Fast & Hard (The Fast 1)

Mallory’s been hitting the champagne pretty hard, but I can’t blame her. Her father, a rotund and angry little man, spots us and Mallory slams the rest of her champs as he barrels toward us. “Oh no,” she mumbles beneath the rim of her glass. I take her hand in mine in solidarity against miserable pricks everywhere.

“Mr. Gibbes, we have not been formally introduced yet,” he shakes my hand and squeezes hard.

I squeeze his harder.

“Dad, Lennox. Lennox, Dad,” Mallory waves back and forth between us with her empty champagne flute, her patience clearly long gone. For once, I may be the more civilized person, between the two of us.

“Mr. Mitchell, pleasure. Mallory tells me you are in print media. Newspaper man?”

“Yes, yes,” he puffs his chest out. “Traditional media, old fashioned, respectable newspapers, magazines, radio. You get it.” He leers at Mallory, his passive-aggressive dig at her career.

I get it, alright. “Of course, how wonderful that you’re preserving those antediluvian arts.”

“Anti-what?” His face crinkles and Mallory squeezes my hand.

“Indulge a young man, Mr. Mitchell, years ago my advisor switched my print holdings to digital. They’ve been doing quite well but, tell me, where do you see stocks going as subscription rates continue to plummet?”

“Plummet?” He bellows. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Forgive me, sir. I must be mistaken. I just drive a car around in circles.”

Mallory grabs another champagne off the tray of a passing server while I keep a deliberately innocent, stupid look on my face, staring at the pompous blowhard in front of me.

“Listen here boy, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re pulling with my daughter…”

I do my best to ignore the fact that this asshat just called me ‘boy’ and interrupt him, “Yes, your daughter. You must be so proud of her. What a job you and Mrs. Mitchell have done as parents to raise such a strong, smart woman with the courage to follow her dreams. Cheers to you, sir.” I tip my glass at him.

Mallory wraps one arm around my waist under my tuxedo jacket and Father Time’s eyes go wide before he shakes his head at her in disgust and turns to storm off.

“You were raised by wolves,” I whisper to Mallory and take another sip of the top shelf scotch that’s available, thank god.

“Wolves would have been an improvement. Have I told you how handsome you look tonight?”

“Aye, but you can tell me again.”

“Did you really have print holdings?” She asks.

“I dunno, probably.”

Mallory laughs and the sight of her smiling despite everything Lydia and Robert have thrown at her tonight is everything. She’s impressive. And goddamn gorgeous.

“Dance with me?” She whispers in my ear.

Even in the States where F1 is not as popular, there have been people photographing us together all night, all the couples, but Celeritas instructed Mallory to accompany me so, fuck it. I deposit our drink glasses on an empty table and lead Mallory to an open spot on the dance floor. The instrumental band is playing a slow, bluesy tune, Etta James, maybe.

Mallory wraps her arms around my neck and I pull her against me, just this side of keeping it decent in public. She’s stumbling a little but I have a firm hand on her hips, arguing with my fingers not to dip lower and grab her ass no matter how much they want to.

“Say something else to me in Gaelic,” she looks up at me, a mischievous grin emerging.

“I am not a piece of meat, Mallory,” I twirl her and pull he

r back against my chest.

“It gets me so hot.”

We’re gonna need to wrap this event up if she’s going to start this. My tuxedo is not equipped to hide an erection very well and I wouldn’t want to scare any of these old bitties looking down their nose at me all night.

“How about French, all women like French?”