cocks his head to the side playfully. "I'm here to celebrate."

I stare at him. And stare some more. He cannot be serious. There's no way. "What the hell are you celebrating? You took twentieth place today. You should be licking your wounds."

He clearly isn't bothered in the slightest though, just brushing past me and walking into my hotel room like he owns the goddamn place. I grumble and close the door behind him, knowing Carson well enough to know that telling him to leave isn't going to make him go anywhere.

"Please. Make yourself at home." I say dryly as he plops down on the sofa.

"Twentieth is pretty damn good for my first race. We have to celebrate."

I stare at him incredulously. He cannot be serious. "Twentieth? You're seriously proud of twentieth?"

He just shrugs, that happy smile on his way too handsome, way too arrogant face. "Hell yeah. I hung in there. We have to celebrate. Plus, you didn't do so bad yourself."

I roll my eyes and try to ignore the easy way he just walked in here, like nothing bothers him. I don't understand that at all. I'm not sure I've ever been that comfortable in my home—let alone the room of someone I barely know. "Second and twentieth aren't even in the same range."

His eyes are bright and shining with mirth. "Well, you do have ten more years on me. Really, it's not even close, comparatively."

I might kill him. I'm still trying to decide if the prison time is worth it or not.

"What did you get your first ever race as a pro?"

I just want to eat a good meal and maybe have a nice, slow glass of whiskey. I do not want to be talking about racing with this kid. "In my first race, some cocky little shithead wrecked me and ruined my car. I didn't get to finish the damn race."

Bitter? Yes. I'm still bitter. It pissed me off then, and it pisses me off now.

"Huh." He sits up a little straighter, and I'm not sure what he's going to say, but I guarantee even before he says it, it'll irritate me. "So see, at least I finished my race. We have to celebrate that."

"You're missing the point." I glare at him. "Some cocky little shithead, who reminds me a hell of a lot of you, wrecked my goddamn car because he shouldn't have been out there. And now you want me to celebrate that there's another one just like him racing?"

He just grins and stands up, walking over to me confidently, his stride unrestrained and not worried. "What ever happened to him?"

I grumble something under my breath, and he lights up laughing.

"No. Way. Max Wallace?"

"I'm not talking about this with you," I say and head toward the door, hoping he'll get the hint, although he never has before.

"He was really good. He was there when you started?"

I glare daggers at him. "Yes. He was already in his third year, and the fucker never learned. Always wrecking."

He grins, and I want to strangle him.

"It's not funny."

"I mean, he was entertaining as hell to watch. Racing has been boring since he retired."

Retired. At thirty-two.I don't want Carson to pick up on how badly that messes with my head. I'm one year younger than he was when he retired. He said he was just over it, but I'm not so sure.

I think he lost his edge and his entertainment value to the team, and they let him bow out gracefully. But I'll never know the truth, just like the rest of the world.

"Come on. Let's go downstairs to the bar. It looks fun as hell, and you need some fun." He looks around my clean hotel room. "This is goddamn depressing."

"What do you mean this is depressing? It's a hotel room."

"You're a professional racer who got second place in the first race of the season. You should be throwing one hell of a party. There should be people packed to the brim in here. Drinking, making out. Dancing. It should be a party."

My eyes roll. "Second place isn't anything new to me, neither is first. I don't need a damn party for everything. I'm not a child."

He laughs. Damn him. He just laughs. There's no sadness from my jab. He couldn't care less. "Come on, old man. Live a little."

"I don't want to go hang out with you. You get that, right?" I try because surely he understands that.

He just laughs and wraps his arm around me. "Humor me, okay? It was my first race, and we're on the same team. Live a little."

He's not going to give up. I know that.

"Fine." I give in because what's the damn point. "I'm hungry. Maybe they have food there."

He pats my stomach, and I could kill him. "Careful. Your metabolism is bound to slow down at some point."

I roll my eyes at him and look down at my blue shirt covering my sculpted abs, lifting it at the hem and showing off a hint of my stomach. "No fucking way."

I swear his eyes are burning my bare flesh as he stares at the patch of bare skin, licking his lips. There's definitely a streak of lust there. Shit. Was that weird that I did that? Feeling a little awkward I lower my shirt. He smirks at me, releasing me from his grip. "I stand corrected. Let's go get you some food."

He starts toward the door, and damn it, I follow him. We go down to the bar, and I order a steak. He orders too, and we eat like civilized human beings, but I don't want to talk. Every time he tries, I just grumble, hoping he'll get the point and stop talking to me. But of course he doesn't.

Then the shots of whiskey start. I should say no, but I don't. If I have to sit here with Carson, I'm going to need a drink. Multiple drinks.

And drink we do. A hell of a lot.

I haven't been this drunk for a long time, but after a while, I actually start to have a good time. I mean, good for me, I guess.

I've never really been one to let loose. I work hard. I don't embarrass myself. I do my damn job, and I keep my personal life my own. I've seen enough scandals over the years to know I don't want any part of that.

So I've behaved.

And I see some flashes from people's phones, taking pictures, but I'm not doing anything wrong.

Just two guys out at the bar, celebrating one hell of a race for me and a mediocre one for him.

I laugh at that to myself, but it must have been out loud because Carson is laughing too. "What's so funny?" I ask.

He laughs again, his cheeks flushed from the booze. "You're shitfaced."

"No more than you are," I shoot back because I guess that's a good argument. I don't really know. The alcohol has for sure gone to my head.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I realize he's swaying to the music playing in the bar, singing with the crowd around us, who seem all too happy to be hanging out with us.

This is strange.

I'm not used to hanging out with fans off the track. I don't do that.

But it's okay.

I suppose it's okay to let my guard down sometimes, and I am having a good time. I guess I'll just let myself have this one.

What can it hurt?