Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

Damn, he smells intoxicatingly good.

“What are you doing?” I rasp. Something electric happens wherever his thumb lingers, leaving behind a path of warmth. ¿Qué pasa conmigo?

“Seeing if your skin is as soft as it looks.” His eyes capture mine, the swirl of colors darkening.

“Well, can you not? New rule: no touching.” I pull away from him despite the urge I have to keep my hand on the leather seat.

Ugh. I’m such a cliché, physically attracted to a guy who I should stay far away from.

He chuckles, the rough sound rumbling against his chest. “So many rules. I think a small part of you wants to be let free.”

“And let me guess: you want to be the one to offer that kind of help?”

“Nope. You don’t want someone like me. I’m not what you’re looking for.”

That’s not what I expected to come out of his mouth. “Why’s that?”

“I’d be the kind to break you rather than set you free. Like a caged bird, pretty to look at, clipped wings and all.”

How the hell does anyone respond to that? I didn’t think Jax would be as gloomy as he is. He comes off more jaded than last year, calling out to the dark, little twisted part of me.

We stay quiet for the rest of the car ride. I ignore the way Jax stares at me, although my body remains hyperaware of him.

Excitement replaces annoyance as we near the F1 paddock area. Our driver drops us off along the main street, the equivalent of F1’s fraternity row. Each team has a motorhome where crew members and racers kick back and relax before and after races. Jax and I stroll past the shiny buildings of all different colors and styles, oozing energy and ostentatiousness.

We walk up to the press conference suite, a plain gray building where reporters, camera crews, and racers meet for pre- and post-race conferences. Jax opens the door to the press room, which is stirring with activity. Cameramen rush around setting up tripods while reporters gather their microphones and notepads for questions.

Two tables are centered on a stage with name cards. Jax’s best friend, Liam, sits beside Noah and Santiago, two Bandini racers. My first F1 client and Jax’s new teammate, Elías Cruz, sits behind Jax’s assigned seat.

“Remember to play nice with the other kids,” I say low enough for only Jax to hear.

“But what if they don’t like me?” He hits me with puppy-dog eyes that should be banned for people like him. No one with tens, if not hundreds, of tattoos should be able to look as innocent as he does.

I give him a soft shove, my hands embarrassingly lingering on his firm chest. He shoots me a smile over his shoulder before stepping onto the stage. I chalk up his happiness to being surrounded by his friends for the first race of the season.

Elías abandons his chair to come over to me. “When you told me about your private project, I didn’t think it was working solely with Jax. Forgetting the little people already? I thought we were best friends.”

I laugh as I look up at him. Elías has a preppy handsomeness to him with a perfect smile, light skin, and a head of dark hair. Brown eyes meet mine before he pulls me in for a hug and gives me a kiss on my cheek.

“It’s only for the season.”

“What if I need something? Like what if I do something stupid, or I punch someone in the face by accident.”

“If you punch someone in the face by accident, seek legal counsel, not me. Anyway, I’ll be working around you all the time. Don’t be dramatic.”

“I almost thought you were too good for me now. I was your first client after all.” His lower lip juts out.

I tap my chin with my index finger. “When you put it like that…maybe.”

He softly elbows me in the ribs. “One month with him and you’ll be begging to work with me again.”

“Two hours with him and I’m already tempted.”

Elías laughs. “Well, at least he’s pretty to look at. Could be worse.”

That’s Elías. He’s my daily dose of positivity.

“Cruz, get your ass over here. You’re holding everyone up.” Jax’s rough voice reverberates off the walls of the press room.