Wilde Magic (Wilde Women Book 3) (3 page)

Thinking you could get away with a simple comment, pick up a fork and dive into the mac ‘n cheese was just stupid. Plus, Jax, being the prick an older brother is supposed to be, took way too much delight in endlessly trying to trip him up when it was his turn to talk. Some of his earliest memories involved walking home from school with a play-by-play setting up in his head so that he could hold his own around the dinner table.

Visuals were his thing. If he could see it, he could make it happen. The thing was, this odd quirk meant he was forever running an alternate scene in his overactive mind. Like right now.

He might be in the middle of a ridiculously over-the-top circus, an eye-rolling requisite for a top tier European Formula One team, but that didn’t stop him from a clever and usually snarky-as-fuck internal monologue.

A pack of lingerie models were advancing on him through a throng of styled and bearded hipster types who luckily gave him some inadvertent help just by physically being in the way. His celebrity put a sex bulls-eye on his chest and made him the focus of many a prowling female out for a raunchy fuck. Now he really needed to get the hell away from everyone before ending up down in the pool house getting worked over by four surgically enhanced fuck-toys.

The burning ache in his back killed the mood an hour ago. Though he spent way too much time convincing everyone he was just fine and dandy following an ugly crash during a practice session earlier in the year, the truth was a bit more basic. Cal knew his time behind the wheel was coming to an end. Physically and emotionally, he just couldn’t take it anymore. In a word, he was fucked.

After making an obligatory circuit through the crush of bodies packed in the tiered garden of his rented villa, he shook hands, signed autographs, and posed for endless selfie requests while wishing he was anywhere but here. Some days it was great to be him. This wasn’t one of those days.

“Mi scusi, Signore Tyler…”

Shit. He’d know that insincere voice anywhere. How the hell did this paparazzi scum get past security? Massaging the back of his neck as tension radiated from his spine, Cal released a soft grunt. Dammit. Guess it was too much to hope for a quick cameo and an immediate escape.

Tempting as it was to crush the little turd with a few choice words, instead, he straightened and slapped a benign expression on his face. Making nice was the best way to avoid a scene. Only the thing was while most of the paps played along and went out of their way to get the inside track, this shithead was exactly the opposite.

Renzo Alphat, smarmy fucker extraordinaire, was an irritant on his best day.

His camp name would be Pebble-in-Shoe.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw a big red circle with a line through it.

His repulsive “gotcha” assholery is so large you need a satellite image to catch all of it.

Rim shot, please! Baddum-bum. Yeah. He had a million of ‘em. Pretty tame stuff as far as zingers go. With some effort, he could work up a couple more. But, simply dismissing the prick as a motherfucker was too easy. This guy took every vulgarity to an eleven and then some. If he was on your ass for any reason, watch out.

Droning a clipped, “Alphat,” Cal tossed back the last of his drink, making the other man wait. When he was good and ready, his insincere smile was just this side of a sneer. “Whose ass is being permanently deleted from the guest list for bringing you along?”

The guy’s beady little eyes narrowed and darted about, checking to see if anyone else heard the not-too-subtle put down. Watching him reminded Cal of the furthest thing imaginable from a book boyfriend, the character of Uriah Heep. Jeez, even the physical description was similar right down to the skeleton-like hands. The guy creeped him the fuck out.

“Scoring an invite to one of your sideshows doesn’t require much.”

The sound of Renzo’s unctuous accent gave him an instant headache.

It was hard not to pimp slap the weasel. The reporter glanced dismissively at a gaggle of ladies huddled nearby. “’Specially when the price of admission is as simple as a health certificate and an industrial-sized bottle of lube. Wasn’t all that difficult, frankly. Ninety Euros.” His bony shoulders shrugged. “Butt fuck would have been cheaper and probably more interesting.”

What. An. Asshole.

Dropping his empty tumbler onto the tray of a passing waiter, Cal mentally counted to ten before responding. “I didn’t know you were taking it up the ass these days, Alphat. Hmph. Explains your fascination with the team. Five guys with big dicks.” Cal didn’t even have to try to make the comment sound derisive.

Sensory cues when he wasn’t on the track were hit or miss with him. Sometimes every little thing triggered a thought or response. It was part of being a Formula One driver. Even through layers of protective gear, he could feel his car. But when he wasn’t driving he preferred to disconnect from the intense focus and shut down.

