Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (with bonus novel!) (16 page)

Teagan Kade

* * * * *

Published by Teagan Kade

Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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DEDICATION

For Texas, you big ol’ sexy state you.

ANDY

“You getting this, Andy?”

The tire I’m sitting on is warm from the practice session this morning—warm like the brunette caught up in my sheets last night.
Lynn? Lacy?
I remember her ass, not her name.

I cross my arms, exhale. It’s going to be a
long
fucking day. “Watch the hairpin, easy on the braking around third. I heard you the first fifty times, Steven.”

It’s got to be over a hundred degrees here in Melbourne. Poor Steven is puddling up around the collar, the Mississippi River forming on his forehead. Clearly, he can’t handle the heat—not exactly a trait you want in a team manager. If it wasn’t for me, Texas tough, Team Goodall would be sliding into oblivion, not coming into the new season with a championship under its belt—
my
championship.

As Steve blubbers away about apexes and endplates, I’m busy trying to recall the brunette, the way her nipple pulled and elongated inside my mouth, her moist, pink flesh. Everything else? Blurry as fuck. They all are, like there’s a factory outputting F1 groupies. Maybe I didn’t even ask her name, too busy banging her brains out in the Hilton bathroom five minutes after meeting her.

“It’s going to be a tough season,” continues the great Steven Jones, former Goodall CTO and now, who the fuck knows how, team manager of a Formula One team. One of the mechanics is actually sleeping against the monitors. “That’s why we’ve brought Carl on board on this season,” Steven continues.

My ears prick up in interest now.
Fucking Carl Heinz, that Swiss cocksucker.

There’s a smattering of applause in the garage. I look over to Carl, standing front and center. I thought
I
was attractive, but this guy? He’s the unnatural spawn of some Pitt-Gosling-Franco love triangle.

He nods meekly, all focus and determination. He’s twenty-two, barely out of diapers in the F1 world, and already the press is kissing his feet, talking him up as the next world champion.

He’s only two years older than you.

Fuck that. I worked my ass off to take the championship last season. It took everything I had and more, sacrifices Heinz couldn’t begin to fathom. I scraped in, yes, but making Carl the number one Goodall driver this year? A slap in the fucking face.

He smiles, all dripping smugness and European charm. “Happy to be here. Thank you.”

In the corner of the garage is his pop-star girlfriend—Ruby, Emerald… some shitty geological name. Her eyes are literally wet. She looks like she’s going to shed a tear in admiration.

Steven walks forward and actually places a hand on the prick’s shoulder like he was his own fucking son. “Carl is perhaps the most promising driver I’ve seen in my entire career. I speak for everyone when I say it’s an honor to have you on board.”

I roll my eyes.
Give me a fucking break.
I’m waiting for them to kiss, touch dicks or something.

But none of it matters. The kid’s got game on the track. I will give him that. He resists the F1 circus and the parties... so far, which is admirable, but it won’t be long before Rock Girl will drag him in. He comes from a modest family, rising through the ranks on “merit and determination”. I actually read that drivel in a profile yesterday, his handsome face sizing me up from the dual-page spread. He’s got it all, it seems, but he’s missing one crucial element—balls. And when it comes to pushing the limits, only I, Andy fucking Fortes, can deliver. I’m not the golden boy, but that doesn’t matter. I’m here to win, team or not.

Steven claps his hands together to signal the end of the meeting. The grunts and mechanics slink back to the grease and Carl follows the Britney Spears lookalike into the back of the pits.
Probably so she can suck his cock.

I stand, brush myself down.

Steven approaches me. “You good with all that, Andy?”

Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than feeding him my fist for breakfast. I keep the scowl. “Fine.”

I can see the cogs turning in that shiny bowling ball he calls a head. He’s thinking about the race order. I know it. He’s looking at me and it’s very fucking frosty considering I pulled a World Championship out of my hat for Goodall last year. Secretly, I’m sure he wants me to fail and Golden Boy to succeed, not that he’d ever admit it to my face. That’s why I despise the guy. Give him a knife and he’d stab you in the back without a second thought. He’s corporate, understands nothing of the beauty of this sport.

He seems to snap out of it, waving at someone from outside.

I look around, the glare from the garage doors forcing me to squint. The approaching figure comes into shadow and I’m surprised to find it’s a young woman—not a grid girl or a reporter, but something else entirely.

“Andy, this is Sara Young. She’s going to be tailing us on the Championship, make sure you keep up with your sponsorship commitments, smile and so on.”

The fuck?
My
‘
sponsorship commitments
’?

She extends her hand and I take it, her grip firmer than I was expecting. “I work for Caliber, New York. We signed on for the season.”

Bet they paid a sweet couple of mil for that privilege.

“The fashion house,” adds Steven, like I haven’t got a clue about fashion even though I’m the one on the cover of
GQ
this month.

Sara Young
—I let the name bounce around my head for a bit. She’s blond, hair drawn back in a tight ponytail, simple blouse that’s corporate and yet casual at the same time, dress pants vacuum-sealed to long legs. She’s curvy in all the right places, sexy as hell and would look even better pressed between me and the shower wall, but I imagine getting her there is going to be even harder than taking the championship. She looks like a supermodel, but everything about her manner suggests ‘off fucking limits’.

We’ll see about that.

I realize I’ve been holding her hand a little too long. I let it go, fingers warm. “A pleasure.”

I paste on the half-cocked smile the press calls me ‘panty dropper’, but the only thing dropping here are my chances of getting through her ice wall.

She looks to Steven, bringing out her iPhone. I know her type. That five-ounce white brick is her life, all her contacts and connections. She ignores me completely. “I understand there’s a function at Crown Casino after qualifying?”

“Yes,” says Steven, addressing her tits.

“I’ll see you there. Suits and shoes for the drivers have already been delivered to their rooms.”

“I wear what I want,” I inform her.

She smiles back with precisely zero sincerity. “Not anymore.”

Guts. I like that in a future fuck-buddy.

Steve finally lifts his eyes. “Whatever you need.”

I cut in. “Have you been around the F1 scene before, Sara?”

She looks to me like I’m wasting her time with small talk when she could be texting her boss or organizing world peace. “This is my first time.”

“A virgin then?”

The ice wall remains. Westeros would be proud. She remains completely business-like. “Something like that.”

A shift of light turns her eyes incandescent and for a moment I am lost. I’m not big on eye contact with the girls I sleep with, but I’m prepared to make an exception in this case.

She turns and walks away, ponytail flicking from side to side just like the wiggle of her perfect ass, heels clicking on the concrete garage floor. My cock stirs underneath my race suit.

Easy, boy, easy.

“Why the babysitter?” I question.

Steven rounds on me, hands on his hips. “Caliber poured a fucking fortune into our coffers this season, Fortes. If she wants you to get down on your hands and knees and suck off every journalist, blogger or Instasnapper within a hundred miles, you’ll fucking do it.”

Big talk.
“Or what?”

He knows he’s got me. “Or you can find yourself a nice soap box racer to get around Albert Park in.”

He takes off in the same direction as Sara, a rattle gun going off at my back as the cars are prepped for qualifying.

So that’s how you want to play it?

Steven can threaten me all he wants, but Goodall won’t let me go, not as long as I have that championship under my belt. He’s a little too cozy with Heinz for my liking, too, something I need to look harder at and work out why.

I’m watching the spot where Sara walked out of the garage, but right now my focus needs to be on qualifying, not pussy. She was probably Steven’s idea. He thinks if she’s around I’ll be too busy dreaming about her instead of steering. If that’s the case, he’s in for another surprise. Nothing, not even a hot piece of ass like Miss Young, is going to fuck up my focus this season.

*

I squeeze the steering wheel tight, but not from nerves. No, this is my kingdom. On the track I am king. The car feels good this season. The yaw issue has been resolved and KERs beefed up for the longer tracks, but it’s all secondary. Without a driver the car’s nothing more than an eight-million-dollar paperweight.

I feather the throttle, the revs jumping and the engine shouting against my spine.
Better than sex.

I clear my head and focus on the straight.
You’ve got this. Walk in the fucking park.

The grid comes alive with sound as I blip the throttle. I feed off it, let the energy fill me.

The lights go and it’s fucking
on
.

I should be used to it by now, but the initial kick is always such a surprise when the tires bite. Qualifying’s a lone game, but I picture the grid is cluttered, a chess board, and I’m a grand master. I dodge and weave, position myself perfectly for the first sweeper.

I tap back a gear, dig into the line and cut an imaginary Carl off, full throttle, back strapped hard into the seat, the world and field just a blur.
This
is what I live for.

I see Ghost Carl snaking up my right, but I squeeze him out in the second corner, engine screaming, pushing dials into the red, wheel twitching in my hands as the tires struggle for purchase.

Threat neutralized, I hammer into the esses, let the g-force squeeze me tight in the cockpit. I can’t deny it feels good to be back. By the time I make it back to the straight, I’m pulling a personal best.

I engage the kinetic energy recovery system, the extra eighty horsepower sling-shotting me past the grandstands and there, between life and death, the car at its absolute limit, I am god. I almost come in my pants crossing the line.

“Pole position,” comes Steven’s monotone response in my ear.

Like it was going to be anything else.

I brake coming into the pits, pulling up and handing my helmet over to the nearest monkey. Another hands me a tablet so I can run through the data. Carl qualified second, but there may as well be an ocean between us.

The temperature continues to soar into the afternoon, the kind of lung-crushing heat that turns the heels of your boots to putty, but it works in my favor.

The race goes down just like I want. I take the win and twenty-five points. Carl’s second with eighteen and that is precisely the way it’s going to stay.

*

The night’s taken most of the heat away, the post-race party in full swing as I sip on Chandon—yet another sponsor to be appeased.

A spider’s web of garden lights is overhead on the balcony of the casino, cocktail tables draped in white dot the place and an army of waiters offer everything from mud crab to Tooheys.

Down on the promenade next to the river the flame towers erupt, fireballs licking at an ashen sky.

The bird-like reporter interviewing me remains suitably star struck. “And how are you enjoying it here in Australia?”

I fucking hate these questions. If I had more than a few hours of free time in each country I might be able to answer with some kind of honesty, but instead I have to revert back to the usual.

“Incredible,” I smile, “everyone’s been great”.

“And the women?” Reporter girl is blushing as she says it, phone held to my mouth for comment. Her producer probably pushed her to ask it. All I’m thinking about is pushing my cock into her tight little pussy.

I lean in close, lean in until my lips are practically pressed against the screen of her phone. “Perfection.”

I spot Sara Young over her shoulder standing alone at a table.
Can’t have that now, can we?

“Excuse me,” I offer, and start to make my way over. Reporter Girl will have to wait.

Miss Young knows full well I’m approaching but continues to stare off into the distance. I place my elbows on the table, lean in. “Nice night for it.”

She looks at me dead-on. “A little cold for my liking.”

She’s light on the makeup, glowing with natural beauty. I like that. I like the airy cutaway at the front of her cocktail dress even more, the soft sides of her breasts exposed. It’s white and bold, a classic choice. It’s a dress that would look even better on the floor of my suite.