But tonight, he was on high alert. Fighting twin enemies—boredom and restlessness, these ridiculous parties didn’t help any. Too much excess. Not enough control. The whole time the affair dragged on, he worried that some kind of fuckery would break out. More shit for the getting old list he had tucked away in his head.

“Ah, yes,” Uriah dribbled.

Dribbled was a good description, right? After all, the asshole spoke in a blend of driveling, drooling and toadying wrapped in a sinister undertone.

Cal suddenly wished the drink he’d been nursing was actual alcohol instead of his preferred fake-out beverage—apple juice with a shot of seltzer on the rocks. He never drank in public. Ever. The occasional celebratory glass of champagne after a win? Sure. But unless he was in total fucking control and calling every shot, he just didn’t imbibe. But letting others think he did? A necessary evil.

Ignoring the deepening scowl that would have amply warned anyone else, the dumb shit kept on digging his own grave. “I sometimes forget how vulgar you Americans are.”

Oh, my God! Did the little fucker actually rub his hands together? Cal blinked, and when he did, his eyebrows shot upward. He mentally reset to bland indifference while making a mental note to put David Copperfield on his Kindle immediately. If a bunch of damn book references were gonna keep coming up, he might as well read the story again.

“Vulgar is as vulgar does,” Cal murmured, enjoying Alphat’s confused expression. Fuck! The truth was, he had no idea what the well-used phrase even meant. “And I believe the reference you’re searching for is ugly Americans. Vulgarity is universal, and frankly, Italians shouldn’t point fingers.”

“Bravo, Tyler. Now that I’ve been put in my place, perhaps you’d like to comment on Senora Gianelli’s sudden interest in a rival team? There are rumors she’s no longer…satisfied.”

Was this guy fucking serious? Not even a language barrier did much to disguise the inference he was making.

Reading straight from a script on his phone that Cal wanted to shove down the guy’s throat, Alphat delivered his next shot. “Drivers with benefits, I believe it’s called. And with Crepuscolo Racing stuck in second place, the greener grass, it calls to her. Yes?”

The trifecta of headaches. Second place, greener grass and Senora Gianelli. Aww fuck. And she was the last person he wanted to be talking or thinking about. Better shut this bullshit down quick and get the hell out of the line of fire. In his current frame of mind, he was just as likely to go the hell off as he was to parrot the party line. That made him just as dangerous as this paparazzi dirtbag.

“The Senora has…diverse interests,” he murmured silkily through a tight-lipped smile. “None, however, that involve landscaping.”

Waiting for the creep to make his way through a series of translations until Cal’s meaning became clear drove him crazy. Jeez. He was so over this shit. Aaaaand—just like that, he’d had enough.

Cal lifted his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Crepuscolo thrives on challenge, Alphat. It’s better to see the prize and be hungry for it than to limp along carefully in an attempt to hang on.”

There. The shithead had his fucking quote. Time to exit, stage right.

Goddammit. Two seconds too late. Dumbass wanted the last word. Of course he did. Riling people up was the only thing the guy had in his bag of tricks. Dig for a reaction. Something he could manipulate for his own end.

Leering at him with a smug expression, he challenged him with a hastily muttered, “And what about those driver benefits, hmmm? Chaucer Phillips seems to have a rather…spirited…interest lately in all things Italian, yes?”

Really? That’s the way he wanted to play this? What a dick. Jesus, this was a headline that a fifth grader could come up with. Cal’s rivalry with, and personal dislike of the English driver was practically legend. Phillips was an asshole. To keep the attention on him, no matter the cost, he pushed too hard and put people in danger.

Plus, he was a viral mega-star courtesy of a predilection for drunken excess. Using the word spirited, referred to Chaucer being completely hammered, stripped to his briefs, standing in Rome’s Triton Fountain with an equally drunk and out-of-control Senora Gianelli flung over his shoulder. Within minutes of their public theatrics, the Internet flooded with images of their bizarre romp courtesy of the tourists who witnessed the whole thing first hand. Apparently, there was also a video from a fountain webcam that may or may not include images suggesting the cougar-iffic Senora had a particular ‘taste’ for pasty Englishmen that night.

Did he give a shit that Claudia Gianelli was a promiscuous succubus? Not in the least. Having experienced her unique ability to drain a man’s soul with her insatiable sexual demands, he was more than happy that she’d moved on. Let Chaucer deal with the woman’s greedy fuckery—not that Cal thought for a second he could.

Time for this exchange to end. “Well, what do you expect from someone named Chaucer?”

Okay, so the language barrier he’d just been griping about? Here’s one time when it worked to his advantage. By the time Alphat figured out what he had said, he’d be long gone.

“Excuse me. I really must speak with security about the definition of a guest list.”

Melting into the large crowd, Cal put his head down and made for the sanctuary of the house. He needed to sit down and give his back a rest. Maybe eat something that wasn’t being passed around by the wait staff. Another reminder of how much he’d come to hate this part of his life.

“Hey, Ty!” he heard someone holler. “Can I get a picture, man?”

Fuck. My. Life. Slowing his pained roll, Cal forced a practiced grin as he turned slowly around. Ah, thank God. It’s just JP. No need to slap the photo-face on.

There wasn’t a single member of Crepuscolo Racing, who wasn’t aware of his physical challenges. Swiftly stepping to his side, JP grasped his arm and asked in rushed Italian if he was all right.

All right and a dozen other expressions used to convince everyone that your shit is just great were little more than pejoratives in Cal’s vocabulary these days.

Growling deeply, he grimaced at JP. “Fuck, no, I’m not all right. I have to get off my feet. Who are your friends?” he asked nodding toward the small cluster of people avidly watching their interaction. Knowing that at least one cell phone camera was probably in use only added to his aggravation.

Still speaking Italian, “Thalia’s parents,” his teammate murmured. “One minute and I’ll clear the track so you can duck inside.”

Cal liked JP. He wasn’t a dick. And he also wasn’t a very good driver. Renzo, that smarmy shit, was right about one thing. Crepuscolo was stalled in the standings. With the team’s two top drivers pulling limited duty, that left the second string drivers to pick up the slack. JP knew he was skating on thin ice, and unless he pulled off a couple of wins or impressive times, he was fucked at the end of the season.

Sucking in an enormous lungful of air, Cal absorbed the energy, willing it into his back, stiffened slightly, and then turned all his attention on the man at his side.

“Where is your lovely wife, hmmm?” he joked. “She finally tire of your lactose intolerant flatulence and haul butt out of here?”

In heavily accented but flawless English, the much smaller man smirked, “Knowing you has taught me many things, Cal Tyler. Such as how evil you are for using three big words when one simple one would do. You are a translator’s nightmare, my friend.”

Cal laughed. It’d taken him quite some time to come up with lactose intolerant flatulence when fart would have been much simpler. And why had he done it? Because fucking with JP was the highlight of his day. While mostly everyone else was neck-to-toes drama or an attitude diva, they both preferred a lighter touch.

Because so much of what they did was physically demanding, when he wasn’t training or on the track, Cal liked his relaxing pursuits to be of a more cerebral nature. He blamed his parents in a totally loving, tongue-in-cheek way. Nothing quite like professional educators for parents! Being clever with words was part of the deal. Running endless verbal circles around his linguistically-challenged friend was a shit-ton of fun.

“Well, my friend, grab your wife and let’s do this. If we’re going to take a group shot let’s make it a memorable one, okay?” he grinned. “And later on? When you look at the picture, if Thalia is smiling it’s because I have my hand on her ass.”

JP sputtered then hooted a friendly laugh, quickly leading them into the middle of his family get-together. Aware of Cal’s precarious physical condition, his friend kept the introductions brief and the chitchat, warm, friendly and limited. Thalia offered a careful two-cheek kiss and a tiny nod of gratitude. Three minutes of camera fumbling followed, and the deed was done.

True to his word, his teammate took it from there, guiding him quickly away from the crowds until a side door to the villa came into view.

“Do you require anything, my friend?” JP asked with real concern.

Offering his hand, Cal shook his head as their grip ended. “I’m good. Made it longer than I thought,” he scoffed as he rubbed at his forehead. It fucking sucked that it was like this. The constant vigilance and attention to every ache and pain. His every move scrutinized and discussed. JP was the only one who understood.